GEORGE STEINBRENNER IS sitting, back to the camera as always, in the cramped Queens home of Frank and Estelle Costanza. In this January 1996 episode of Seinfeld, a series of missteps convinces the faux Steinbrenner that Frank and Estelle’s son George, an assistant to the Yankees’ traveling secretary, is dead. And the Boss is there to deliver the news personally.
“But he was so young,” says Estelle, wiping away a tear. “How could this have happened?”
“Well, he was logging some pretty heavy hours,” Steinbrenner says. “That kid was a human dynamo.”
Frank is sitting next to his wife, slowly shaking his head, eyes toward the floor. Grief-stricken? Well, yes, but…
“Why the hell did you trade Jay Buhner?” Frank suddenly says to Steinbrenner, his voice steadily rising. “He hit 30 home runs and over 100 RBI last year. He has a rocket for an arm.”
Pause.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing!”
“He was a good prospect, no question about it,” the Boss says. “But my baseball people loved Ken Phelps’ bat. They kept saying, ‘Ken Phelps, Ken Phelps.’ ”
This episode is every Yankees fan’s nightmare: their team’s impulsive owner trading prospects for aging veterans or journeymen he mistakes for stars. (Buhner would have three straight 40 home run, 100 RBI seasons, and Phelps was gone after 131 nondescript games.) Even die-hard fans can’t remember who George got when he shipped out future Cy Young winner Doug Drabek, two-time NL batting champ Willie McGee, and two-time NL home run champ Fred McGriff, all products of the Yankees fertile farm system.
That George was easy to hate. But Jerry Seinfeld’s send-up of Steinbrenner—this is George’s seventh appearance since May of 1994—has done wonders to soften his image. And in the spring of 1996, this George, now 65, is different. Maybe not a lot, but enough.
The first to pick up on it is David Cone, now in his first spring training with the Yankees, who realizes what Steinbrenner really wants is for his players to treat him as part of his own team.
“George wants us to talk to him, to ask his advice,” Cone tells his teammates. “He wants to have a relationship with us.”
Cone’s wit can be as sharp and disarming as his deep array of pitches, and in a clubhouse full of introverts, his ability to connect with the team’s owner is almost as valuable as his resilient right arm. Especially on days when Steinbrenner decides to stroll or storm into the clubhouse.
“George, I don’t think Paul [O’Neill] is ready today,” Cone will tell Steinbrenner. “He needs a pep talk from you.”
And Steinbrenner beams.
“You better be ready today,” George will tell Cone.
“Just don’t fuck anybody up,” Cone shoots back.
And George will walk away smiling.
Joe Torre gets it, too. The son of a New York City police detective who emotionally abused Joe and his four older brothers and sisters, Torre understands only too well what Steinbrenner endured with his own father. Like Cone, Torre knows the right buttons to push, too, and he’s confident enough to defer to the Boss without losing the respect of his players.
“Mr. Steinbrenner is the owner,” Torre tells reporters when camp opens on February 15, “and he can say what he wants to say.”
Torre’s relaxed approach is welcomed by his players, who’d grown tired of Showalter’s micromanaging. Torre tells the Yankees he won’t manage through the media—a favorite practice of George and many of his previous managers—and tells reporters he won’t engage in the game of dueling quotes with his owner. “You can talk to him or you can talk to me,” Torre tells the beat writers. “You decide. Don’t try to play us off each other.”
Torre shares Steinbrenner’s high expectations for this $54 million team. Veterans Cone, Jimmy Key, Wetteland, O’Neill, and Tino Martinez are in their primes. Aging stars Wade Boggs and Tim Raines can still perform. And up-and-coming Bernie Williams and Andy Pettitte are ready to blossom.
But it’s two more of George’s kids—one considered a sure thing, the other a mystery—who will truly change the face and future of the franchise.
It was Gene Michael who first saw something special in Mariano Rivera. It wasn’t just the control and the fastball that jumped from the high 80s to mid-to-upper 90s after arm surgery in 1994. It was Mo’s preternatural calm, no matter what the situation, that Michael found so intriguing.
