With ‘nay’ votes cast in the direction of Whitey Herzog and Billy Martin, it’s time to consider the other high profile candidate on the Hall of Fame’s managerial ballot. Will I go 0-for-3, or will I be more favorable toward a former manager whose career spanned from 1967 to 1988? Let’s dig a little further…
**** Williams made few friends among the ballplayers he managed (not to mention the owners he worked for), but he extracted productive results during the majority of his managerial terms. Winning big in several different locales, Williams took three losing franchises to the World Series, all while stamping his teams with discipline, direction, and strong fundamental play.

Once a top prospect in the Brooklyn Dodgers’ organization, Williams saw his playing career sidetracked by injury. A severe shoulder injury he sustained while making a diving catch in left field hindered his hitting and throwing abilities. The three-way shoulder separation left Williams a pedestrian player, one who would make stops in Baltimore, Cleveland, Kansas City, and Boston. Williams actually enjoyed two productive seasons for the Kansas City Athletics in 1959 and ’60, but a trade to the Orioles during the spring of ’61 prevented him from playing for Charlie Finley, the man who would eventually hire him as manager.

As a minor league player, Williams was strongly influenced by his manager in the Texas League, Bobby Bragan. Williams noticed Bragan’s strengths: the ability to teach and instill discipline. These attributes would become essential parts of the Williams dossier. Williams’ manager in Baltimore, the successful and innovative Paul Richards, noticed the journeyman outfielder’s knowledge of the game and encouraged him to pursue a managerial calling. Perhaps influenced by Richards, Williams decided to abandon a mediocre playing career for what he hoped would be a higher standard of achievement as a manager.

A fiery, militaristic kind of leader, Williams patterned his “tough-guy” managerial style after that of men like Branch Rickey and Vince Lombardi. Williams stressed the importance of fundamentals and basic execution, demanded absolute hustle from his players at all times, and challenged them to play for more than themselves and the lure of a contract.

In his first managerial tenure in the major leagues, Williams molded a soft group of ninth-place Boston Red Sox into a hardened, gritty American League pennant winner—the authors of the “Impossible Dream.” With Williams in charge, the transition took just one season. Prior to his arrival in 1967, the Red Sox had been regarded as baseball’s “country club,” where team owner Tom Yawkey consistently spoiled his players. Williams completely transformed Yawkey’s clubhouse culture, making his players accountable by regularly benching those who didn’t hustle or performed poorly.

By 1969, the Red Sox deemed Williams as too tough, overly militaristic and dangerously unyielding in the ways that he dealt with his players. Williams also clashed with Yawkey, who repeatedly undermined his manager by pampering Red Sox players after Williams had tried to discipline them. Williams believed that Yawkey regarded the Red Sox as a toy, a philosophy that conflicted with Williams’ more businesslike approach.

During the 1969 season, Yawkey fired Williams, who took a job as a coach under Gene Mauch in Montreal. Williams credited Mauch with equipping him to become a better manager the second time around. “The best manager in the business,” Williams said of Mauch in an interview with Sport Magazine. “You watch him and you learn. If I ever had a seminar on managing, I’d want Gene to run it for me. He’s a baseball genius—a marvelous organizer and the greatest handler of men I ever saw.” While with the Expos, Mauch also taught Williams to be more conciliatory when dealing with his team’s owner. That advice would help him greatly during his next managerial stop.

Seeking a hard-driving manager to replace the laid-back John McNamara, Charlie Finley called on Williams after the 1970 season. Finley’s A’s, though talented, lacked experience and any history of winning. It didn’t take long for Williams to lay his imprint on his new ballclub. After a bad early-season loss to the Royals, capping off a disastrous first week for the ‘71 A’s, the players irritated Williams with their cavalier attitude toward losing. While on the team bus at the Milwaukee airport, one of the Oakland players decided to play a practical joke by stealing a battery-operated megaphone from the team airplane. Williams was not amused. He angrily lectured his players about the incident, demanding the bullhorn be returned immediately.

