Authors: Michael Holley
The bidding, or posting, process is the lifeblood of conspiracy theorists. Each team interested in a player must submit its post to Major League Baseball, and then the information is passed on to the team who holds the player’s rights. A winner is announced, and that team has a month to sign the player to a deal. If you were raised on James Bond or even Jason Bourne, you can see loopholes in the process. You imagine submitting your bid 15 minutes before the deadline, and then having a secret source drop a dime to the competition, trumping your bid. You imagine prearranged deals between Japanese teams and teams in the States, complete with insider information of what it will really take for a player to sign.
Epstein and the Red Sox believed in the system; they just didn’t want to take any chances with it. If they believed in their people who were scouting Asia, then their plan was obvious: bid high, outrageously high if necessary, and then sign low. They waited
until 1 minute before the deadline to submit their record-shattering number, $51.1 million, to Major League Baseball. Just like in the movies, they had “a man on the scene”—O’Halloran was at the MLB offices in New York—to make sure the operation went smoothly.
Fifty-one million dollars was risky. Fifty-one million dollars was a lot of money for a team without the New York Yankees’ resources, wink-wink. The Red Sox paid
$51 million dollars,
due all at once, for the right to negotiate with a pitcher who had never done anything in the majors. Even if the words on the street were true and the Red Sox could sign Matsuzaka for as little as $3 million a season for six seasons, that would be at least $70 million devoted to an unknown in the American game. Realistically, the Red Sox knew the per-season average would fall somewhere between $7 million and $9 million, pushing the deal over $100 million. This is what usually happens in baseball or any other business when you guess wrong on a $100 million investment:
You get fired.
Epstein briefly left the Red Sox, on his own accord, in the fall of 2005. In the winter of 2006, he was giving ownership a gaudy paper trail with which to work, just in case some of his chances didn’t work out. For a while, it seemed that Epstein was the only one in Boston excited about the opportunity to sign former Dodgers outfielder J.D. Drew. In early November, Drew opted out of a contract that guaranteed him $33 million in its final 3 years. New England wasn’t the only region of the country where fans wondered where Drew, coming off a 20-home run, 100-RBI season, would match what he left in Los Angeles. Not only did Epstein plan to match it, he was going to exceed it. The public had come to know Drew as a talented player who displayed al
most no passion. He was a quiet craftsman who showed up at work, often read a book while his teammates were clowning around, did his job, and went home. His talent was as undeniable as his injury history.
When there were reports that the Red Sox were locked in on signing Drew to a salary averaging $14 million per season, the move, and Drew, was booed before it was official. Epstein held a conference call with local reporters in late November to give an update on the team. His mind was clearly on signing Matsuzaka, but there were Red Sox employees he wouldn’t talk to about that; there was no chance he’d be specific with the media. He spent his time doing the executive waltz, lots of pauses, hesitations, and half-turns. He really didn’t say much, and that led to a humorous exchange with
Boston Globe
columnist Bob Ryan.
R
YAN
(exasperated, breathless): What’s the fascination, if true, with J.D. Drew?E
PSTEIN
(probably checking his BlackBerry): Uh, you know, Bob, I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about potential free-agent signings…R
YAN
(dramatic gasp): What are we going to accomplish today then, Theo?E
PSTEIN
(probably reading from a memo): I was asked by your colleagues to be made available as regularly as possible during the off-season…R
YAN
(pleading): On behalf of an eager constituency, let’s hope that the rumor is not true. Thank you.
It was true. Epstein had heard about the lack of passion, the lack of durability, the meticulous discipline—some called it “passivity”—
at the plate. What he saw was a player who could be perfectly slotted behind the left-handed Ortiz and right-handed Ramirez, giving Francona the left-right-left lineup construction that made it difficult for opposing managers to match up with the Red Sox late in games.
As for Francona, he knew Epstein well enough to understand that when the GM was quiet, he was probably working on something big. Epstein gave Francona general updates on what he was doing to sign Matsuzaka, but he didn’t get into all the specifics. To this day, he says, “We did some stuff out in Orange County [where Boras’s office is] that will never come out until I write my book. It was some exciting stuff—like the movie
No Way Out
. I can’t tell you about it, but I think that was the most fun I’ve ever had in baseball.”