But convincing everyone about the newcomers this spring has not been easy. Torre, a former All-Star catcher, wonders how the slender Panamanian can succeed using just one pitch, a fastball with little movement. So does general manager Bob Watson, who watches Rivera give up six runs and five hits in 1⅓ innings of an intrasquad game on February 26 and dangles the 25-year-old reliever in front of half a dozen teams. He finds no takers.
Michael has an easier time convincing everyone it’s time to move aging Tony Fernandez to second and start rookie Derek Jeter at short. “He’s going to make mistakes, but he’s ready,” Michael tells Steinbrenner. “We put him at shortstop and don’t even think about making a change until May.”
Jeter does indeed make mistakes early, throwing the ball away in the 1st inning of his first game at Legends Field in Tampa, the Yankees’ new spring training home. The 21-year-old goes hitless in his first 11 at bats, too. But he soon settles down, impressing Torre with his range and an inside-out swing that sends line drives flying to all fields. “If he hits .240 and plays solid defense, he’ll be fine,” Torre is soon telling everyone.
But on March 24, Fernandez dives for a ball and fractures his right elbow, putting Steinbrenner in panic mode. Fernandez was Plan B if Jeter flopped. When Michael walks into camp later that day, Watson grabs him. There’s a meeting in Torre’s office, the GM says. The Boss is talking about sending Jeter down and bringing in another veteran.
“George, you promised we weren’t going to do this,” Michael says as soon as he enters the room.
“I know, I know, I was supposed to stay away until the end of May,” Steinbrenner says.
But the Boss is worried. Will Jeter hit? Will the errors end? Can he handle New York? “Are we sure this is the right thing to do?” Steinbrenner asks.
Yes, says Michael. Torre agrees, and so does Watson.
Then Willie Randolph, Torre’s infield coach, speaks up.
“As long as we keep him off the Columbus shuttle, he’ll keep his confidence up,” says Randolph, using Yankee-speak for George’s habit of shuttling players between New York and their top minor league team in Ohio. “The kid is a hard worker, and I’ll work with him every day.”
“Yeah, well, you think so?” George says, still nervous. “I don’t know this kid.”
“We have a good supporting cast,” says Randolph. “We can afford to find out if the kid can play.”
George backs off, and he’s not disappointed. Jeter opens the season with a home run and a dazzling over-the-shoulder catch in the Yankees’ 7–1 win on a freezing cold day in Cleveland. The kid raps out three more hits and scores three runs as the Yanks take two straight from the defending AL champs. Torre bats Jeter ninth to lessen the pressure on his young shortstop, but it’s Derek who walks up to his manager before their home opener as Yankees on April 9 and asks, “So are you ready for this?”
Jeter is almost too good to be true. The son of an African American father who works as a drug counselor and a white mother who works as an accountant, Jeter is boyishly handsome and wonderfully respectful. He refers to the owner as Mr. Steinbrenner, calls his manager Mr. Torre, and his team-first approach is vital to transforming these Yankees into a team most fans will find hard to hate, no matter how much money the owner spends.
Confident without being cocky, he also charms the New York media, which is already talking him up as Rookie of the Year by the time the Yankees move into first place on April 28.
If Jeter is a pleasant surprise, Rivera is a revelation. Installed as the set-up man for Wetteland, Rivera allows just three runs in his first 16 appearances—an 0.88 ERA—and strikes out 32 in 30⅓ innings. Mo’s still using his one pitch, but his rising fastball reaches 98 mph and is all but unhittable.
Most surprising of all is how the Yankees are winning. While home runs again dominate baseball this spring, Steinbrenner’s men are playing small ball. No Yankee will hit 30 home runs in a season when a record 17 players will hit 40 or more. Instead, Torre’s team relies on advancing runners, sac flies, and two-out singles.
The starting pitching is solid, but it’s the Rivera-Wetteland combination that makes this team’s staff special. The two relievers are so dominant that opponents soon realize the game is over if they trail after the 6th inning. Indeed, the Yanks will finish 70–3 when holding a lead after six.
Steinbrenner has little to worry about this spring until Cone goes down suddenly in early May. Despite pitching well—Cone starts 4–1, with a league-leading 2.02 ERA—the 33-year-old ace has been fighting numbness in the fingers of his pitching hand since training camp. Doctors had to run two sets of tests before they found a small aneurysm—a swelling of a blood vessel that can burst if left untreated—in the front of his right shoulder.