“Gentlemen,” Williams addressed his players, “some of you think you can be bleeps. Well, I can be the biggest bleep of them all.” Williams then delivered his first major pronouncement. “The serving of booze on planes is terminated for the rest of the seasons.” Williams continued his diatribe. “The plane can’t leave without the megaphone, and we won’t leave until the plane does.” As Williams prolonged his lecture, one of the players dropped the megaphone from the bus window onto the sidewalk. Williams saw the megaphone fall, but continued talking. “If any of you want to telephone Charlie Finley to complain,” Williams said, “I have three phone numbers where he can be reached.” No players took him up on the offer. The reign of **** Williams had officially begun.

The A’s responded to Williams’ disciplinary measures by winning their next five games. After losing a game to the White Sox, the A’s strung together seven more victories, making it 12 wins in 13 tries. Shortly thereafter, the A’s moved into first place, on their way to winning the American League West in a romp. Just as importantly, Williams engineered a crucial move during the ’71 season, making Rollie Fingers a fulltime reliever on his way to becoming the Oakland closer. Too nervous and high strung to start, Fingers made a skillful transition to the bullpen on the way to a Hall of Fame career.

To his bitter disappointment, Williams’ first season in Oakland ended with a three-game playoff sweep at the hands of the Orioles. Given Baltimore’s talent, there was no shame in that. The next season, Williams took the A’s further. Juggling an ever-changing roster while trying to patch holes in center field and at second base, Williams led the franchise to its first American League pennant since its days in Philadelphia. Making a seemingly endless series of trips to the mound to talk strategy and/or maneuver his bullpen, Williams guided the A’s to a seven-game World Series upset of the Reds, with six of the seven games decided by one run. And then Williams did what has often proved difficult for even the most accomplished managers—leading the A’s to a World Championship repeat in 1973. All the while, Williams continued to serve as a buffer between his high-strung stars and his ever-meddling, always-temperamental owner.

Finley’s scandalous treatment of Mike Andrews during the ’73 World Series represented the final straw of meddling for Williams. Sickened at Finley’s growing mean streak, he resigned his position, Although Williams often bruised the egos of his own players, those same players came to respect him for his toughness and his knowledge. “Maybe not the most popular, but you certainly cannot argue with the results that **** Williams got,” Rick Monday once told me. “He had a pretty good ballclub, but he also gave them some pretty good leadership and pretty good direction.” With three divisional titles, two pennants and two World Championships in a span of three seasons, Williams left a mark as the most successful manager in franchise history since the days of Connie Mack.

Williams’ next stop would not be nearly as fruitful. Hired as the manager of the Angels in 1975, Williams found that his new players were not as talented—or as tolerant of his militaristic ways. With established players like Bill Melton leading the charge of the discontented, the veteran Angels rebelled under Williams’ regime. Williams would have no opportunity to quit this time around; in the midst of a third straight losing season in Southern California, the Angels fired the two-time World Champion.

The next step for Williams involved a transition to the National League. He went back to Montreal, this time as the manager. Williams had no trouble adjusting to life in the league without the DH, but did clash with some of his veteran players, including Dave Cash and Steve Rogers. Under Williams, the Expos improved, became contenders in the NL East, and seemed on the verge of postseason glory—only to fall just short. Unable to overcome the lack of a dominant closer, and failing to give Jeff Reardon more of an opportunity to fill that role, Williams watched the Expos finish in second place in 1979 and ’80 before receiving the axe in September of the strike-torn 1981 season.

With his career at a crossroads and his reputation on the downswing, Williams took his next critical step. He agreed to become the manager of the last-place Padres, a perennial laughingstock since their inception in 1969. The Padres responded well to Williams, showing major improvement and playing .500 ball in his first two seasons. In 1984, with the additions of Graig Nettles and Rich Gossage, the Padres claimed the NL West and defeated the Cubs in a dramatic Championship Series, before losing to a superior Tigers team in the World Series. In spite of the Series loss, the Padres’ 1984 run represented some of the best work of Williams’ career.