Before the 48 hours of excitement that preceded the signing of Matsuzaka, Francona and Epstein were among many Red Sox employees who had dinner with the pitcher at the California home of Tom Werner, one of the Red Sox’s owners. They never discussed money. It was an introductory meeting, one in which it was obvious to Francona that his biggest challenge in 2007 would be getting Matsuzaka to just relax around him. The player-manager relationship in Japan is nothing like the relationship in the States. You don’t joke with the manager and talk with him casually.
Sensing the pitcher’s discomfort, Francona tried to put him at ease: “A few months from now, you’ll be sitting on my couch with your feet up on my desk.”
Boras disagreed. “I don’t think so,” the agent said. “That will not be happening.”
The 2007 team was beginning to take shape before New Year’s Day. The Red Sox added Matsuzaka and reliever Hideki
Okajima from Japan. They got Drew and shortstop Julio Lugo, also a former Dodger, in free agency. They gave the job at second to Pedroia. Once they got to spring training in Fort Myers, Florida, all they had to do was wait to see when Ramirez would arrive.
Ramirez is always a story in the spring, for the organization and for the writers who cover him. The writers have the easier job: all they have to do is report when he arrives. For Francona and Epstein, February and March are months of diplomacy. The previous season might have ended with a Ramirez trade request or a controversial injury. Whatever the case, that story is inevitably continued in the spring, and it becomes exacerbated if, by chance, Ramirez is not in attendance with the rest of his teammates.
In February, the story was complicated. Teammate Julian Tavarez said he spoke with Ramirez, and reported that his teammate would be in camp on March 1. The reason, Tavarez said, was that Ramirez was in the Miami area, caring for his sick mother. The problem was that Tavarez had heard the news before Epstein and Francona had.
Managing the slugger is one of the easiest and most trying things a manager can experience. Ramirez is the type of player that Dick Williams had in mind when he said that he was not fit for dealing with today’s game. Back in the day, “losing” a player meant that he was gone if he didn’t do what you asked. Today, losing a player means that you have to ease into issues and problems, lest you spin a player into a sulking session that could last multiple games. Ramirez’s ability to hit a baseball is downright seductive. There isn’t a pitch he can’t hit, a field he can’t reach, a great closer or relief specialist upon whom he can’t inflict self-doubt.
In Boston, where he rarely speaks with the media, he is either described as a harmless clubhouse eccentric or a distraction. He is
neither; what he is, from a managerial perspective, is a player who requires explanation and elaboration. Francona knows that his players are not at all offended by Ramirez, but they do deserve some background when they hear, for example, that he is arriving after them for spring training.
From the first day he managed Michael Jordan to the first day he met Ortiz and Varitek, Francona championed a democratic philosophy of management. He believed that conscientious players who could command a room—Jordan, Ortiz, Varitek—had the right to help shape policy. After all, it was their team, too. If the players were as intensely devoted to championships as he was, then Francona was confident that they had the same agenda: winning as many games as possible. He gained their trust with his knowledge of baseball, yes, but also with his willingness to give them insight into his thinking.
He called the team together in spring training, with Ramirez still not there, and allowed everyone to speak for 45 minutes. He explained the situation to them and told them that he would do whatever the majority decided was right. But, he added, he wanted to make everyone aware of the consequences. This wasn’t as simple as some of the draconian solutions mentioned in office break rooms and Internet chat rooms; you can’t ignore everything that Ramirez does “as long as he hits,” just as you can’t banish him to the bench or a corner until “he does what you say.”
