Trading Rumors

Lots of hot stove rumors floating around. With the GM meetings just completed last week and only one deal coming out of them, I thought this would be a good post to talk about something other than my contract (everybody's talking, no punches thrown so far). Today, I want to let you in on what it's like to be traded. I'll do it from a few perspectives - Player, Wife and Kid.

PLAYER
I've been traded once and "on the block" too many times to count (eleven). I know guys who have been traded totally out of the blue. Martin "Bruiser" Stanley told me once that every team he's played for (six) he thought he'd end his career with. Since he was just traded from us two days ago (the one deal I alluded to earlier), I asked him if he was surprised this time. He said no. The team was $9 million over budget. He'll earn $9 million this year. He was a goner. Then he hung up on me.

WIFE
Bruiser's wife, Janice, who's also not currently speaking with me, once commented that she'd had to move 47 times in 14 years of marriage. That includes minor leagues, spring training, big leagues... I know she's tired of it.

When I was traded from Chicago to New York in mid-'94, that was our fifteenth move since getting married at the ripe old age of 20 in 1988. I've been fortunate to have been able to stay in one place ever since, but I know a trade, while part of the business, can wreak havoc on a marriage. Many wives have problems making new friends or getting jobs of their own because of the instability of a player's life. That's why I've never revoked my no-trade clause. I love New York, but most important, this is my family's home. Which brings me to...

KIDS
Julia and Grace were only 2 when we were traded here. Too young to consciously understand much of anything (potty training, Vanessa recalls, took 5 years), they don't remember the move from Chicago. They do remember the possible trade to Detroit three years ago and how they told me that if I accepted they'd disown me. Twelve year old girl-twins are not to be reckoned with, especially when they take after their mother, who, in this case, is my wife. Detroit stayed in Michigan and we stayed in New York (actually a suburb in NJ).

Long ago, I was but a child. Born to a father who himself was a big league pitcher, my mother and I suffered through an intolerable number of moves. He was one of those guys who was cut or traded every year. In '76 he was traded twice in one day. My mother likes to tell friends the true story of how she broke our apartment lease in Milwaukee, verbally committed to one in St. Louis, then turned around, broke that and still found us a place in Atlanta, all in the space of about three hours. My dad responds, if he's within earshot (Dad likes to have the last word. You should listen to him call a game.), that his wife did what she had to do. It's not like she was a superhero or anything. She knew what she was getting into. I admire her for it just the same.

As I got older, I realized there was something about my right arm that let me throw a baseball really fast and wiggly. But the moving from place to place didn't stop. Dad, or "Red" as he tells me and anyone within earshot to call him, became a broadcaster; first radio then TV. The number of people within earshot of his now famous "It's a can of corn" proclamations grew exponentially as his jobs moved to larger and larger cities. He didn't realize I needed stability. I was in high school. Scouts couldn't see me if they couldn't find me.

We argued constantly. He has a booming voice, strong vocabulary and, like I mentioned earlier, always gets in the last word, so he won most arguments. Eventually, we stopped talking altogether, ironic for a man who now made a living using his vocal cords.

Fast forward to today. We get along because we have to. We're only-father and baseball-son. Mom's coming over for Thanksgiving and Dad'll be there too, I guess, getting up three or four times during the meal to blow his nose, go to the bathroom, or write some new idea of his down. 1976 was 31 years ago, but I still think three teams in three hours was the greatest day of his life.

Baseball is a game, but it's a job too. Being traded to another city is like switching jobs or being transferred somewhere else. Some guys quit after a while, other thrive on it. Their families? Innocent bystanders at a drive-by shooting, dodging the bullets and sometimes getting hit.

"Red," who's now 65 and nearing the end of his second career, is still moving. Today he got his new assignment - a two-year contract doing TV here in New York. Broadcasting my games. You know how he told me? "Guess who has a longer term deal in New York than you, buddy boy?" I didn't have to answer. I slammed down the phone and called my former agent, Tiger Woods' Caddy. I suddenly knew how to resolve this $9 million contractual problem.

"Tell them to keep their money. Get me a three year deal to do their games on TV the moment I retire." I almost hung up. "Oh," I added. "Tell them I like to work alone."