All of us at Da Box would like to thank Rob Bradford for his great answers in our interview that we published on Friday. Rob and his publisher, Brassey's, were kind enough to allow us to run this excerpt from Chasing Steinbrenner, which will hit bookstores early in June. It's available for pre-order now (click the link above) from Amazon.
Enjoy!
“There is no security on this earth, there is only opportunity.” -- General Douglas MacArthur.
To understand the process Ricciardi goes through over the course of one of his 162, nine-innings sessions, witnessing the Toronto Blue Jays final out in the month of May would be a good start.
"Turn him over. Turn him over," were the words J.P. planted in the ear of relief pitcher Cliff Politte as the closer prepared to face Boston's Jason Varitek. The G.M. may have been a football field away, entrenched in the Blue Jays' in-game bunker known as the general manager's box, but he knew Politte, he knew Varitek, and he knew what was supposed to happen — a ground ball to second base.
As had been the case for most of May, when J.P. asked, J.P. received. This time the gift came in the form of a scorecard that read: Varitek, 4-3. Toronto 10, Boston 7.
"Yes!" Ricciardi yelled, pounding his fist on the same spot on the counter in front of him that had weathered numerous blows of frustration throughout the same game. In a few hours the game might have lived up to the axiom that it was simply just one of 162. But as long as there were players on the field and people in 'The Box', then this was one of one.
Ricciardi was not alone in his celebration. Four stools to his left was Toronto's head of security Ron Sandelli, whose fist pound and coinciding, "Yes!" would have measured up to that of his boss' exultation if not for the laptop computer resting precariously in front of his imposing 60-year-old frame.
Sandelli, a former member of the Toronto police department, clearly loved the competitive spirit that permeated the box. Born and bred in home of the Blue Jays, he had been entrenched in the city's police department for more than 30 years before convincing Paul Godfrey that he was the right man for a position that never even existed.
Also jumping up from the front row of the box was assistant general manager Tim McCleary and farm director Dick Scott, whose verbal approval might not have registered like Ricciardi and Sandelli's, but whose smiles matched anyone in SkyDome.
As handshakes were exchanged among the four men like glasses being toasted at a graduation dinner, Ricciardi breathed the breath of someone who had gone the full 12 rounds, and then some. Whoever says that baseball is a boring game never watched the Toronto G.M. take in nine innings.
When a play is made in a Toronto Blue Jays' game, any play in any game, there is going to be analysis and reaction (not necessarily in that order) coming from the second row of the luxury box directly to the left of SkyDome's press box.
Tom Clark, a scout Ricciardi got into the Oakland organization, will never forget his introduction into J.P.'s in-game metamorphosis.
A transplant from Wisconsin, Clark secured a job as the junior varsity coach for the Holy Name High School basketball program. His mile-a-minute, high-energy approach to life immediately merged with the every-day energy of the school's varsity coach, Ricciardi. Discussions were plentiful; arguments were not, except when it came to Clark's infatuation with the philosophy of former University of North Carolina coach Dean Smith. J.P. wasn't a Dean disciple. Rick Pitino was his guy.
Clark fancied himself an intense coach, junior varsity level or not. It was his job to get the kids ready for J.P., and that included the apathy-free atmosphere that waited for them at the varsity level. What Tom didn't realize was that he was coming up short, maybe not in teaching the program's preferred man-to-man defense, but definitely in regard to the exultation that roamed the sidelines.
Before one mid-season showdown Ricciardi asked Clark to decompress from his J.V. game quickly enough to assist the varsity staff. Tom had no choice but to forget the result of his game once the Holy Name's first team tipped off; J.P. made sure of that. There was stomping and fist pounding and cursing and just about everything else Clark hadn't previously seen from Ricciardi. And then came halftime.
The yelling continued, albeit at a much more intense and higher level than what was echoed in front of a friends and family-filled gymnasium. "This is ridiculous!"
And with that Clark thought Ricciardi had put the exclamation mark on his mid-game tirade. That was until J.P. paused, turned away from his players and proceeded to put his fist through the propped-up chalkboard.
That was then, this was now, and there wasn't much of a difference.
Gone were the 40-minutes of trying to control the action of five separate on-court entities. In their place were nine innings of much less-controlled pitching, hitting and running. But while the sports may have changed, the in-game wave of intensity hadn't gone anywhere.