On May 7, Watson tells the team their emotional leader will have surgery the next day and may miss the rest of the season. The players are stunned. George responds by driving Watson batty—he wants to bring back Darryl Strawberry. Again.
“We just lost the ace of our staff,” Watson tells George. “We need a pitcher, not another hitter.”
“I want to sign Darryl,” Steinbrenner insists. “We need someone who can hit home runs.”
Now Watson is stunned. His team is set at DH with Ruben Sierra and Tim Raines. The Yankees didn’t pick up Darryl’s option last winter, thinking his occasional big bat did not make up for his poor outfield play, and Strawberry had to find work in the independent Northern League in hopes of landing another big-league job.
“We don’t need Strawberry,” Watson tells his boss.
“I want Darryl,” Steinbrenner repeats.
A frustrated Watson tries to find a trump card. “I thought you agreed that Joe Molloy and I were going to run this team,” he says.
“Not anymore,” George answers. “I’m taking back control.”
It’s an hour before Mark McGwire and the Oakland A’s play the Brewers on the night of June 14, and Bud Selig is walking among the fans in the parking lot of County Stadium. Selig likes chatting with fans, but he’s Commissioner now, and there just don’t seem to be as many hours in the day.
Tonight, however, Selig isn’t here to swap stories about his old Brewers teams or ask fans what they think about the current crew. He took two punches to the gut earlier today, and he’s ready to fight back. The first hit was delivered by the consulting firm Evensen Dodge, which was hired by the Board overseeing the construction of the Brewers’ new stadium. The consultants issued a report calling Selig’s team a risky investment that will bleed money for years to come.
The Stadium Board itself delivered the second blow, rejecting Selig’s latest plan to finance his team’s $90 million contribution to the new stadium. The Board told Selig he had two weeks to come up with another plan or it would stop collecting the sales tax increase needed to pay the state’s $160 million share of the project.
This confrontation has been brewing since February, after Selig once again told state officials that he did not have collateral for the $50 million low-interest WHEDA loan Governor Tommy Thompson arranged to help finance the team’s share of the $250 million domed stadium. Without collateral, said WHEDA director Fritz Ruf, he had no choice but to withhold the loan, leaving Selig fuming and scrambling for another plan.
Thompson was adamant that the state pull the $50 million loan when he learned Selig could not put up any collateral. Selig insists Thompson and the state knew he had no collateral well before they committed to making the loan. Thompson says Bud has to pay his fair share and vows not to spend a nickel more than the $160 million he already promised.
The deeper examinations of Brewers finances that followed did not help Selig’s cause. The state auditor who reviewed the team’s books claimed he wasn’t shown the extent of the Brewers’ debt on his first pass. It was only after he agreed not to tell legislators what he found, the auditor said, that he was given a full look at the team’s books.
Selig insisted he’d hidden nothing, but taxpayers, lawmakers, and the media stopped listening. Work on the stadium was halted, and Selig was peppered with ideas about how to solve his financing problem. Milwaukee Mayor John Norquist again offered a $50 million loan if Selig agreed to build the stadium downtown. Others called for Selig to sell a piece of the team to raise the money he needed.
“I’ve never in all my years in baseball watched public officials engage themselves in the internal operation of a baseball team,” Selig said. “And it isn’t going to happen here.”
Republican politicians had their own reason to be unhappy with Selig. On June 4, the voters of Racine recalled George Petak, the Republican State Senator who cast the deciding vote in favor of financing Selig’s stadium. Petak’s recall, the first in Wisconsin history, flipped control of the Senate to the Democrats, thereby crippling Governor Thompson’s third-term agenda. Supporting Selig had cost the Republicans dearly.
Today’s Stadium Board ultimatum leaves Selig furious, and he decides it’s time to go straight to the team’s fans. And there are a few thousand of them now in County Stadium’s parking lot, crowding around a makeshift platform as a visibly angry Selig walks up to the microphone. He wants them all to know their team may not be playing in their town too much longer.
And he wants to make damn sure they know who’s to blame.
Selig’s lips are trembling as he begins his pitch. “I’ve witnessed the sadness of seeing gates closed,” he says. “Then we brought baseball back to Milwaukee, and I didn’t think we’d ever have to worry about these things again. But we’ve been forced to do things that no other team in any sport has ever done. I find that very troubling.”
