War Of The Words

What did that mean? Was Urbina offering to arrange for L�pez to be harmed? (Urbina, speaking through his U.S. agent last week, denied he ever suggested such a thing.) Maybe Guillen misunderstood. But the seconds were racing by; this was not a time or place to expect clarity. Guillen told Urbina to stay away from L�pez. Then, Guillen and his son recall, Urbina said, "What do you want to do?"

Despite his impulsive nature, Guillen knows the virtue of holding back. Four times in October during the American League Championship Series against the Los Angeles Angels, when any other manager would've gone to his bullpen, Guillen stood pat. Four times his starting pitchers won complete games. When, after winning the World Series, his players raced onto the field in celebration, Guillen again did the unexpected, sitting still in the dugout, his face blank. L�pez? He's still facing 16 years of hell.

"Nada," Guillen said in answer to Urbina's question. Nothing.

"Why?" Urbina asked.

"Because it's over."

The two men talked for a half hour. On the ride back to Caracas, Ozzie sat in the front of the car with the driver. He could hear his wife and son sobbing behind him. Soon he cracked, too, and the nation's hero cried all the way home.

Ozzie Guillen is a reporter's dream. He'll talk about anything. He can't help himself. A baseball writer's job is often a grinding exercise in reading between the lines, divining a team's direction from the pauses, burps and raised eyebrows that punctuate the clich�s spouted by men determined to say nothing--not one word--that might touch off a SportsCenter feeding frenzy. In the last decade the most prominent major league manager to break with baseball's code of virtual silence was the New York Mets' Bobby Valentine, and maybe it's just an accident that he now plies his trade in Japan. "I don't know when, why and how we became so sterile," says White Sox general manager Ken Williams, "but this was a game that enjoyed enormous popularity from the beginning because of its characters. We have to have a little personality."

A little? Guillen makes Valentine sound like Alan Greenspan.

"Most managers say what people want to hear, because they're afraid to lose their jobs," Guillen says. "And they kiss people's asses. I don't. I've got my money. Fire me? I'll show you I don't need you. I might not get hired again? I don't give a s---."

Ask about his managerial philosophy. Or don't. He'll tell you anyway. "It's not easy to play for me, because I will tell the truth whether you like it or not," Guillen says. "I don't say, 'Well, uh, somebody....' No! I'll say, 'Konerko f----- it up.' People say, 'That's just Ozzie being Ozzie.' Bulls---. It's just Ozzie being true. Players try to own this game. But the players know they're not going to big-league me. I tell my players, 'Listen, boys, I'm going to be here longer than you.' Even if I'm not going to be here longer, I'm going to show you: I'm the man here.