Seated behind home plate at Diamond City, Haywood Sullivan and A’s owner Charlie Finley watched the Barons take batting practice. For a major-league owner to drive all the way across the state to observe his minor-league charges was unusual. Then again, Finley was all about the unusual—fancy new uniforms, a mascot mule named Charlie O, orange baseballs, pretty ball-girls, strange trades, firing managers, cussing out the league president.
Stepping into the batting cage, shortstop Bert Campaneris, the slender twenty-year-old who’d fled Fidel Castro’s Cuba, lined the first two pitches to left, and then on his third swing crushed a towering drive over the left-center-field fence, the ball clearing the 370 mark by a mile.
“Who is this little guy?” asked Finley.
Sullivan explained that not only did Campaneris have great power for such a skinny kid, but he also had a rifle for an arm and was the fastest guy in the camp.
“The only thing that could hold him back is his temper,” said Sullivan. “It got him suspended last year in A ball.”
“You’re the perfect guy to calm him down,” said Finley.
Finley had a special interest in the Barons. He’d grown up in Birmingham and still had lots of friends in the area. The violence that had rocked his hometown over the past couple of years, and its long history of racism, and all of the ugly national media coverage it generated, embarrassed him. When the Barons’ local owner, Albert Belcher, approached him at the winter meetings to discuss the idea of bringing professional baseball back to Birmingham, Finley, who’d made his fortune in insurance, jumped at the chance. One of his first moves was to hire Sullivan as the Barons’ manager.
Minor-league managers, like players, usually start their careers in A ball, and then work their way up through the organization—AA, AAA, and then, if they’re lucky, The Show. That’s why eyebrows were raised when Finley hired Sullivan and then promptly leapfrogged him over several more experienced managers into the AA job at Birmingham.
It was no secret that Sullivan was a favorite son with Finley (although with seven children of his own, Finley didn’t really need a son). “The first time I addressed the team in Kansas City, Haywood stood out,” he told reporters. “He understands the game.”
The pundits speculated that Birmingham would be only a stepping-stone for Sullivan, and that Finley was grooming him to take the reins of the big-league team. It was also no secret that the A’s current manager, Ed Lopat, the ex–Yankee pitcher, was on borrowed time after the team’s last-place finish in 1963. Patience wasn’t Finley’s strong suit. In his four years of owning the A’s, he’d already fired three managers—Bob Elliott, Hank Bauer, and Joe Gordon.
Because of his connection to Birmingham, Finley had promised to do whatever he could to make the Barons a winning team. He believed it would help rebuild the city’s tarnished image and provide a diversion for the summer of ’64, which had the potential to be a powder keg again. A backlash was brewing among white Alabamians angry over a court order to begin desegregating schools, and fearful of the passage of a civil rights bill in Congress.
“Sully, what can I do to help you?” Finley asked.
His apparent willingness to supply Birmingham with a winning team was unusual in a minor-league/big-league relationship. The primary purpose of any minor-league team is to develop players for potential ascension to the majors. Winning a Southern League title, as nice as it would be, was supposed to take a backseat to nurturing talent.
An obvious answer for Sullivan would be for Finley not to raid his team and call up players. Nothing can kill a minor-league team’s pennant hopes faster than losing a couple of its best players in the heat of a title chase. But of course, Sullivan wasn’t going to tell his boss how to run his organization.
After three weeks of spring training, Sullivan believed Baron pitching would be strong, but he worried about the team’s offense, especially its lack of a long-ball threat.
Finley mentioned Tommie Reynolds, explaining that Lopat was taking him north for the start of the season, but as soon as Colavito ended his holdout, Reynolds was the likely choice to be sent down.
“If he is,” said Finley, “I’ll make sure he’s sent to Birmingham rather than Dallas. He’s exactly the kind of Negro that would be good for this team. Very mature, very serious.”
Finley then rattled off the names of four amateur players the A’s had their eyes on—Rick Reichardt, an outfielder from the University of Wisconsin; Willie Crawford, a high school outfielder from Los Angeles; Jim “Catfish” Hunter, a high school pitcher from North Carolina; and John Blue Moon Odom of Georgia.
“According to our scouts, all of them are certain big leaguers,” said Finley. “I won’t hesitate to send any of them to you. Wouldn’t it be great to have a Catfish and a Blue Moon pitching in Birmingham?”
With his squealing six-year-old son, Marc, riding atop his broad shoulders, Sullivan trotted out onto the ball field before any of the players or other coaches had arrived. It was a Saturday morning, and his wife, Pat, had driven up from Lake Worth with their three kids to spend the weekend. She was back at the motel with their two-year-old twins, Kyle and Sharon.
