Authors: Michael Holley
Birmingham had that someone, aggressively talking trash to Jordan.
Francona was nervous. He didn’t like that a large crowd had gathered, and he wasn’t comfortable with the tone of the game. It had started out small, but now they had a block party, an audience split between admirers and instigators. What kind of explanation would he have for Reinsdorf and general manager Ron Schueler if he had to tell them that Jordan had been hurt during a basketball game? What would they say in Chicago: Jordan can’t play for the Bulls, but he can find time to school some wannabe in a public park?
The manager didn’t have to worry long. For 30 seconds, the public court became Chicago Stadium or Madison Square Garden, and the young mouth became another in a line of kids who needed to be taught a lesson the hard and high way. Jordan made sure the defending kid was close enough to be taken for a harsh ride. The journey began just inside the free-throw line and it ended in a rapid and angry blur: the kid jumped, Jordan jumped higher, the ball was slammed through the rim hard enough to instantly bend it, and the kid was on the ground with Jordan standing over him.
“Don’t ever talk shit to me on
my
court,” he shouted.
Game over, and a public court in Birmingham claimed as his own.
His teammates and coaches probably saw the most complete portrait of Jordan in 1994. They saw the public figure, just like every
one else. They saw the competitor who destroyed tennis rackets and Ping-Pong tables after losses. They saw the self-assured Michael, watching his former team play the Knicks on TV and turning to Francona to say, “I don’t think they can win this game. They don’t have the guy they need right now.” Meaning himself. They all had inside information if they wanted to take advantage of it—and they didn’t—about one of the reasons he retired from the NBA: he was bored with the paint-by-numbers routine, even though you had to be supremely gifted to say that “showing up and getting my 30 points” was part of the monotony.
The most shocking thing they saw, though, was his occasional shyness and embarrassment. He didn’t impose his will so easily on baseball. His .330 average in April had dipped about 100 points, to .234, going into the long Memorial Day weekend. The Chicago dailies kept a “Jordan Watch,” with each sliding stat encouraging everyone that he would be back with the Bulls the next season. Even as he struggled, Francona saw some of his athletic and diplomatic strengths.
The manager was amazed that Jordan couldn’t get down a bunt during batting practice, but when the Barons needed it in a game, he would lay down a gem. Each of his 436 at bats during the season was somebody else’s moment to be a star, so he didn’t get the benefit of a lot of mistakes. Or fastballs. They threw him sliders and curves, and he swung and missed more than anyone on the team. He was the attraction of the league, even though he didn’t feel comfortable getting the attention given his struggles. He admired his teammates, not just for the ability to play baseball, but for all the hard work that was rewarded with scant cash. Flaunting his riches was something they never saw him do.
Francona’s mission as a manager was to put all his players in a position to think about playing and nothing else. So he learned to
tiptoe around the desires of management—they didn’t want one of Jordan’s bodyguards, George Koehler, in the dugout—and do what was best for the team, which was to give Koehler an all-access pass. It made everyone’s job easier. Francona was a young manager, but he was already displaying a gift for understanding the needs of ownership, the media, and his team, and working it so that one didn’t pull from the other.
Not many people knew that White Sox management did not allow him to bat Jordan ninth, despite an average that leveled off between the high .180s and low .200s. They also would flip if he or anyone else in the organization used the word “circus” to describe Jordan’s year in baseball. Francona once got a voice mail from Chicago, blasting him for using the word “circus” to the Birmingham media. (It turns out that they were misinformed and he hadn’t used the word.) They were extremely sensitive to the public perception of what Jordan was doing, and they didn’t want anyone on staff to come close to repeating any of the sentiments that were in the media.
Francona was good at getting to know his players, learning what motivated them, bringing them together, and then protecting them. He kept them from the
circus
of front-office politics because it got in the way of playing. He also gained everyone’s trust because he was more concerned with getting things right privately than looking good publicly. He protected Jordan the same way he protected his young players; the difference was that Jordan received requests that other players didn’t.