Ultimately, Williams ran afoul of Padres general manager Jack McKeon, who fired him after the 1985 season. From San Diego to Seattle, Williams took what would be his final managing job. He would have been better off retiring. Mariners players, who hailed from a generation that was distinct from those Red Sox and A’s teams in the sixties and seventies, saw nothing charming in the gruff and gritty Williams. They despised his sarcastically critical nature. With the team in a downward spiral and Williams fed up with the new breed of player, he announced his resignation early in the 1988 season.

So where do Williams’ divergent travels—and levels of success—place him in terms of the Hall of Fame? If he had stayed with the A’s and won an additional title, there would be little debate about his case for Cooperstown. Two World Championships, four pennants, and four division titles represent a good haul, but three World Series victories would have automatically punched his ticket to the Hall of Fame. Then there were the problems in California and Seattle, where veteran players bristled at what they felt were over-the-top levels of discipline and decorum. The poor performances with the Angels and Mariners dragged down his overall winning percentage to .520, a relatively pedestrian mark for a would-be Hall of Famer. Finally, Montreal provided only a mixed bag of success, with Williams unable to develop a bullpen ace—even though he had a good candidate in Reardon—the way he had in Oakland with Fingers.

Yet, the successes outweigh the black marks on Williams’ record. He took three different teams to the World Series, each in different decades under differing rules and circumstances—but with one difficult common denominator. Prior to his arrival, the Red Sox hadn’t been competitive since the fifties, the A’s had never gone to the postseason in the Finley era, and the Padres had won nothing as a franchise. Then, when Williams arrived, World Series win shares started appearing within two years. That can’t be mere luck, good fortune, or coincidence. Those teams won because Williams demanded work ethic, effort, and hustle, while always stressing sound fundamental play buttressed by an emphasis on pitching and defense. There was no distinctive style of play, like that of contemporaries Whitey Herzog and Billy Martin, but merely a simple attachment to solid, balanced baseball. And, for the most part, it worked. While some of his teams rebelled against him to the point of severe backlash, most of them (Boston, Oakland, Montreal, and San Diego) did not. With four of six terms producing some kind of positive result, and one of his stints bringing repeated success, his record is comparable to the work of Bill McKechnie, Leo Durocher, and Tommy Lasorda.

If I had a Hall of Fame ballot, I would check the box next to Williams’ name.

Of the seven managers on the Hall of Fame’s Veterans Committee, none were as controversial as Billy Martin. Perhaps that’s why his candidacy is also the most fascinating…
There’s a tendency to underrate Billy Martin as a player and overrate him as a manager. Perhaps that’s because most of the images that the 50-and-under crowd retains of Martin are from his combative, fiery, and turbulent tenure as a field manager. Yet, in examining his Hall of Fame candidacy, we should consider the entirety of his baseball career, including his significant accomplishments as a scrappy, overachieving player for a lasting baseball dynasty.

It’s easy to forget that Martin’s playing days spanned the entire decade of the 1950s, lasting a total of 11 seasons. A favorite of Yankee manager Casey Stengel, Martin became the team’s semi-regular second baseman during the first half of the decade. In 1952, ’53, and ’56, he played more games at second base than any other Yankee; at other times, he filled in at shortstop and third base, giving Stengel depth and flexibility on the infield. A good fielder with occasional power who twice reached double figures in home runs, Martin sometimes struggled to reach base and lacked the speed to steal bases. Though never one of the best players on his own team, he did make the All-Star steam in 1956 and emerged as a decent complimentary player on teams filled with heavy-hitting stars from top to bottom.

The postseason, however, saw Martin transform himself from ordinary player to clutch-hitting hero and defensive stalwart. In the 1952 World Series, he helped the Yankees preserve a two-run lead in Game Seven by catching a wind-blown pop-up that normally would have been handled by the first baseman or the catcher. He fared even better in the ’53 World Series, batting an even .500 with two home runs and eight RBIs, numbers that earned him the Series’ Most Valuable Player Award. Even in later Series, Martin continued to play well, hitting .320 in 1955 and .296 in 1956. For those who consider the postseason a crapshoot, Martin’s numbers might not mean much; for others, they represent a gritty player who performed his best when the games meant the most.

