like everyone 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 totiptoe 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
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 totiptoe 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
Similar Books