Bud’s not a polished speaker, but his passion comes across and the crowd is behind him. These are the fans who arrive hours before a game for tailgate parties, the ones Selig says won’t go to a downtown stadium. These are the die-hards who would truly miss the Brewers if Selig were to actually make good on his threat to leave.
“If there is anybody left in Wisconsin who doesn’t believe that this was political and had nothing to do with economics,” says Selig, his voice rising, “then they haven’t followed the story.”
While Selig’s story in Milwaukee grows bleak, the story of baseball everywhere else is bright—even without a labor deal. The new Fox contract is paying each team $11 million, almost double what they each received a year ago. Fox’s up-tempo style and fresh camera angles bring an air of excitement—and the all-important 18–34 male demographic—to its baseball broadcasts. Nike’s ad campaign is making Ken Griffey Jr. the smiling face of baseball, and attendance is up across the game.
Things are even looking up on the labor front. Hiring Randy Levine back in September was a sign to the union that Selig wanted a deal, not another confrontation. Levine is a dealmaker, not a hard-liner. Selig also persuaded the owners to approve a new revenue sharing plan, one that would send an additional $3.5 million to small market teams like his. And he won approval for interleague play, which will be another boost to revenues when Levine and Don Fehr finally reach an agreement.
All of which makes Selig’s messy stadium battle even more galling. And it’s killing business—in 30 home games, the Brewers have drawn less than 10,000 fans a dozen times. Worse, Thompson has already announced that Selig’s financing problem has pushed back the opening of the stadium to 2000, costing Milwaukee the ’99 All-Star Game and the revenue bump it brings to the host city and team.
The 14,404 fans who bought tickets for tonight’s game had no idea they’d also be watching Selig, who right now is wrapping up his 30-minute appeal as game time nears. All that’s left, Selig says, is to sit down with Thompson next week and try to save baseball in Milwaukee one more time.
“I want to meet with the governor—alone—and determine where this project is,” Selig says.
But he has no intention of waiting quietly. Just a few hours later he slips into the Brewers television booth for an interview, where he tells listeners he has no idea why the politicians are trying to force him out of Milwaukee. The stadium cameraman is ready when Selig leaves the booth. An image of Selig pops onto the scoreboard video screen, just above the bold-lettered tagline: COMMITTED TO KEEPING BASEBALL IN MILWAUKEE. Selig waves as the sparse crowd stands and cheers. He holds his two thumbs up when the fans start chanting “Bud! Bud! Bud!”
Two days later, Selig does a Q&A with the Journal Sentinel, thanking Brewers fans for their support and criticizing his opponents. At midweek, the paper reports that an unnamed baseball owner says Charlotte is MLB’s top choice for the Brewers’ new home if a stadium isn’t approved.
Selig gets his private meeting with Thompson at County Stadium on June 22. It’s the first time the men have spoken in two weeks, which is no accident. Thompson long ago tired of Bud’s act and is appalled that Selig is still complaining even as the governor spends precious political capital to help him. We’ll get the stadium built, Thompson tells Selig, but we’ll need time to work out the details. And it would be great if you could tone down the rhetoric.
But there’s no way Selig is shutting down his PR blitz, not with another event scheduled later that night. This time there are 10,000 fans in the County Stadium parking lot for a rally. And the fans are chanting Selig’s name when it’s Bud’s turn to speak.
“Someday our children and our children’s children are going to be able to watch major league baseball in Wisconsin because of what you did here today,” Selig tells them.
Watching all this play out is Mike Joyce, the longtime director of Milwaukee’s ultraconservative Bradley Foundation. Joyce, a former aide to President Ronald Reagan, has used Bradley’s nearly half-billion-dollar endowment to promote supply-side economics and advance the careers of conservative jurists Robert Bork and Antonin Scalia. He’s currently donating freely to those attacking President Clinton in the Whitewater investigation.
Joyce is also a baseball fan and has an 11-year-old son who lives and dies with the Brewers. On June 25, Joyce meets with Bud and Wendy, spending an hour listening to everything that’s gone wrong. “Thanks for your time,” is all he says as the Seligs leave. A day later, Joyce has an announcement to make.