Once, in Jacksonville, the GM of their team wanted to make a big deal of presenting Jordan with the key to the city. He approached Jordan, and the Barons’ famous left fielder declined. The GM persisted and Jordan declined again. He was hitting .180-something and he didn’t think it was the right time. Finally, Francona intervened.
“Sir, he’s been really nice,” he said. “Can’t you see he’s embarrassed? He just doesn’t want to do it.”
A screaming match between Francona and the GM ensued in Francona’s office. The door had been closed, but Jordan opened it and threatened the GM: “If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to own your team. And he’s going to be running it.” He was pointing to Francona. The dispute was over, and the next day Francona had a no-hard-feelings gift—a golden cigar cutter—waiting on his desk.
As poor as Jordan’s hitting was, few people outside of Birmingham seemed to grasp how much fun he was having joking around with the players and coaching staff. He also was playful with the national and Chicago media, members of whom would drop in on the Southern League and see how Jordan was doing. He understood that many of them were waiting for a made-for-TV confession—Oprah Winfrey/Barbara Walters–style—in which he would give an exclusive and give up baseball in one sitting.
He teased, knowingly, but he wasn’t biting. Lacy J. Banks of the
Sun-Times
visited in July, and Jordan openly played with his mind in a question-and-answer column.
J
ORDAN
: I’m never coming back to play basketball. Not in this lifetime.B
ANKS
: Never?J
ORDAN
: Never…Unless I change my mind.
Later, on the way out, Jordan did more intentional spinning.
B
ANKS
: I just want to make this thing clear now as we end this interview. You say that in this lifetime you will never play basketball again?J
ORDAN
: I’m going to give it to you plain and simple. I’m not, in the near future or in the age that I am living, planning on playing professional basketball again…unless I change my mind.
They also didn’t understand that the humble minor league life was what Jordan needed and wanted. It was his respite from the constant hero worship. He liked it when he scorched his teammates and they gave it right back to him. He would never be viewed as normal, given who he was, but the minors got him as close to normal as he had been in years. Unfortunately, normal in some Southern circles wasn’t all pleasant.
Since Francona and Jordan loved to golf for money—Francona routinely shot in the 70s, so he had a slightly higher winning percentage—they would compete whenever they got the chance. Francona’s bets were much more conservative than the star’s. The manager’s entire salary, $32,000, was roughly the amount of fines Jordan gladly paid for skipping out on a few media sessions during the NBA’s All-Star weekends. With Jordan, the size of the bet was secondary to the rush of competition; he’d be as excited to win $50 as $5,000, especially if there was some type of comeback or pressure shot involved.
One of their golf outings was at Shoal Creek Country Club, where they sat in the dining room and caused a stir. Two white men spoke loudly of being in “certain” company, and made a production out of getting up and leaving. Jordan played it cool and kept talking with Francona. After a long pause, Francona spoke.
“That was terrible,” he said to Jordan. “I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“You did well,” Jordan answered. “That’s the way you should have handled it.”
It was a surprise and it wasn’t. Both of them had tried to prepare for incidents that could quickly become inflamed, and that was one of the reasons Francona allowed Koehler to go wherever he wanted. Koehler had a knack for scoping out potential issues before they became problematic, so Francona considered him to be a valuable member of the Barons. It was also one of the reasons Jordan had insisted on a reliable bus. He and the team would be traveling late nights and early mornings through parts of the South where, frankly, they didn’t give a damn about Jordan’s ads or his skills or his famous smile. They didn’t want to see him or anyone who looked like him.
For the most part, Jordan’s issues in Birmingham were on the field. Francona believed that if Jordan had the benefit of 2,000 at bats in the minors—or 4 years—he’d have found a spot in the majors, even if that role was defensive replacement or pinch runner. But even his most optimistic supporter didn’t envision a 4-year stay in the minors. In fact, those who got a chance to see him play each Sunday in the Arizona Fall League, as Francona did, wondered, “Why not the Bulls?”
