LOS ANGELES (July 25) – One of the books I’m reading while on vacation here in southern California is Peter Golenbock’s biography of George Steinbrenner, the long-time owner of the New York Yankees. Entitled “GEORGE: THE POOR LITTLE RICH BOY WHO BUILT THE YANKEE EMPIRE”, it details Steinbrenner’s tumultuous 35-year reign as boss of the major league’s most decorated franchise. An elemental part of the story is the two-year interval [1977 and 1978] that saw the Yankees win consecutive World Series championships in an environment dubbed the “Bronx Zoo” – apt title of an autobiography, in ’78, by pitcher Sparky Lyle. Though the team won on the field, there was constant turmoil in the Yankees’ dugout and front office, primarily as a result of three egocentric figures: Steinbrenner, manager Billy Martin, and slugger Reggie Jackson.
The numerous references in the book to Martin – whose alcohol addiction led to his tragic death in a single-car mishap in December, 1989 – brought to mind the encounters I’ve had over the years with coaches, managers and players in professional sport. Many of you recall my shouting match with Maple Leafs’ coach Ron Wilson after a game at the Air Canada Centre in March, a mostly unremarkable exchange that happened in front of a bank of TV cameras and was therefore plastered all over the crazed Internet. Previous engagements – some infinitely more volatile than the one with Wilson; others quite pleasant – took place prior to the YouTube generation and were witnessed only by those in attendance.
Given the first one involved none other than Martin, himself, I thought I’d share several with you.
BILLY AND THE SHOWER: My first full-time gig in this business started in May, 1979, as a sports reporter with the Etobicoke Guardian, a community newspaper in the west end of Toronto; it’s the same publication that later spawned a couple of pals who follow the Leafs for the Toronto Sun – Steve Buffery and Rob Longley. The sports editor of the Guardian – he quickly became a life-long best friend – was Joel Colomby, also an employee of the Sun for now almost 30 years.
The Toronto Blue Jays were in their infancy in ’79, playing their third season in the American League, and Joel was able to obtain a media credential. He and I would alternate attending ballgames at old Exhibition Stadium, keeping a sharp eye for any player that may have driven through Etobicoke at some point in his life.
One evening in the 1980 season, the Oakland A’s were in town. For reasons that have long since escaped me, I found it necessary to speak with Martin, who managed the A’s for a brief spell between engagements in New York. Having read about his frequent encounters with Steinbrenner, Jackson and other members of the baseball media, I was fully aware of Martin’s volatile temperament; his Oakland club had lost badly to the inferior Blue Jays that night, which compounded my trepidation as I approached the visiting clubhouse. I had already spent several moments in the Toronto dressing room, so I wondered if Martin would still be available to the media.
When entering the visitors’ lair at Exhibition Stadium, reporters made a sharp left turn and walked to the manager’s office at the far end of the room – past the players – who were usually seated at their lockers, munching on a post-game meal. I’ll never forget the moments of awe as a young reporter when I trekked past the likes of Jackson, Carl Yastrzemski, Jim Palmer, Gaylord Perry, Nolan Ryan, Lou Piniella, Jim (Catfish) Hunter, Luis Tiant, George Brett, and other baseball stars of that era. On this particular night, approaching Billy Martin’s office, my heart sank when I noticed the room was empty; obviously, the Oakland manager had wrapped up his post-game session with the media. Rather naively, I poked my head through the open door and quickly surveyed the scene.
Before I could turn around and leave came the voice of Martin, echoing through a small corridor at the front of the room that led to the manager’s shower and dressing area.
“What can I do for you, young fellow?” Billy asked, having just stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his lower body.
“Oh, nothing at all, Mr. Martin,” I gulped. “Sorry to bother you; I didn’t realize you were finished talking to reporters.”
“Why don’t you go into my office and wait a minute… I’ll be right in,” the manager said.
Aware of Martin’s reputation, I instantly froze, not knowing which way to turn. I recall thinking,”Damn, I could really be in trouble here, with nobody else around. What if he goes off on me for invading his territory after the ballgame like this?” But, I followed Martin’s orders and moved a few feet into the office, nervously waiting in front of his desk.
About 90 seconds later, in walked Billy, looking so familiar with his slick hair combed back. He was smiling broadly and must have noticed my angst, because he said, “Hey, relax, you didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I have lots of time for young people like you who act so politely. Sit down; you have as much time as you need to ask me what’s on your mind.”
If I had died at that moment, my life would have felt complete. You can only imagine what it was like for a virtual rookie in the media business to sit across from Billy Martin – perhaps the most recognizable face in the major leagues at the time – and spend 15 exclusive minutes in his company. I remember shaking hands and profusely thanking him, saying, “I really appreciate you answering these questions and being so friendly to me.”
To which Billy replied, with that mischievous grin of his, “Come back tomorrow and things could be completely different in here.”
I chose not to accept the invitation.
MERCILESS MEX: In the summer of 1988, shortly after joining the radio station [then known as CJCL AM-1430], I was assigned to cover a press conference announcing a golf-skins event at the famed Glen Abbey course in nearby Oakville. It was four years before we became the first station in Canada to adopt an all-sports radio format, and I was new to the job. Featured at the press gathering were two of the competing golfers: PGA legends Curtis Strange and Lee Trevino. Strange was having a splendid year on the men’s tour and, at one point in the Q & A session, I asked him about his excellent string of results. For some reason, this prompted Trevino – a gregarious, excitable sort, always playing to the cameras – to launch into a one-man comedy routine at my expense.
