Call It What It Is

One of the things I always liked about the sports world was that a player, a coach, or a manager always had several numbers attached to his or her name. Those numbers usually determined his value to the team and often his future with the team. In the case of baseball there are batting averages, runs batted in, home runs, errors, and more. A pitcher has the all-important earned run average, among other statistics such as the number of games won or lost in a season and the record of how he’s done against every batter over the course of a career. The manager of the team is judged by the standing of his team at the end of the season and often by some of the decisions made during the season. When it came time for a player, a coach, or a manager to have his services terminated, or for a player to be traded or cut from the team, there was no question about why it was being done. And it was called what it was—a firing. 

Not so in the business world where I spent Act One of my career. People were always being fired. But if it was someone at the top, it was never called that. He was given a “face save” or a “fig leaf” to cover the fact that he was being forced out. The man being fired (and they were always men in those days) was usually given the chance to resign. He might cite health reasons or say he wanted to spend more time with his family or some other lie. Sometimes he was “kicked upstairs”: If he was president of the company, he was made chairman of the board or vice chairman with no executive powers. He was given an office on another floor that was known as “death row” and allowed to keep his secretary, telephone, and club memberships. Often he was paid for the full term of his contract and even carried on the payroll until his “normal” retirement date years away. I saw a lot of this and even participated in handling a couple of them with the fired executive. They were always bitter and felt wronged despite the fact that they were given money and a face saver. Management also got to save face and avoid having to explain the reasons for the dismissal.

So, down through the years I really liked the honesty of the sports world. However, even that is changing these days.

In Boston we recently had the case of Terry “Tito” Francona, the manager of the Boston Red Sox. Even people who are not baseball fans knew that over the course of September the Red Sox had a “meltdown,” blew a large lead in their division which would have guaranteed them a playoff spot—and were eliminated on the last day of their regular season. A couple of days later, on September 30, Francona held an early evening press conference and announced that he was leaving the team after talking with the ownership that morning, saying, “. . . I felt like it was time for a new voice here. . . .” He repeated the “new voice” phrase several times. Then, at one point toward the end of a very long press conference, which must have been stressful and which he handled with clarity, patience, and sometimes even humor, Tito said, “To be honest with you, I don’t know, or I am not sure how much support there was from ownership. I don’t know that I felt real comfortable. You’ve got to be all-in in this job.” That comment clearly was not in the script, and a short time later the Red Sox front office held its own press conference and said nice things about Tito and his contribution to the team over the eight years he had been in the job. That record is indeed impressive with two world Championships—the one in 2004 was the first time in 86 years. The second came in 2007. But when asked about Tito’s comment about support from ownership, Red Sox president Larry Lucchino said, “I was actually puzzled by that comment.” 

A lot of the fans I heard on sports talk radio felt that Francona was a “scapegoat”; that the ownership “meddled” in baseball decisions and had no right to. Some insiders that talk show hosts called said that the principal owner, John Henry, was unhappy with Francona for the past couple of years because Tito refused to pay more attention to managing the team by a numbers approach Henry has been fascinated with for several years. The theory is that John Henry used the September meltdown as an excuse to get rid of Francona. 

That could be right either in whole or in part. John Henry is accustomed to winning. He wanted his team to win, and they didn’t. He wanted a manager who paid more attention to numbers. John Henry is a businessman; the Red Sox organization is a business. When the team wins, it is good for business; when they lose, it is bad for business. The fans who are critical of letting Francona go must remember that Henry is the owner; he has invested a lot of money in the team itself; the players; and the ballpark. John Henry has a right to be heard and listened to. He has the right to have the kind of a manager who can bring him more wins, more pennants, and more World Series titles. The Red Sox are his team.

Henry was able to afford to buy the principal interest in the team because he has made a lot of money over the last three or four decades. I am no authority on how he made the money, but I do know it had to do primarily with commodity markets and his knowledge of how to play and win in those markets. If there is any business that is all about “numbers,” it is the commodity markets. Some people have used the word “genius” to describe Henry’s skill at making money in those markets. When he came to the Red Sox, he took some risks and began to diversify the organization into other areas, from English soccer to race cars. In 2003 he hired a man named Bill James, who is senior adviser/baseball operations for the Red Sox. Bill James is a sixty-something baseball writer, historian, and statistician. The Red Sox hired him not for his skills as a writer and historian but rather for his knowledge of baseball statistics and his theories. James scientifically analyzes and studies baseball statistical data in an attempt to determine why teams win and lose. For a better understanding of how this works, read Moneyball, the bestseller by Michael Lewis, or go see the film based on the book, now in theaters. It is the story of Billy Beane, GM of the Oakland Athletics, who began applying some of these same statistical principles to running his low-budget, low-placed team in the late 1990s and was rewarded with astonishing results.  Incidentally, the word is that John Henry tried to hire Billy Beane in 2003 or 2004 to be the Red Sox GM, so that says something about Mr. Henry’s regard for the scientific numbers approach. But he is also smart enough to know that baseball, like business, is not just about numbers.

It is probably a safe bet that when Henry was running his commodity business with legendary results, he had a “theory” and it certainly involved numbers. If he wants to run his Red Sox business the same way, that is his business. If he wants to have a voice in how the baseball operations are run, again that is his business, and he has every right to do so without being accused of “meddling.”  A lot of people are saying things like that and worse. They are saying that the ownership should have nothing to do with the baseball operations. That argument reminds me that for decades the owners of some of our major newspapers and magazines have told their critics that they have nothing to do with the editorial policy or content or the hiring or firing of the people responsible for those areas. That is, in my opinion, nonsense. Why would anyone want to own a newspaper, magazine, television network, or baseball team if he or she could not have some voice in how things are run, which ultimately affects the profit or loss of his investment. 

Mr. Henry and his partners have every right to do what they did about Terry Francona and anything or anyone else concerning the Red Sox. I only wish they had called it what it was—a firing. To have done that would have enhanced management and ownership’s credibility. Notice I said “enhanced,” because the front office already enjoys a lot of credibility with the fans, the sports press, and I believe with the Red Sox players. I feel it was a mistake to call it Francona’s decision. I also have a feeling that Terry Francona would have been happier to say, “The ownership does not want me around next year,” instead of what he said.