"Look, Larry, let's not be a couple of kids about this. You don't want me
to manage the club, this is fine.
right on cursing me. In fact the more he cursed me the madder he seemed to get.
Between curses he was pacing up and down dictating my resignation to McDonald.
Now there were twin beds in the suite. McDonald was sitting on one of the beds
and the typewriter was on the other. Big tears were rolling down his face as he
typed, because John was a great booster of mine and he wanted very badly for me
to make good. MacPhail couldn't get through two sentences before John would
deliberately make a mistake, pull the paper out of the machine and drop it on
the floor. MacPhail, his rage increasing, would turn to me with new pinnacles
of invective and then back to McDonald to start all over again.
have been pulling his sixth sheet out of the machine when MacPhail started to
turn toward me again, then wheeled back to McDonald and screamed: "And
you're fired too because you can't type!"
It would have
been the funniest thing I ever saw, except that MacPhail was out of his head.
Having taken all I could, I jumped out of the chair and warned Larry not to
call me a dirty——again. Well, that was like warning a hurricane to go back
where it had come from. Fortunately, I still had just enough control left so
that I was able to check myself at the last second and only give him a kind of
shove. A hard enough shove, though, so that Larry went toppling over backward
and landed flat on his back on the bed.
In two seconds he
was back on his feet with his arms around me. He's got tears in his eyes, and
then I had tears in my eyes and then the three of us were walking out of the
suite, arm in arm, like three blubbering Musketeers. I was no longer fired, I
was no longer through, I was no longer even a dirty——.
The next day in
Atlanta, Larry dropped into my room just as I was getting ready to leave for
the park. "I'm glad we had that little talk yesterday," he said. "I
think we understand each other much better. Everything's going to be
I never did find
out why he didn't want me to play Reiser.
He fired me 60
times if he fired me once, and I was still there when he left. He even fired me
the night we won Brooklyn's first pennant in 21 years. That one I had coming to
me. Not for the reason he fired me but because I had allowed him to dictate a
ridiculous pitching selection in a critical spot after I had refused to allow
him to step into my domain for almost three full years.
It began early in
my first season when he came raging into the clubhouse after Van Lingle Mungo
had been beaten by the Reds. MacPhail ran up to Mungo's locker, threw his
Panama hat on the floor and jumped up and down on it. Called Mungo everything.
As quickly as I could I ran everybody into the latrine and showers except
Mungo. When only the three of us were left, I said to MacPhail, "Now you!
Get out! Get the hell out of here, and don't you ever come in here
believe it. "You're running me out of here? You dare?"