Las Vegas Gold (3 page)

“This is an expensive proposition, Mr. Malone,” began one reporter. “How many partners are involved to make up this ‘we' you are talking about?”

“There are three,” chuckled Malone, “me, myself and I. There's nobody else. I'm the sole owner of the franchise, and yes, I have the funds available.”

Another reporter jumped in: “Enough money to buy the land, buy the Las Vegas 51s, build the stadium
and
pay high competitive salaries?”

“Correct. Believe me, I am going into the baseball business in the same way as I have begun my other business enterprises. My eyes are wide open, my accountants have crunched the numbers, and there will be no money problems at all.”

“I heard a rumor,” began a third questioner, “you will issue shares on the market and raise money in that fashion.”

“Don't believe all the rumors you hear, son. You can check with the Commissioner's office to see if that's legal. If it is, maybe I'll think about it.” He chuckled again.

In her turn, Molly received some hard questioning on the predictable line: her gender. “Molly, do you really believe a woman who has never played the game can successfully manage a Major League team of men?”

“If I didn't believe, I would not have taken the job. Why do you believe a woman is not able to manage a team of men? And excuse me, but I have played the game, and played it well, if you will allow me to boast a little bit.”

“But you played in a women's league.” Another reporter.

“I did, an excellent league which could give a men's team from a Triple A league a run for their money. And not only did I play the game, but until ten days ago I was the manager of a professional team holding a position ten games ahead of the second-place team.”

“Don't you understand Major League players have large egos?” This from yet another reporter, a female. “Won't they resent playing for a woman?”

“I understand many male sports reporters and broadcasters also have large egos.” There was a laugh from the crowd of reporters. The reporter who had asked the question blushed, but held her ground. “But to answer your question, some may, probably will, have ego problems. But Major League players are not only men, they are highly motivated, skilled and rational men who are interested in winning. Who the manager is, I believe, is a secondary consideration.”

“Will this question be a consideration in signing players to contracts?”

“That's not legal. Attitudes toward race and gender matters don't come into play in signing contracts. We are interested in signing players who are the best available at their positions on the team.”

“Will you sign female coaches also?”

“Probably not. But only because there are none I know of who have risen to the level where they can coach with confidence in themselves and receive the confidence of the players also.”

“Have you approached any potential coaches yet?”

“No. There won't be any team to coach before two years' time. I will address that matter when the time comes.”

“You mean you will have the authority to hire coaches?”

“Of course. I'm the Manager of the team. Hiring and firing coaches is my prerogative, done in consultation with Larry Henderson.”

And the questions continued. Molly drew far more questions than did the General Manager, even more than did her father. She was clearly a curiosity in the baseball world, but she had expected that and knew the curiosity would continue until baseball fans became content she could do the job.

3

There was another group in Las Vegas not only unhappy with the decision to award a Major League Baseball franchise to Mike Malone, but also ready to take drastic action. This group of half a dozen men made millions from that western city, but made it in a dishonest, but not openly so, shady manner. They and their associates owned and operated three casinos and two hotels there and had been lobbying for a franchise for years. They were also closely affiliated with the Cosa Nostra, the mob operating in New York and controlled internationally by the mob headquarters in Sicily. The boss in Las Vegas, presiding at the meeting on the day after Mike Malone's press conference, was a man named Achille Ricci. A portly man in his early sixties, Ricci was a foul-mouthed man who seemed to live on wine and cigars during the day and huge meals built around pasta late in the evening. For all his wealth and power, he was barely known outside his own group. Ricci deliberately kept a low profile, leaving the work that touched the public and occasionally the law-enforcement agencies to one or two others, who in turn gave instructions to lesser lights, and so on down the line. Unraveling the twisted line of control leading from bottom to top of this Las Vegas branch of the mob was, so far, impossible. The police intelligence unit knew it existed, but had not yet been able to untangle the web of who had what responsibilities and for what.