First he calls Selig and tells him he’s offering a $20 million loan to build a stadium. Next he calls Thompson and tells the governor he’ll grant the loan at almost no interest to “break the political logjam.” Minutes later, he’s sitting in the conference room of his foundation explaining his decision to reporters.
“Forget the politics; forget the players’ strike; forget the whining of the few but loud malcontents,” Joyce says. “Remember this: major league baseball is an authentic, unifying, and eloquent expression of American tradition that is played in our greatest cities.
“We seek no ownership. We do not wish to be an equity partner. We’re doing this for this community.”
Joyce’s announcement does, indeed, break the logjam. And three days later, on June 29, Thompson is standing with Selig to announce they finally have a deal. The state will take on the $20 million loan from the Bradley Foundation and a $1 million loan from Milwaukee’s Helfaer Foundation. Both loans—which have to go through the state to protect the organizations’ tax-exempt status—will be covered by Brewers rent payments.
Norquist pledges a $15 million loan from the city, and a group of local businessmen put up another $14 million in loans. The American League will extend a $10 million line of credit to cover any increased costs. And Selig will use the $41.2 million deal he just signed with the Miller Brewing Company for the stadium naming rights to cover the balance of his $90 million responsibility.
Thompson concedes the state is now on the hook for an additional $21 million should the Brewers default—a position he was unwilling to be put in by the WHEDA loan—but Joyce covers for Thompson. “Don’t put too much emphasis on repayment,” he says. “It’s a charitable investment.” (In fact, the loan will be forgiven after $6 million is repaid.)
“This deal has been a long time in coming,” Thompson says.
And for Selig, it’s been well worth the wait. The team is now taking loans for $29 million instead of $50 million, cutting its borrowing costs almost in half. Bud doesn’t have to sell off a piece of his team to raise money, and the stadium will be built exactly where he wants it.
“On behalf of the Brewers, I thank everybody,” Selig says. “I think Major League Baseball will be pleased with this deal because it allows us to become a viable ball club in this market.”
But not just yet. Four weeks later Brewers fans are hit with bad news. Greg Vaughn, who leads Milwaukee with 31 home runs and 91 RBI, has been traded to San Diego for three young players who’ll never see the inside of Miller Park wearing a Brewers uniform. The 31-year-old Vaughn will be a free agent at season’s end, and the Brewers have decided they don’t have the money to sign the team’s best player.
Looks like the financial wizards at Evensen Dodge weren’t too far off the mark.
Ken Caminiti knows it’s time.
It’s June 24, eight weeks since the Padres’ star third baseman dove for a ball, fell hard on his left shoulder, and tore his rotator cuff. Two cortisone shots in early May haven’t stopped the pain. Nor has the fistful of prescription painkillers he knocks back with a large cup of vodka and a hint of orange juice.
The 33-year-old star hasn’t been able to lift his left arm over his head without intense pain, much less drive the ball the way he did a year ago, when he hit .302, belted 26 homers, and drove in 94 runs, all career highs. He’s already missed 15 games, and he’s been all but invisible in the 38 games he’s played, hitting .204 with just six homers.
Caminiti’s reckless disregard for his body has left him with numerous scars and a reputation for playing through pain during his 10 seasons with the Astros and Padres. But this time the pain is too great, his play too subpar, and the results too clear: the Padres are 23–29 since Caminiti wrecked his shoulder, and their chances of winning the NL West, so bright when the season began, are already beginning to fade.
Yes, Caminiti knows it’s time.
So on this rare day off, Caminiti drives the 20 miles south to Tijuana. He pulls up to the first pharmacy he sees, walks in, and tells the man behind the counter he wants anabolic steroids, a drug both legal and easy to buy once you cross the border. “Testosterona,” the man says. Caminiti nods yes and purchases enough to last him through October.
Caminiti is no stranger to using drugs to dull his pain. He’ll often take two or three times the prescribed dose of painkillers to soothe the aches from his many injuries. Teammates marvel at his ability to empty the hotel minibar, mix alcohol with cocaine, party all night, and be ready to play the next day. Close friends Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio convinced Caminiti to enter a 12-day alcohol rehab program in the 1993 offseason. A sober Caminiti went on to make his first All-Star team the following season. Sadly, he’s back to drinking again.