After his playing career ended, Martin spent eight seasons preparing for what would become his true calling—managing in the major leagues. Working as a scout, third base coach, and minor league skipper in the Twins’ organization, Martin finally earned his first big league managing job in 1969. The Twins promoted him from their Triple-A farm team and promptly watched the rookie manager lead the team to the postseason in the first year of divisional play. In winning 97 games, the Twins improved by 17 games over their 1968 finish. Martin extracted the most from role players like Rich Reese and Cesar Tovar, watched stars Rod Carew, Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva thrive in the top half of the Minnesota lineup, and helped develop two 20-game winners.

Just as quickly as it blossomed, Martin’s tenure in Minnesota turned sour. The Twins lost three straight games to the Orioles in the playoffs and team owner Calvin Griffith became disenchanted with his temperamental skipper, who had beaten up one of his 20-game winners in August. Regarding those problems as more significant than the sum of Martin’s work during the regular season, Griffith fired Martin. There would be no opportunity for a Martin encore in Minnesota.

Instead, Martin sat out the 1970 season and awaited his next opportunity. That would come in 1971, when the Tigers fired the venerable Mayo Smith and brought in the younger, more energetic Martin. Despite having an aging team that paled in comparison with the 1968 World Championship club, Martin guided the Tigers to a strike-shortened AL East title in 1972. The Tigers then extended a vastly superior A’s team to a decisive fifth game in the ALCS, losing by just one run. Given the team’s age, it should not have come as a surprise that Martin’s Tigers would stumble in 1973. Perhaps prematurely and almost certainly unfairly, the Tigers gave Martin the boot in mid-season.

Having managed mostly veteran teams in Minnesota and Detroit, Martin then showed his ability to handle young talent at his next stop. The Rangers, looking for a fulltime successor to Whitey Herzog, gave Martin a call during the second half of the ’73 season. Well on their way to 105 losses, the Rangers had no chance to salvage the season, but hoped that Martin could work some magic the following summer. Martin did just that, leading Texas to a remarkable 27-game improvement, good for second place in the AL West. Overcoming a shocking lack of power (only 99 home runs for the season), Martin encouraged the Rangers to run wild on the bases. (Martin loved an aggressive approach to the game; if his team had speed, he used it.) As for his pitching staff, Martin had only one reliable reliever in the bullpen, so he relied heavily on Jim Bibby and Fergie Jenkins to soak up innings. The net result? In spite of a large disparity in talent, the Rangers finished within five games of the World Champion A’s.

Unfortunately, the Rangers may have improved too much too quickly, creating unrealistically high expectations. The pattern of “season-after” dismissals continued in 1975, when the Rangers regressed badly (in other words, back to reality) and the front office responded by blaming Martin. They sacked Martin in mid-summer, just as the Tigers had done in 1973. The latest firing set the stage for what would become the most famed part of Martin’s career.

On the prowl for a high-profile manager, George Steinbrenner offered Martin the Yankees’ job in the middle of the 1975 season. With a talented team on the verge of contention and an owner willing to spend money for top-flight talent, Martin found himself in the most attractive managerial situation of his career. It was also the most dangerous, given Steinbrenner’s penchant for meddling, a bubbling New York media that forever in search of soap opera storylines, and Martin’s own combustible personality.

In 1976, Martin took the Yankees as far as they should have gone—a league pennant and a four-game World Series loss to Cincinnati’s vastly superior “Big Red Machine.” The following year, expectations for New York grew with the signing of Reggie Jackson, whom Martin didn’t like. Stubbornly, Martin refused to bat Jackson cleanup for most of the summer, then finally relented when faced with the loss of his job. Battling the egos of Jackson and Steinbrenner throughout the year, along with his own continuing struggle with alcoholism, Martin steered the Yankee ship—sometimes unsteadily—after a faulty start. In spite of a chaotic clubhouse and frenzied front office atmosphere, Martin and the Yankees won the World Series, defeating two very good teams (the Royals and Dodgers) along the way.