After Jordan’s season in Birmingham ended with a .202 average, 51 runs batted in, and 30 stolen bases, it was time for Francona and Jordan to head to the Fall League’s Scottsdale Scorpions. When they weren’t playing short-season baseball, a lot of the players and coaches would have their pickup basketball games. The environment was the opposite of the park in Birmingham: private and controlled. Jordan’s role on the court, though, was unchanged. He would take over if he needed to, but he was there more for the workout and to set up his teammates.
They played three or four full-court games to 11 by 1’s. In the final game, Francona took a long jump shot that missed, and the long rebound went to Curtis Pride. He dribbled a few times, went to
the air, and slammed in the winning points. Francona was relieved. He had been tired of playing anyway. Good for Curtis. He heard a ball hit the backboard, as if someone had thrown it there, and he knew Jordan was walking fast behind him.
“Hey,” the star said as he caught up with him. “I always shoot last.”
“I know you do on TV,” Francona shot back.
“Seriously, I don’t give a shit where we are. I always shoot last.”
He walked ahead of Francona now. It was that fast pace he had in the NBA when he was furiously chewing gum, stewing about an official’s call, and plotting his next game-changing flurry to make everything all right. He stopped in his tracks to kneel down and laugh when he heard Francona quip, “Now you know how I feel when you try to hit a curveball.”
The truth was that Jordan was getting better, hitting .260 in the Fall League. He had learned a lot more about baseball, too, much different than the player who had once stolen a base with the Barons up by 11 runs. (“Hey, if they’re going to give me a layup…”) Francona was more convinced than ever that managing a team of stars would not be a problem if one or two of those stars had the personality of Jordan. In that case, the manager-as-tyrant would be redundant because clubhouse policy would be set by the manager and enforced by alpha personalities like Jordan. Could it work in baseball? Definitely; Jordan himself made it work in baseball and he was new to the sport.
The key was to have players who could command the respect of their teammates, and to have a manager secure enough to accept input from those players. Jordan showed Francona that he clearly got it one day in Scottsdale. Francona told Jordan ahead of time that he was going to have a day game off following a night game. It was perfect timing for Jordan because a few of his boys were in
town, and Jordan wasn’t known for quiet evenings and lights out by 10:30. He had a good time that night and it showed: he arrived for the day game on time, but he was leaning on the dugout rail with his sunglasses on. Thank God for off days.
But there was a change of plans.
Francona had allowed one of the outfielders to go home to attend a wedding, and he absolutely had to pull Michael Tucker from a game because Tucker wasn’t doing what he was supposed to on the base paths. Francona was coaching third and gave a shrug to Jordan, as in, “I know I gave you the day off, but I need you.” Jordan took off the glasses, slowly grabbed a bat, and began to get loose. He worked the pitcher for a walk and then barreled into second base with an emphatic, head-first slide.
Francona asked him why he was sliding like that into second. “I know why you took Tucker out,” he answered. “He wasn’t going hard into second. That’ll show him how it’s done.”
Jordan was all about lessons and competition. He thrived on them, usually because he was on the giving end of the former and the winning end of the latter. It didn’t matter if he was inviting Francona to play golf with him, Charles Barkley, Vince Coleman, and Roy Green, or if it was just the two of them playing together. He was the same: he treated people well, regardless of their position. But his competitiveness was consistent, so he had no mercy on you—regardless of your position—if you challenged him and lost.
A kid club pro at the beachfront Sawgrass Country Club, just outside of Jacksonville, learned this when he told Jordan that he didn’t think he could sink a 30-foot putt. Francona shook his head and thought of his standard line about Jordan: “When you tell him no, the answer is usually ‘yes.’” Jordan was intrigued. He had another one on the hook, ready to reel him in. “Well, I need some odds,” he said.
How many times had Francona seen this? It was amazing to see an elite athlete zone in on something that was outside of his sport of expertise. Even if the goal is not met, there is something fascinating about watching the high effort and concentration. In this case, Francona just knew that the club pro was going to be losing money that he didn’t have. The kid had underestimated Jordan. The bet was $50, the odds were 4 to 1. There wasn’t much wasted time before the ball was in the hole. The kid was ashen; he clearly didn’t have the money on him.