Money Makes The Player Go

Tommy Davis had just won the National League batting championship, and the next day I told my secretary, Edna Ward, to fix me up a phony contract calling for $9,000 for Tommy Davis. I told Edna, "Now, when that stubborn kid comes into my office today, wait about 10 minutes and then call me outside so I can leave him in there alone." I carefully put the Davis "contract" on my desk where it could be seen, and I marked its exact position. The kid came in, and he and I talked for a while, and then Edna came in and said, " Mr. O'Malley wants to see you for a minute."

"Oh, excuse me," I said and stepped out. I gave it about five minutes; then I coughed loudly and walked back into my office. Sure enough, the fake contract had been moved. And all of a sudden the kid is saying, "All right, Buzzie, maybe I'm being unreasonable." He said he would sign for $12,000. I wound up giving him $18,000.

I've pulled that phony-contract stunt a dozen times, and I'll do it every chance I get, because this war of negotiation has no rules. The ballplayers pull dirty tricks on me, too, and if that kid hadn't been snooping around my private papers he'd never have fallen for the trick in the first place.

Once Charlie Neal and Johnny Roseboro showed up at the office together and made the mistake of figuring that I was predictable about salaries. In those days we had a dumpy little office in Los Angeles and you could hear everything that went on. Neal waited outside while Rosey came in, and I said, "How much do you want, John?" I found out later that he was shooting for $11,500, but they always ask for $500 more, so he said, "Oh, about $12,000."

I said, "Twelve grand?" I said, "Damn, what the hell's the matter with you?" I called Edna in, and I said, "Bring me a contract for $12,500!" And Johnny gets $500 more than he asked for.

So now he goes outside, and I can hear him talking up a storm to Neal. He's telling Neal that Buzzie's in a good mood and if you just ask for $500 less than you want Buzzie'll add the difference and everybody will be satisfied, and you'll wind up looking like a reasonable guy. Charlie wants $13,000, so he comes in and tells me he wants $12,500. I said, "Are you kidding, Charlie? Who do you think you are? Jackie Robinson?" I called to Edna: "Bring me a contract for $12,000!"

Neal signed, and you should have heard the free-for-all in the hall when he left! I heard him hollering at Rosey, "You so-and-so, damn you, anyway! You told me to ask for $500 less. Why, what's the matter with you, you low-life rascal, you!" That caterwauling went on until they got out of the building.

Of course, with certain guys you just felt like telling them to go ahead and quit, they acted so badly. I mean the real stubborn cases, the ones that were always telling you that they could make more money outside of organized baseball anyway. Luis Olmo was like that; he threatened Mr. Rickey that he would jump to the Mexican League, and Mr. Rickey blew a cloud of cigar smoke and just listened. "You don't understand, Mr. Rickey," Luis said. "I'm leaving the Dodgers!"

"I understand," Mr. Rickey said, "but there's something you don't understand. If you walked out of this office right now and went out on the street and were hit by a car and were killed, the Dodgers would still play next year."

There are times like that when you have to call their bluffs. I had to do it at Montreal one year with Tommy Lasorda. He said he would quit baseball rather than play for what I was offering him. So I said, "Fine, Tommy, what are you going to do?"