Achille Ricci's anger was spilling all over the room as he and his group discussed the result of the press conference. What to do? They had as many ideas as they had people at the meeting, and none of the ideas were workable. Whatever action they took, and this they agreed unanimously to be the case, had to be absolutely untraceable to their gambling and drug activities, because compared to those, the money they would make from owning a baseball team would be small, even if it were in the lower millions. The trouble was, they hated to see somebody in “their” city run an operation promising to make money, and without their being able to get any of it.

* * *

The City of Las Vegas had gone almost into a frenzy over the announcement. Even with all the casinos and entertainment already having made Las Vegas famous the world over, the excitement and questions of having a Major League Baseball team were the only topic in the city. Las Vegas, the suburban city of Henderson and Clark County together make up a population of just over a million. What could be called a small market city was not the same as other small market cities, because the number of visitors—holiday-goers, gamblers, temporary residents—made the place very attractive to set up a Major League franchise, and had been talked about for several years in baseball circles. The idea of having the New York Yankees, the Boston Red Sox, the Chicago White Sox and possibly an All Star Game someday, and, to hear Mike Malone talk, a World Series, altogether gave the people of the city a lift. The temporary office of the new team called The Gold quickly became very busy. A small sign, unpretentious, appeared at the door of the second floor office in the old office building. When Malone Stadium would come into being, Mike Malone would have the grandest office space he could get for the money. Now, inside, office space was rearranged as new people began to arrive. Among the first of new people was a young woman of Molly's age named Aritha Westwood.

Mike Malone had transferred Ms. Westwood from one of his other companies to become the Gold's Vice-President for Finance. She and Molly discovered they had played college basketball against each other. Molly's degree was in Physical Education, and she had gone on to become a high school coach and professional baseball player in women's baseball. Aritha had taken a degree in business administration, and after graduation earned an Ivy League MBA before being hired as an accountant at one of Malone Enterprises' many business arms. In a very short time, Aritha and Molly found they meshed as both friends and colleagues.

The first big program they, along with Larry Henderson, had to tackle was to prepare a working budget, not any easy task when they had no clear idea of how much money they would need. Larry wanted two Assistant General Managers, as well as a Director of Scouting and a number of scouts. One of the AGMs would be in charge of Player Personnel, the other to work on salaries and contracts as a primary task. They decided the Director of Scouting, reporting to the AGM for Player Personnel, would hire scouts for four areas: the Caribbean and Florida, Texas and Southwest USA, Central and Northeast USA, Canada, and Japan, several scouts for each area, some full time, some part-time. All those people would require a salary before they ever put a player on the roster. More scouts, many more, would be needed before opening day.

After three days of working together to make these necessary temporary decisions and discussing numerous problems arising from them, Aritha was left to put the result on paper to take to Mike to argue for approval. Larry had another task, one that would eventually require a revised budget. He and Mike had already discussed it and decided on the numbers. Larry began searching for a couple of Double A franchises, either to buy or to organize. One big problem was where to put them. He was looking for cities where there were Double A franchises for sale, or where new franchises could be established and integrated into established leagues. He and Mike had decided on three Double A teams for the farm system. To round out the search, he was after two A level franchises and one for the Rookie league. Larry knew he would be at least a year and a half or more at that task.

Molly left town on a scouting trip of her own. She first organized a list of players who could be free agents at the end of the next season and, as well, she wanted to search out players who might be available for trades. All three knew these tasks of finding available franchises and negotiating purchase prices, as well as negotiating contracts, would take a long time—up to the year and a half available to them, and maybe more in order to bring them to fruition. As for making offers to free agents, that couldn't even begin until after the World Series of the year before the Gold were due to begin playing.

In addition to all this, there was a constant stream of interruptions. Especially difficult to deal with politely were the calls from the media requesting information—information frequently unavailable. “Who are you thinking of going after among the free agents?” was a popular question. The most sought after of the executives by the media were the never-ending requests for interviews with Molly.