As regular as the celebratory scene had been throughout the month of May, its emphasis was undoubtedly a bit more punctuated with the month's final victory. First, it was a win. Second, it came against American League East rival Boston. Third, it moved Toronto to within two games of the first-place New York Yankees just 30 days after trailing the league's richest team by 11 1/2 games.
Then there was the record.
"We've got the record!" yelled Ricciardi in mid-handshake with McCleary. In the tidal wave of good fortune, J.P. had forgotten that the victory was the Blue Jays' 21st in the month of May. It was more wins than any Toronto team had accumulated in any month in any of the franchise's previous seasons.
Even though Ricciardi didn’t need a second wind, the news of the record gave him just that. It also prompted the G.M. to do the kind of thing almost every baseball fan would certainly love to do, yet almost any other general manager might hesitate in executing.
Ricciardi broke free of the four-man celebration, glided down three steps, hung out the window with his arms spread wide and echoed the voice of every Red Sox fan.
"You're ruining our summah!" J.P. addressed the seats below.
To whatever Toronto fans were left in the stands, the exclamation wouldn't have made much sense. But to the group of Ricciardi's relatives who had made the nine-hour trip from Worcester, it was the beginning of a Red Sox fan’s summertime ritual. In an odd twist of fate, the general manager of the Toronto Blue Jays had officially opened the door for Boston fans everywhere to use the phrase that traditionally became The Nation’s mantra once the temperature rose above 60 degrees.
Later that night, Ricciardi met up with just a smattering of his never-ending list of relatives. Standing just feet from windows that overlooked SkyDome's field in the midst of the complex's hotel bar, J.P. laid it on his relatives again. "They're ruining our summah!"
Everyone laughed. They were having a great time, despite the fact that Ricciardi had mandated that they all had to pry off their Red Sox apparel and replace it with Blue Jays hats and t-shirts. But then, out of the crowd, came one serious-looking member of the party. He walked right up to J.P. and with an unmistakable matter-of-fact tone pointed to his host and responded, "No, you're ruining our summer!"
He was right. J.P. and his Blue Jays were ruining the early moments of his relatives' summer, and the Toronto general manager was loving every minute of it.
Thanks to Rob and to Brassey's for this excerpt from Chasing Steinbrenner. The book will be in stores in early June.
Enjoy!
“There is no security on this earth, there is only opportunity.” -- General Douglas MacArthur.
To understand the process Ricciardi goes through over the course of one of his 162, nine-innings sessions, witnessing the Toronto Blue Jays final out in the month of May would be a good start.
"Turn him over. Turn him over," were the words J.P. planted in the ear of relief pitcher Cliff Politte as the closer prepared to face Boston's Jason Varitek. The G.M. may have been a football field away, entrenched in the Blue Jays' in-game bunker known as the general manager's box, but he knew Politte, he knew Varitek, and he knew what was supposed to happen — a ground ball to second base.
As had been the case for most of May, when J.P. asked, J.P. received. This time the gift came in the form of a scorecard that read: Varitek, 4-3. Toronto 10, Boston 7.
"Yes!" Ricciardi yelled, pounding his fist on the same spot on the counter in front of him that had weathered numerous blows of frustration throughout the same game. In a few hours the game might have lived up to the axiom that it was simply just one of 162. But as long as there were players on the field and people in 'The Box', then this was one of one.
Ricciardi was not alone in his celebration. Four stools to his left was Toronto's head of security Ron Sandelli, whose fist pound and coinciding, "Yes!" would have measured up to that of his boss' exultation if not for the laptop computer resting precariously in front of his imposing 60-year-old frame.
Sandelli, a former member of the Toronto police department, clearly loved the competitive spirit that permeated the box. Born and bred in home of the Blue Jays, he had been entrenched in the city's police department for more than 30 years before convincing Paul Godfrey that he was the right man for a position that never even existed.
Also jumping up from the front row of the box was assistant general manager Tim McCleary and farm director Dick Scott, whose verbal approval might not have registered like Ricciardi and Sandelli's, but whose smiles matched anyone in SkyDome.
As handshakes were exchanged among the four men like glasses being toasted at a graduation dinner, Ricciardi breathed the breath of someone who had gone the full 12 rounds, and then some. Whoever says that baseball is a boring game never watched the Toronto G.M. take in nine innings.
