October 1964 Read Online Free

of the Bulge, and ended the war as a major. Some of the older writers still called him “Major” (which irritated the younger, more iconoclastic writers to no small degree). He possessed an intuitive sense of how to get the most out of his players, whether they were stars or journeymen, and he was very good at walking the delicate line between being their pal and knowing exactly when to draw the line. He gave the players a perfect example of that in the 1963 season when the Yankees went into Boston for a two-admission day-night doubleheader. As the Yankees arrived, one of the Boston papers printed an interview with Mantle in which the star discussed how much he loved to play for Houk and how if Houk asked him to go through a brick wall, he would ask only where the wall was. On the day of the doubleheader, the two teams were barely able to finish the first game, for it began to rain heavily during the late innings. As they waited for the rain to stop and the second game to start, the players became restless and bored, anxious to get on with it one way or another—either to go back to the hotel or to play. In the dugout, Mantle was passing the time by telling country-boy stories, including one about carnal relations with farm animals. When Houk walked by, Mantle asked, “Hey, Ralph, you ever done it with a sheep?” The atmosphere suddenly became tense and the other players realized that Mantle had crossed a line; Houk, good guy, abiding friend and pardner of the players, was not to be asked ribald questions, not by anyone, not even a star. His authority as manager was suddenly at stake. Houk called Mantle over, and then, as if he were speaking privately to him, but at the same time in a voice that everyone could hear, he thanked Mantle for the generous things he had said about him in the Boston paper. “Those are really kind words, Mickey, and I want to tell you they mean a lot to a manager.” “That’s okay Ralph, I meant every word,” Mantle answered. Then Houk continued, “Mickey, can you play in the second game if I need you?” Mantle shrugged and asked Houk to look at the field, where the rain was still pouring down. “Yeah, I know, Mickey, but with the field in that crappy condition I figure I may need you, because I’m thinking I don’t want to take a chance on getting any of my regulars hurt.” It was a masterful response, thought the players: Houk had held on to his authority and defused the situation, had even turned it to his advantage by using Mantle as his straight man, and yet in no way had he wounded the ego of the team’s best and most beloved player.
    Houk constantly told each player how good he was, how critical he was to the team’s success, no matter how small his role. Every player talked to Ralph Houk and managed to hear what he had wanted to hear. If he did not seem to be entirely on their side in their negotiations with management for larger salaries, then at least he did not seem to be against them in such negotiations either—that is, until Houk was made general manager in time for the 1964 season. Suddenly the nature of his job changed dramatically. In an organization famed for its reluctance to pay top salaries and in which World Series checks were traditionally counted by management as part of a player’s salary instead of as a bonus, Houk went overnight from player’s man to company man. Some of the players suspected that he did it too readily and too completely, and that, like his predecessor George Weiss, he received a bonus based on how much he held down the team payroll. The previous fall, after the Dodgers swept the Yankees in the World Series, Steve Hamilton, a young relief pitcher who had had a good year, asked Houk for a raise. He found a very different Houk than the one who had just managed the team and who had always told Hamilton how important he was to the team’s success. “You know, Hammy, I’d love to give you a better contract, but I can’t. The Series, you