“What do you think of his performance THIS season?” Trevino interrupted, before Strange could reply. “Like Curtis Strange hasn’t accomplished anything in the past? I mean, he’s been around on the tour for at least a couple of years now… shouldn’t you know a bit about him… ha ha ha.” During the diatribe, as other reporters in the room laughed obligingly with Trevino and I sank lower and lower in my seat, Strange made eye contact and gently nodded as if to say, “Let Lee finish his little act and I’ll answer your question.”
Which is exactly what happened. Strange understood I wasn’t suggesting, in any way, that he was enjoying his first taste of success as a pro golfer. He knew I was enquiring about his spectacular results in the previous few weeks and offered a legitimate, heartfelt response in which he thanked me for the compliment.
But, I learned a lesson that day.
I couldn’t live with myself for a few hours after the press conference, knowing I had sat idly while Trevino mopped the floor with me. I went for dinner with my dad and swore I would never let another person take liberties that way. I’ve always found it easy to be self-deprecating, so I have no problem with someone poking fun at me – Brian Burke has done it a few times in press gatherings. But, there’s a huge difference between good-natured ribbing and a mean-spirited assault.
That’s where a reporter must draw the line and I can thankfully say it has never been a problem since that golf gathering more than 20 years ago.
THE MAPLE LEAFS’ HIGHWAY: During the 1998-99 National Hockey League season, Pat Quinn’s first as coach of the Leafs, the club was practicing at St. Michael’s Arena on Bathurst Street. While I was far from alone, I had an extremely volatile relationship with Quinn during his early years in Toronto. He came to the Leafs after being fired in Vancouver with an enormous chip on his shoulder, assuming that every reporter was an enemy… much the way Ron Wilson arrived in our city last autumn. Though Wilson and I had that celebrated run-in, our alliance has never come close to attaining the degree of indignation I experienced with Quinn, and I quickly found myself atop the big Irishman’s list of adversaries.
On this day, Quinn was putting his players through a workout at St. Mike’s, and I suggested to my colleagues that I’d make a particular wise-crack during the coach’s post-practice media scrum. At the beginning of the season, Quinn let it be known that only the Leafs’ broadcasters would be welcomed on the team bus before and after games, and on trips to and from the airport, or out of town [such limitations are common today]. It was a departure, however, from previous years, when Pat Burns, Nick Beverley and Mike Murphy allowed members of the mainstream media to catch a ride with the hockey club. Figuring they had nothing to lose, my reporting “pals” instantly urged me to follow through with my smart-alec query of the Leafs’ coach.
Moments later, Quinn was surrounded by a pack of cameras and microphones outside the arena, in the mid-winter chill. He was routinely answering questions when Paul Hendrick, now a fixture on the Leafs’ weeknight telecasts, kneed me from behind as if to say, “Go ahead… ask.”
The Leafs were playing in Buffalo the following night, and were going to leave for the trek down the QEW as soon as they packed up at St. Mike’s. During a pause in the questioning, I looked at Quinn and said, with a straight face, “Pat, is it okay for media to travel on the same highway as the team bus?” Several guffaws and a moment of awkward silence ensued before Quinn began to seriously answer the question. “Well, of course it’s okay, I have nothing against…” and then he caught himself.
Glaring at me, the coach bellowed, “Howard, what’s the matter, did the lobotomy not work?”
That was the end of the media scrum and it goes without saying my immediate relationship with the big Irishman hardly improved. But, happily, our final four years as GM/coach and reporter were much more pleasant. Quinn, you’ll recall, fell ill during the Leafs’ conference final series with Carolina in 2002. He was diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat and was twice taken to hospital – once in Raleigh and again back home. Later that summer, Pat’s father passed away.
I’ve told this story on radio several times… in training camp before the 2002-03 campaign, the Leafs played an exhibition game at Copps Coliseum in Hamilton. Quinn, as he occasionally did in pre-season, entrusted the bench to his assistant, Rick Ley, and viewed the match from a spot in the press box. During an intermission, I happened to stroll by Quinn’s booth and noticed the coach sitting alone. Pat had dropped a considerable amount of weight after his health scare, and he looked tanned and fit. I went in and extended my hand, offering condolences on the death of his father while complimenting him on his tough physical makeover.
“I’m not proud of our relationship the past four years and maybe we can take this opportunity to wipe the slate clean,” I suggested. Quinn readily accepted the overture and it acted like the wave of a magic wand… we never had an ill word between us during the remainder of his tenure with the Blue & White.
Once, in Nashville for the 2003 NHL draft, Quinn pulled me aside in a hotel lobby and questioned something I had written for the National Post. In prior years, he’d have chewed me out and stomped away in a huff. Now, he calmly wondered about the passage and listened as I explained my side. “Okay, no problem,” he said, patting me on the shoulder before returning to a meeting of general managers.
To this day, Quinn and I have a friendly, somewhat nostalgic alliance and I was very pleased when his wish of coaching again in the NHL came true with the Edmonton Oilers.
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