In many ways, Haywood and Pat Sullivan were polar opposites. Growing up in Dothan, he never had much. His mom and dad, Ralph and Ruby Lee Sullivan, had lived hardscrabble lives in Donalsville, Georgia, trying to scratch out a living as peanut farmers before moving to Dothan with Haywood and his younger brother and sister during the Depression. Ralph and Ruby Lee found work at Blumberg’s department store, Ruby Lee as a seamstress and clerk, Ralph as a maintenance man. They lived in a simple two-bedroom home. What it lacked in comforts was offset by a family togetherness—eating supper, reading at night, church on Sundays. There was also plenty of discipline. When Haywood misbehaved, which wasn’t often, he’d have to go out to the willow tree in the backyard and retrieve a switch to get smacked with. The first thing he did after signing his $45,000 bonus contract with the Red Sox was to buy his parents a new house in a nicer neighborhood.
Pat, on the other hand, grew up in a nice house in West Palm, comfortably middle class. She was beautiful and fun to be around. Like Haywood, she attended the University of Florida, and when they started dating, they were the glamour couple on campus—the beautiful coed and the handsome quarterback. Unlike Haywood, however, she wasn’t diligent with her studies and failed to keep up her grades. She moved back to her parents’ big house in Lake Worth. That’s when Haywood declared he wanted to marry her, but not until he finished college.
And they did get married. Dutifully, she followed him to all his many baseball stops along the way—Louisville, Minneapolis, Miami, San Francisco, Boston, Kansas City, Portland—and at the end of each season, or sometimes before, she’d pack up the kitchenware and the diapers and off they’d go. Now her plan was to stay in Lake Worth until school was out in June, and then come to Birmingham with the kids for the rest of the summer.
Sullivan flashed the steal sign to Campaneris on first, with Hoss at the plate. In the first three weeks of exhibition games, Sullivan loved the way that the two worked together, defensively and offensively, even though they didn’t speak the same language.
As Campy took off running with the pitch, Hoss saw out the corner of his eye that he’d slipped and gotten a terrible jump and would be thrown out by an Arkansas mile. Instinctively, he flicked his bat at the outside pitch and fouled it off, preventing Campy from getting thrown out.
Sullivan flashed the steal sign again.
With Campy taking a big lead, the pitcher whirled and threw to first, Campy diving back to the bag.
“Out!” shouted the umpire.
Furious, Campy dusted himself off, and then as he marched back to the dugout, he threw his helmet in disgust, low-bridging Lindblad seated on the top dugout step.
Sullivan’s eyes followed Campy into the dugout. He was keenly aware of Campy’s temper. In Campy’s first season as a player for Daytona Beach in the Florida State League, he’d been repeatedly warned—by umpires, teammates, opponents, and his manager, Bill Robertson—about throwing helmets and bats. After one particularly egregious bat-throwing incident, he was suspended for a game and came close to getting released. Sullivan contemplated his response.
Since being hired to lead the Barons, Sullivan had thought about the style of manager he wanted to be. One option was to be a “players’ manager.” But what the hell did that mean? Was he supposed to be buddy-buddy with his players? No, that was a recipe for disaster.
Or would he be a manager who treated his players like men? Yes, of course… what kind of manager would treat his players as if they were in junior high? But he knew he needed to establish that he was the boss, with a firm and clear set of rules. Discipline was critical. Players needed to know his limits and what he expected. But he didn’t want to be a manager who preached or gave long pep talks and lectures. His response to Campy could go a long way in setting the parameters, not only to Campy but to the whole team, black and white. If he let him get away with throwing a helmet, it could set a tone; he could be perceived as weak, afraid to stand up to a star player.
As Sullivan headed back to the dugout, he veered his course to intercept Campy heading out to his shortstop position. The situation, he knew, was loaded with problems.
One was language. Would Campy even understand what he was trying to say?
Another was culture. Would Campy think he was being picked on because of the stereotype in baseball that Latin players were hotheaded?
A third possible problem was the embarrassment factor. No player wanted to be dressed down in front of his teammates or the crowd, especially not one as competitive and fiercely proud as Campy.
And finally, there was the consideration that how Sullivan handled this situation would send a big message to the other players. If he did nothing, he’d lose respect, especially with the white players. If he came on too strong and got in Campy’s face, he’d be viewed as too hard-ass.
Stopping Campy next to the baseline, he motioned for first baseman Santiago Rosario, a Puerto Rican, to join them. Rosario spoke English, and often served as a translator for Campy in the clubhouse.
Sullivan towered over Campy. Maintaining a respectful distance, he spoke, his voice calm but firm, and with no wild hand gestures.
“If you throw helmets and bats,” he said, “you won’t be playing for me.”
Rosario relayed the message.
“Comprende?” asked Sullivan.
Campy nodded. In the Barons’ dugout, the players took notice.