It’s not that Francona told his players something they didn’t know. They were simply appreciative of the gesture. Much more so than his first year, when they weren’t sure what to make of him and he was getting used to them, he now had a room filled with reliable assistant principals capable of enforcing policy. Not that policy was tangled up in dozens of rules (music is the big one: headphones have to be used on the plane, and that day’s starter
gets to choose the music for the clubhouse; any complaints lead to a no-music zone). Just as he could with Jordan, who wasn’t the best player in Double-A, Francona knew that he could go to Ortiz and say, “This is the problem,” and he would have to say no more. Big Papi would fix it and further assure the manager with a “No problem, bro.” In the middle of the Yankees series that ended the Red Sox’s 2006 season, it was Ortiz who stopped in the manager’s office with a couple of Presidente beers from the Dominican Republic. Francona had players with various styles of conflict resolution available if he needed help with Ramirez. Alex Cora could talk calmly, Varitek could just give a look, and Ortiz was the ultimate bridge-builder.
Once, Francona was so frustrated with Ramirez that he told Ortiz, “I’m going to kill him.” Ortiz listened and told the manager that he’d check on Ramirez. After a while, Ortiz returned with a smile and a statement: “It’s all right for you to kill him now.” The big man had the perfect personality and presence for dealing with a variety of issues.
After all the talking about Ramirez, he showed up on March 1, so he wasn’t even the big story of the spring. Instead, in what seemed like a page out of 2003, the Red Sox were hoping that someone could take Papelbon’s closer job. The team’s medical staff had indicated that the best way to keep Papelbon’s shoulder strong was to put him on a throwing program consistent with a starter’s. Epstein was intrigued with the idea of having someone with Papelbon’s repertoire in the rotation for 200 innings. He thought someone from the group of Joel Pineiro, Brendan Donnelly, Mike Timlin, or maybe even Okajima could close.
It sounded okay, except for one small thing: Papelbon wasn’t okay with it. He was talking with Varitek one day, and he let it be known that he missed closing. His two best pitches, a fastball
and splitter, were made for the role. A starter with that combination might run into trouble in the fifth or sixth inning, if that’s all he has. But you’re not worried about the fifth when you’re closing. A fastball in the high 90s, one that can turn a catcher’s good leather into distressed leather, is enough to do the job. Adding a splitter is enough to elevate the closer to unhittable status.
Papelbon talked to Varitek, Varitek talked to Francona and pitching coach John Farrell, the two of them talked with Epstein, and everybody spoke with the doctors. Once they were clear on a program that would allow Papelbon to close without damaging his shoulder, the move was made. Papelbon’s story was the team’s story, in that the only obstacle blocking greatness was health.
In mid-March 2007, Francona got a visit from a man who could talk to him about greatness, staying healthy, and the risks of spending big in free agency. At Mark Shapiro’s insistence, Scott Pioli and Francona had met. The GM of the Indians considers Pioli one of his best friends, and from what he knew of Francona’s personality—Shapiro hired him as an adviser in 2001—he thought the two would get along well. He was right. A few years before, they had sat at the same table for a function in Boston, the Italian-American Hall of Fame, and they couldn’t stop with the laughs and one-liners. Since Francona is a huge football fan, he loved any opportunity he could get to pick the brain of Pioli, the New England Patriots’ leading personnel man during their championship run.
On the March day Pioli visited, Francona stood near him wearing a huge grin. It’s not that Pioli was saying something funny; he was talking with agent Drew Rosenhaus and finalizing the fine points of receiver Donte Stallworth’s contract. The manager admired the Patriots and couldn’t get enough stories
about their coaching philosophy as well as their draft approach. The two of them found that there were some similarities in their industries, and in some cases—from disciplining players to what type of gamesmanship was considered crossing the line—their cultures clashed. But the interest in player evaluation made sense for Francona: few people outside of Shapiro and some Red Sox insiders know the depths of the manager’s skills as an evaluator.
He was one of the first people in the organization who said he thought Papelbon should be a closer. Papelbon was being groomed as a starter then, and he was a completely different pitcher: he was a little chubbier, and he was mixing an average slider and curveball with his astonishing fastball and splitter. Francona watched the way he handled himself in a spring training game against the Orioles, following a questionable brushback pitch from temperamental starter Daniel Cabrera. On his own, Papelbon put some heat near the chin of Sammy Sosa, and kept his composure by working his way out of the inning. Francona never forgot the incident, and always thought the organization’s prized pitcher could one day become the best closer in the game.