When a play is made in a Toronto Blue Jays' game, any play in any game, there is going to be analysis and reaction (not necessarily in that order) coming from the second row of the luxury box directly to the left of SkyDome's press box.
Tom Clark, a scout Ricciardi got into the Oakland organization, will never forget his introduction into J.P.'s in-game metamorphosis.
A transplant from Wisconsin, Clark secured a job as the junior varsity coach for the Holy Name High School basketball program. His mile-a-minute, high-energy approach to life immediately merged with the every-day energy of the school's varsity coach, Ricciardi. Discussions were plentiful; arguments were not, except when it came to Clark's infatuation with the philosophy of former University of North Carolina coach Dean Smith. J.P. wasn't a Dean disciple. Rick Pitino was his guy.
Clark fancied himself an intense coach, junior varsity level or not. It was his job to get the kids ready for J.P., and that included the apathy-free atmosphere that waited for them at the varsity level. What Tom didn't realize was that he was coming up short, maybe not in teaching the program's preferred man-to-man defense, but definitely in regard to the exultation that roamed the sidelines.
Before one mid-season showdown Ricciardi asked Clark to decompress from his J.V. game quickly enough to assist the varsity staff. Tom had no choice but to forget the result of his game once the Holy Name's first team tipped off; J.P. made sure of that. There was stomping and fist pounding and cursing and just about everything else Clark hadn't previously seen from Ricciardi. And then came halftime.
The yelling continued, albeit at a much more intense and higher level than what was echoed in front of a friends and family-filled gymnasium. "This is ridiculous!"
And with that Clark thought Ricciardi had put the exclamation mark on his mid-game tirade. That was until J.P. paused, turned away from his players and proceeded to put his fist through the propped-up chalkboard.
That was then, this was now, and there wasn't much of a difference.
Gone were the 40-minutes of trying to control the action of five separate on-court entities. In their place were nine innings of much less-controlled pitching, hitting and running. But while the sports may have changed, the in-game wave of intensity hadn't gone anywhere.
As regular as the celebratory scene had been throughout the month of May, its emphasis was undoubtedly a bit more punctuated with the month's final victory. First, it was a win. Second, it came against American League East rival Boston. Third, it moved Toronto to within two games of the first-place New York Yankees just 30 days after trailing the league's richest team by 11 1/2 games.
Then there was the record.
"We've got the record!" yelled Ricciardi in mid-handshake with McCleary. In the tidal wave of good fortune, J.P. had forgotten that the victory was the Blue Jays' 21st in the month of May. It was more wins than any Toronto team had accumulated in any month in any of the franchise's previous seasons.
Even though Ricciardi didn’t need a second wind, the news of the record gave him just that. It also prompted the G.M. to do the kind of thing almost every baseball fan would certainly love to do, yet almost any other general manager might hesitate in executing.
Ricciardi broke free of the four-man celebration, glided down three steps, hung out the window with his arms spread wide and echoed the voice of every Red Sox fan.
"You're ruining our summah!" J.P. addressed the seats below.
To whatever Toronto fans were left in the stands, the exclamation wouldn't have made much sense. But to the group of Ricciardi's relatives who had made the nine-hour trip from Worcester, it was the beginning of a Red Sox fan’s summertime ritual. In an odd twist of fate, the general manager of the Toronto Blue Jays had officially opened the door for Boston fans everywhere to use the phrase that traditionally became The Nation’s mantra once the temperature rose above 60 degrees.
Later that night, Ricciardi met up with just a smattering of his never-ending list of relatives. Standing just feet from windows that overlooked SkyDome's field in the midst of the complex's hotel bar, J.P. laid it on his relatives again. "They're ruining our summah!"
Everyone laughed. They were having a great time, despite the fact that Ricciardi had mandated that they all had to pry off their Red Sox apparel and replace it with Blue Jays hats and t-shirts. But then, out of the crowd, came one serious-looking member of the party. He walked right up to J.P. and with an unmistakable matter-of-fact tone pointed to his host and responded, "No, you're ruining our summer!"
He was right. J.P. and his Blue Jays were ruining the early moments of his relatives' summer, and the Toronto general manager was loving every minute of it.
Thanks to Rob and to Brassey's for this excerpt from Chasing Steinbrenner. The book will be in stores in early June.