Caminiti’s never used steroids, but he’s hardly unaware of the impact they’ve had on the game. He’s watched steroid use build for years and reach critical mass this April in a big way. The Mariners hit a record 44 home runs in the first month of the season, the best of five teams that broke the record of 38. The Twins broke another record by scoring 175 runs in their first 25 games, three teams scored 20 or more runs in a single game, and the Expos hit a record six grand slams.
Barry Bonds, Gary Sheffield, and Brady Anderson all tied the major league record with 11 home runs in the season’s first month. Anderson, the Orioles’ 32-year-old leadoff hitter who’s averaged 14 home runs the last three seasons, homered to open four consecutive games, yet another record. Orioles execs used to jokingly blow hard whenever Brady hit a fly ball, trying to “nudge” it over the fence. They rarely have to pucker up this season.
And the home run barrage didn’t slow after April. The White Sox hit seven home runs in two late-May games against the Brewers. The Braves belted six against the Reds on May 31, the same day the Expos’ Henry Rodriguez hit his 20th home run, reaching that number earlier than anyone in National League history.
Sammy Sosa hit three home runs against the Phillies on June 5, the seventh player this season to hit three in one game. The Cubs outfielder was one of three players to hit two home runs in the same inning this season.
Everyone has a theory for the jump in offense, but not everyone is as frank as Royals pitcher Tim Belcher, who told the Los Angeles Times, “Everybody’s blaming the pitchers, but it’s smaller strike zones, smaller parks, and steroids. That’s not a good combination.” Nor as blunt as Pittsburgh manager Jim Leyland. “I’d swear on a stack of Bibles we don’t have steroids on this team,” Leyland said. “But I wouldn’t know about the rest of baseball.”
There are other numbers to consider, too. Despite horrible weather in the East and Midwest, attendance in April was up 7 percent. ESPN’s baseball ratings jumped 19 percent. Sales of licensed merchandise are up 40 percent, and apparel and hat sales are up 86 percent.
All Caminiti cares about is the pain in his shoulder, and he’s hoping the steroids do the trick. In a hurry—and, unlike experienced users, with little idea about cycling on and off the drug—Caminiti begins injecting steroids and doesn’t stop. The results are immediate. He hits safely in the last six games of June, rapping out 12 hits in 25 at bats—a .480 average—with three home runs and 11 RBI.
The steroids not only make Caminiti feel better, they help him add several pounds of muscle on his six-foot, 200-pound frame in a matter of weeks. Sure, he’s worried about how much his testicles have shrunk, but not enough to stop using the drug. Not when the ball is flying off his bat.
And not when the Padres are winning again. Caminiti is nothing short of stellar in July, hitting six home runs with 26 RBI and a .357 average while playing a flawless third base. With their cleanup hitter back and better than ever, the Padres go 15–12, finishing July in first place in the NL West, a half game ahead of the Dodgers.
“He lifts everyone on the team to a higher level,” Padres GM Kevin Towers says. “Teammates see him playing with a torn rotator and other injuries and they give a little more effort.”
Padres fans cannot get enough of their hero, whose toughness is celebrated with the song “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” every time Caminiti walks to the plate. The buff third baseman is videotaped warming up with his shirt off, and the Padres run the clip regularly on the Qualcomm Stadium scoreboard. Fans are turning out in record numbers, putting the Padres on pace to surpass 2 million in attendance for the first time since 1985. And local politicians, who’ve been blocking funds to upgrade Qualcomm, are now talking about building an entirely new stadium.
Caminiti blazes through August, hitting 14 home runs to reach a career-high 31. Pumped up on his testosterona, Caminiti gets stronger in the season’s dog days, hitting .449 over the last 14 games of the month—11 of them Padres wins. National writers are talking about Caminiti as the MVP favorite in profiles, lauding his willingness to play through pain and his dedication to the nutritional supplements he carries around in a little black bag.
No more painkillers. Not as much booze. A bag of pills and powders for the writers to see, a bag of syringes and steroids to use when he’s alone. As baseball enters the stretch run, Caminiti is the leader of a first-place team and the best third baseman in the game.
And he is living a lie.
But then, who in baseball isn’t?