It seemed to her every newspaper, TV and radio station in the US and Canada wanted an interview with her. After a week of dodging calls, Molly called her father and asked—pleaded—for a media relations person to take the pressure off. More weeks passed before somebody could be hired, and even more time before the person could begin work. Finally, just before Labor Day, Sparky Hooper, a sports reporter who had worked in both press and electronic media for twenty years, agreed to take the job. Sparky's arrival finally alleviated the interruptions from the press, but not before Molly had spent hours of time dealing with the media, time she didn't want to spend.

Larry, Molly and Aritha, the “Big Three,” as Mike Malone called them, met for dinner with him every Tuesday evening in Las Vegas to discuss the progress to date. Mike was not interested in details, just the overall picture, whether it was emerging according to plan. Of course, the overall plan seemed to require constant amendments; Larry, Molly and Aritha had never begun a Major League Baseball team from scratch before. They found a great deal of help from the people at the Commissioner's Office, and more from people at previous expansion teams who had gone this route, assistance for which they were extremely appreciative.

* * *

The Dodgers were playing a bit better than .500 baseball, holding down second place in the National League West. A big reason for what success they had was the pitching of Tabby O'Hara. By the time of the All Star break, his record stood at 15 and 4, phenomenal for any pitcher, let alone a rookie. His reclusive, surly behavior remained the same, however. The week after the break, the Dodgers were in Milwaukee for a series with the Brewers. Around breakfast time–early in the morning, LA time—following the first game, won by the Dodgers 9-2, Pat Trenowski, Tabby's contact, was wakened by the ringing of the phone. In his groggy and hung-over state, he didn't recognize the voice, which said, “Tonight.” That was all, just the one word, “Tonight.”

“Who the hell are you? Whaddy'a mean ‘tonight'?”

Finally, after the fifth repetition, Pat's head cleared and he realized what was going on. “Tabby? 'Zat you?”

“Wake up. I'm tryin' to tell ya' somethin'. Ya' drunk or what?”

“Okay, Okay. I got it now. Are you saying the Dodgers are gonna' lose tonight? You pitchin'?”

“Yeah, and twenty-five grand tells me the Dodgers ain't gonna' win tonight.”

“That's a lotta' money.”

“If it's worth that much to ya', say so. If not, then say so and save me a lotta' grief. 'N I want it right after the game. You'll find me in a bar near the stadium.”

The phone line was quiet for several seconds. At last, Pat sighed, “Yeah. Okay. Twenty-five. But you make sure you earn it. Unnerstand?” Tabby didn't answer. He just hung up.

That evening, in Milwaukee, the fans who had come to watch Tabby O'Hara pitch failed to see the great rookie at his best. The Brew crew was hitting him all over the place. By the sixth inning, the Dodgers' manager had seen enough and took him out. When he arrived at the mound, he held his hand out for the ball and said, Ya' can't win 'em all, Tabby.” The pitcher grunted something unintelligible and walked off the field, then into the dugout, slung his glove at the trainer and disappeared down into the dressing room. He was gone when the rest of the team slouched unhappily into the dressing room, none of them happy at a seven run loss following a seven run win the night before.

Tabby sat alone in a seat at the back of the bar for nearly an hour before Pat sat down across from him. The man was smiling as he slid a thick envelope across the table for Tabby. “Bin' a helluva lot sooner if youda' tol' me which bar. Then I wouldn'da' hadda' go looking all over hell's half acre to fin' ya'.”

Tabby picked it up and, without checking the contents, put it in an inside pocket of his windbreaker, got up and walked out. He hadn't said a word—hadn't even finished the beer in the glass he had left on the table. Pat sat there, shaking his head. Then he also got up and left.

The same scenario was played out three more times before the end of the season. Tabby won a few, lost a few. He wound up with a 20 and 9 record by October, won the Rookie of the Year and Cy Young trophies, but the Dodgers remained in second place. Their fans, always optimistic in the spring, were again unhappy. Team management vowed a shakeup of players, and maybe a new manager also, just for good measure.