So I get a wire
from MacPhail: DO NOT PLAY REISER AGAIN.
Now despite the
general picture of me as a rebel, I am an organization man. The front office
gives the manager the players, and the manager does the best he can with them.
But it's my job to decide who I'm going to put on the field. If the front
office wants to give me a reason why I shouldn't play somebody, I'll listen.
Send for me and I'll come. I'll respect your position, but you've got to
respect my position, too.
You want to
manage the club, Larry, you put on the uniform and I'll go upstairs and sit at
I played Reiser,
and I played him in center field where he belonged.
The next day we
were playing Detroit in Macon, Ga. I was just drawing on the pants of my
uniform when John McDonald of Larry's staff came in to tell me MacPhail had
flown in and wanted to see me right away.
"Should I finish dressing?"
He said, "I
wouldn't if I were you. Put your street clothes on."
As soon as I
stuck my head through the door of his suite, MacPhail began to curse me. He
called me every filthy name I had ever heard. It was awful. I am fired, I am
through, and I am a dirty——.
"That's all right, Larry. You don't want me to manage your ball club,
that's fine. You're the president, you're the general manager, you're the boss.
I'm not mad, so don't you get mad."
He kept right on
cursing me. Worse than ever.