Predictably, Martin’s first marriage with New York ended the following summer. With the Yankees underachieving and Martin having disparaged Reggie and George as “born and convicted liars,” the Yankees laid the axe to Martin’s neck. He would return during the ill-fated 1979 season, only to take the fall again, this time at season’s end.

Then came the most astonishing work of Martin’s career. He became the manager of the A’s, who had long since fallen into disarray under the penny-pinching ownership of Charlie Finley. Playing an aggressive style that emphasized the use of the stolen base, the hit-and-run, and a variety of trick plays, Martin’s philosophy became known as “Billy Ball.” Knowing that he had little talent in his bullpen, Martin asked his starting pitchers to complete games at a time when most other managers pulled their starters in favor of long, middle, and closing relievers. In the short term, Martin’s strategies worked. Paced by an astonishing 94 complete games in 1980, Martin’s A’s jumped 29 games in the standings, from 7th to 2nd place. After overachieving to open the 1981 season with a record of 17-1, the A’s made the postseason, defeating the Royals in the Division Series before falling to the Yankees in the League Championship Series. That the A’s made it that far without a standout in the bullpen (Dave Beard and Jeff Jones tied for the team lead with three saves) and without anything approximating a quality infield (featuring the immortal double play combination of Shooty Babitt and Rob Picciolo) remains a testament to Martin’s in-game managerial brilliance.

Like the A’s, all of Martin’s teams showed significant improvement over their immediate predecessors—no matter how mediocre the talent on hand. Unfortunately, none of the turnarounds endured in the long run. By the third season, Martin had usually clashed with the front office or alienated too many of his players, with several taking residence in his ever-expanding doghouse. In the case of the A’s, he blew out the arms of overused starters Mike Norris, Rick Langford, Matt Keough, and Steve McCatty, whose careers all short-circuited.

Late in his career, during his final tours of duty with the Yankees, Martin’s managing started to show additional cracks. Oh, he still won games at a clip well over .500, but employed some bizarre pieces of strategy. During a 1985 game in Detroit, Martin ordered Yankee third baseman Mike Pagliarulo to bat right-handed against Tigers left-hander Mickey Mahler. A stunned Pagliarulo, who hadn’t switch-hit in years, proceeded to strike out feebly against Mahler. And then, during Martin’s final managerial go-round in 1988, he made a number of ill-advised tactical decisions. He mishandled closer Dave Righetti, concocted a seven-man rotation at one juncture, and even used pitcher Rick Rhoden as a designated hitter despite the fact that the veteran right-hander suffered from a bad back. If anything, Martin’s two final managerial terms damaged his Hall of Fame chances; his resume might look stronger without those ill-fated stints in pinstripes.

So how do we assess the winding, checkered career of Martin, featuring nine stops with five different franchises along the way? The bottom line adds up to two league pennants and one World Championship, which are relatively light numbers for a Hall of Famer. On the other hand, his winning percentage of .553 puts him in the company of Walter Alston (.558) and above Sparky Anderson (.545). Martin also deserves some credit for five division titles, some of which were accomplished with severely flawed teams. Let’s also give him extra credit for his miraculous work in Texas and Oakland, succeeding where nothing short of managerial genius would have sufficed. And, of course, let’s not forget his accomplishments as a player, particularly as a contributor to Stengel’s Yankee dynasty.

In the short term, few managers have ever done better than Martin. Given one game to win, I doubt that I would pick anyone other than “Billy the Kid.” A brilliant in-game strategist, Martin understood how to make out a lineup card, usually stacking his best hitters at the top of the order. He also played to the strength of his pitching staff. If his bullpen didn’t have quality arms, he avoided it. If it did, he tried to ride the hot hand in the late innings.

Unfortunately, Martin cannot be fully assessed without looking at his chronic off-the-field problems. As much as some analysts don’t like their inclusion in the debate, character and integrity are part of the criteria for the Hall of Fame. This is where Martin failed badly, fueled largely by his problems with alcohol. He repeatedly fought with others, from perfect strangers (including the famed marshmallow salesman) to his own players (Boswell and Ed Whitson). He frequently bullied members of the press or lesser employees in the front office. These incidents didn’t represent merely a flaw in Martin’s character; they thwarted him in achieving more lasting legacies with each of his teams. After all, some of those conflicts resulted in his early firings, preventing him from achieving the kind of long-term success that might have resulted in additional pennants or World Championships. It’s that lack of sustained excellence, the inability to produce repeatedly good results in any stop outside of New York, that ultimately make Martin fall just short of the lofty Hall of Fame standard.

