body’s betrayal.
At the end of his career, with his knees and shoulders breaking down, Francona was the happiest ex–big leaguer in Triple-A. He was in Louisville in 1990 and he was getting at bats. (He even pitched seven and two-thirds innings and had an ERA of 1.17.) He became a better evaluator then, too, of himself and other players. He looked at kids like Ray Lankford and Bernard Gilkey and saw that theywere better than he was. He also studied manager Gaylen Pitts and noticed how he consistently made tough decisions and still maintained the respect of his players by not embarrassing them.
Francona wanted to be that kind of manager, and now he was getting his chance to learn with Jordan. What better way to finetune his skills as a teacher than by imparting the nuances of pro baseball into a pro basketball player? Is there a better way to balance the interests of big-city media versus the interests of the team than to have a graduate course in Dealing with Michael Jordan’s Media? Jordan was definitely going to have some rough nights at the park, and yes, even he would be insecure and lose his confidence. No one in Double-A knew how it felt to have Jordan’s genius and drive, but Francona knew how everyone felt on a baseball field. He had been all of them: bonus-baby/first-round pick, starter, platoon player, defensive replacement, pinch hitter, player frustrated by injuries, player who sat on the bench without playing for 2 months, player who had been released.
That was just the professional perspective he could give to the world’s number-one athlete. He couldn’t have conceptualized what their personal relationship would become.
The first time they talked was on that onetime sleepy morning in Sarasota. After Francona learned that he was Jordan’s manager, he found him on one of the minor league fields and introduced himself. Jordan was scheduled to play in a game that day, and he was hosting a line of players and coaches who wanted to give him baseball pointers.
“We’ve got five days until we get to Birmingham, so I’m going to leave you alone for now,” Francona said. “There’s too much coaching going on here, so go play and we’ll talk in depth later.”
That was all they said until Francona actually saw Jordan play. He had been jammed on a pitch and popped it up. It was a normalday in the life of a ballplayer, except that Jordan didn’t run out the play. As soon as it happened, all heads turned to Francona. Typical: it’s easy to be Jordan’s coach when you want to teach him how to swing and maybe sneak in a question about the Knicks, but the numbers in the coaching line start and end at “1” when the job requires scolding him.
After the game, they crossed paths on a back field.
“Just tell me now: are you going to do that every time?”
Jordan may have been a baseball rookie, but he knew what Francona was referring to. In basketball, he was able to set the tone for the amount of effort his team exerted because he brought the most passion and, when necessary, fury. He knew he wasn’t going to be the best player for the Barons, but he would be their most watched; therefore, he could still determine how hard they worked.
“No, that will never happen again,” he said, his dark brown eyes making contact with Francona’s so the manager could sense the sincerity. “Never.”
And soon they were off to Birmingham, beginning one of the most enchanting tales in American sports history. The country’s most popular athlete, who earned $30 million in endorsements alone, had accepted a job that paid $850 a month. He spent his time on a 45-foot luxury bus, “luxury” because in the words of Francona, “It didn’t break down much and it didn’t stink; it actually looked like the Partridge Family bus.” That garish green-and-purple bus was where you could find a bunch of kids happy to make $10,000 a year, sitting next to the handsome spokesman for Nike, Gatorade, and Coca-Cola.
It was as
At the end of his career, with his knees and shoulders breaking down, Francona was the happiest ex–big leaguer in Triple-A. He was in Louisville in 1990 and he was getting at bats. (He even pitched seven and two-thirds innings and had an ERA of 1.17.) He became a better evaluator then, too, of himself and other players. He looked at kids like Ray Lankford and Bernard Gilkey and saw that theywere better than he was. He also studied manager Gaylen Pitts and noticed how he consistently made tough decisions and still maintained the respect of his players by not embarrassing them.
Francona wanted to be that kind of manager, and now he was getting his chance to learn with Jordan. What better way to finetune his skills as a teacher than by imparting the nuances of pro baseball into a pro basketball player? Is there a better way to balance the interests of big-city media versus the interests of the team than to have a graduate course in Dealing with Michael Jordan’s Media? Jordan was definitely going to have some rough nights at the park, and yes, even he would be insecure and lose his confidence. No one in Double-A knew how it felt to have Jordan’s genius and drive, but Francona knew how everyone felt on a baseball field. He had been all of them: bonus-baby/first-round pick, starter, platoon player, defensive replacement, pinch hitter, player frustrated by injuries, player who sat on the bench without playing for 2 months, player who had been released.
That was just the professional perspective he could give to the world’s number-one athlete. He couldn’t have conceptualized what their personal relationship would become.
The first time they talked was on that onetime sleepy morning in Sarasota. After Francona learned that he was Jordan’s manager, he found him on one of the minor league fields and introduced himself. Jordan was scheduled to play in a game that day, and he was hosting a line of players and coaches who wanted to give him baseball pointers.
“We’ve got five days until we get to Birmingham, so I’m going to leave you alone for now,” Francona said. “There’s too much coaching going on here, so go play and we’ll talk in depth later.”
That was all they said until Francona actually saw Jordan play. He had been jammed on a pitch and popped it up. It was a normalday in the life of a ballplayer, except that Jordan didn’t run out the play. As soon as it happened, all heads turned to Francona. Typical: it’s easy to be Jordan’s coach when you want to teach him how to swing and maybe sneak in a question about the Knicks, but the numbers in the coaching line start and end at “1” when the job requires scolding him.
After the game, they crossed paths on a back field.
“Just tell me now: are you going to do that every time?”
Jordan may have been a baseball rookie, but he knew what Francona was referring to. In basketball, he was able to set the tone for the amount of effort his team exerted because he brought the most passion and, when necessary, fury. He knew he wasn’t going to be the best player for the Barons, but he would be their most watched; therefore, he could still determine how hard they worked.
“No, that will never happen again,” he said, his dark brown eyes making contact with Francona’s so the manager could sense the sincerity. “Never.”
And soon they were off to Birmingham, beginning one of the most enchanting tales in American sports history. The country’s most popular athlete, who earned $30 million in endorsements alone, had accepted a job that paid $850 a month. He spent his time on a 45-foot luxury bus, “luxury” because in the words of Francona, “It didn’t break down much and it didn’t stink; it actually looked like the Partridge Family bus.” That garish green-and-purple bus was where you could find a bunch of kids happy to make $10,000 a year, sitting next to the handsome spokesman for Nike, Gatorade, and Coca-Cola.
It was as
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