The boo of the week goes out to sportswriter Dave Zirin, who in a recent column on Barry Bonds’ indictment decided to take a swipe at an entire religious group. In complaining about the alleged unfairness the federal government has shown in pursuing Bonds, Zirin referred to faith-based, Midwestern schools as “Jesus-land” academies. In criticizing attorney general Michael Mukasey, Zirin wrote, “This is idiocy raised to the level of law. It makes me wonder what they’re teaching at Jesus-land Legal Academy these days.”

In addition to being factually misleading (Mukasey is Jewish, not Christian, and a graduate of Yale University’s law school), Zirin managed to defame all Christians in one fell swoop. What Zirin did here is no different than someone sarcastically referring to the Ramaz School (the Jewish prep school that Mukasey attended) as “Abraham-Land,” or describing a school in India as “Buddhaville.”

As John McWhorter, a senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute’s Center for Race and Ethnicity, so aptly wrote in reviewing one of Zirin’s books, “Zirin typifies much of the hard Left in viewing himself as a paragon of higher awareness while engaging in the same visceral, unreflective mudslinging that he reviles among people on the right.” In other words, Zirin is guilty of blatant hypocrisy, in addition to being blatantly anti-Christian. Lovely…

On to more pleasant discussion. In a trade that seemingly came out of nowhere, the pitching-rich Angels added to their mound material by acquiring Jon Garland from the White Sox for Orlando Cabrera. On the surface, the deal raises some obvious questions. By trading Cabrera, the Angels leave themselves with a potential vacancy at shortstop, unless they plan to return Brandon Wood to that position (probably not the best idea) or are convinced that Erick Aybar is ready. In the meantime, the White Sox now have two shortstops—Cabrera and Juan Uribe, whom they just re-signed to a 2008 contract. I would think that both teams will make follow-up deals, with the White Sox perhaps trading Uribe to a club like the Cardinals or the Rays, and the Angels possibly putting together a package for Baltimore’s Miguel Tejada. On a larger front, the Angels now have six legitimate starting pitchers, giving them a surplus from which to put together a package for Florida’s Miguel Cabrera. How about Ervin Santana, Wood, and Nick Adenhart for the flabby but fearsome Cabrera?

So who wins this trade? Cabrera will certainly be a major upgrade over Uribe; he is a legitimate Gold Glove shortstop with speed and occasional power. On the down side, Cabrera is 33 years old and comes at the cost of a competent 28-year-old starter in Garland. Given the lack of quality starting pitchers on both the trade and free agent markets, score this a victory for the Angels…

Has anyone noticed how stacked the Veterans Committee ballot of managers/umpires is? There are no fewer than five managers who are legitimate candidates for enshrinement—Whitey Herzog, Billy Martin, Danny Murtaugh, Billy Southworth., and **** Williams. Herzog and Martin were flexible and innovative managers who adapted their teams to either their ballparks (Herzog) or to their team’s strengths (Martin). The other three men each won a pair of World Championships. Murtaugh achieved dual titles with two Pirates teams that were prohibitive underdogs, while Williams took three different franchises to World Series after they had suffered through long periods of non-contention. And while it’s difficult to evaluate umpires, Doug Harvey’s reputation has always been impeccable. For what it’s worth, I’d vote for Murtaugh, Williams, and Harvey, with Herzog and Martin barely missing the grade… Davey Johnson is also on the ballot, and while I don’t consider him a Hall of Famer, his accomplishments as a player do count and should elevate his grade in the voting. A fine-fielding second baseman with excellent power, Johnson was one of the keys to the Orioles’ pennant-winning teams from 1969 to 1971. If Johnson were ever to return to managing and lead another team to a World Series triumph (as he did with the ’86 Mets), he might have enough to merit Hall of Fame status…

Former major league outfielder Rusty Torres has been described as the “Forrest Gump of baseball forfeits,” having played in three forfeited games during the decade of the 1970s. Last week, we presented the first part of our interview with Torres, when he discussed playing in the final game in the history of the Washington Senators, a forfeit loss to the Yankees. In this segment, Torres relives his memories from “Ten-Cent Beer Night” and the ill-fated “Disco Demolition” promotion.

Torres: None of us got hurt [in Washington], not like Ten-Cent Beer night in Cleveland. That one I remember real well. That was in 1973, or 1974 [The game occurred on June 4, 1974.] Now here’s the irony. The Texas Rangers against the Cleveland Indians. You get it, Rangers and Indians, Cowboys and Indians? First we go to Texas, Lenny Randle is almost hit with a pitch. Lenny Randle next time up drags a bunt, which is the old trick. You don’t retaliate by jumping out and starting a fight, you do it the way they did it. Milt Wilcox is coming over [to field the bunt], Lenny comes up with the elbow to the neck. We rumble. And the Texas Rangers fans started throwing beer on us, they started screaming at us. We couldn’t get out of the park, they’re going berserk. I’m still almost a rookie, not playing regularly, I’m on the bench, I feel like a rookie still. OK that’s over with. Now we go back home. I start looking at the newspapers, reading about the home stand, and I see that Texas is coming in about seven days [for a rematch]. I’m looking at the newspapers and I see a picture of a cowboy with guns drawn and a picture of an Indian with a bow and arrow.

I’m not sure exactly, but I blame Bob Short for the one in Washington. I blame the press for this one between the Rangers and the Indians. So they decided to make it Ten-Cent Beer Night in Cleveland [on June 4]. I show up at the stadium early, like I always do. People are out at the stadium already at five o’clock and they’re having ten-cent beers, man. Forget about it. Ninth inning, ninth inning, same thing again. I was on base again at that point [after entering as a pinch-hitter]. The fans then come in and storm the field. To be honest with you, Washington, that was a black eye for baseball. This one was two black eyes for baseball.

And then, of course, Disco Demolition Night, that was unbelievable. You want to hear a little bit about that one? I had a little stint with the Texas Rangers in the minor leagues and then they traded me to Chicago. Now we go to Chicago and they come up with this idea of “Disco Demolition.” They tell the people to come to the stadium [Comiskey Park] and bring all their disco records because they want to blow them up. For whoever doesn’t like disco. You know what, a lot of people didn’t like disco because that stadium was packed. I played that game—I started in right field that day. So I’m in right field. The first inning, somebody slings a .78 record—you remember those .78 records—it goes right by my head and sticks in the ground. It was always humid there, so that record sticks in the ground. So they announce [over the public address], “Please do not throw records onto the field.” You know, they’ll have their fun in between games [when the demolition of records was actually scheduled to take place]. The people calm down, they have their beers. So we play the first game, finish the first game, and then we go inside [the clubhouses]. We’re sitting inside drinking some soda, and then all of a sudden we hear this explosion. It rocked the stadium, right. We jump up. I go outside, and the stadium was full of smoke. When the smoke started clearing, you see about 20,000 people out on the field. But that’s not all of it. The police then come, they come out on horses. It was just unbelievable. Bill Veeck was the creator of that.

Markusen: Not his best idea.

Torres: That was quite an experience. We couldn’t play the second game, of course, because it was forfeited. When everything cleared and the people are getting off the field, we see that they had made a crater in center field that you would not believe. So they interviewed the guy [in charge of the explosion]. The police ask him, “What the heck did you do?” He says, “I used too much dynamite. I used too much gunpowder.” It was unbelievable.

Those events [the three forfeits] are not something I would recommend. I don’t think it will happen again. You don’t feed a hungry crowd that way, you don’t advertise [a rivalry] in the newspaper that way because the people will take to it.

And not only that, in Cleveland, we had a guy beating a drum in center field. So that only added to it!