The Story Of O

"Omar, c'mon, do you think any rich man would trust a Dominican with his money?" chided Ramon Pe�a, his old Dominican scouting competitor and pal. "You've got to be dreaming."

A rich man would have to look past more than the color of O's skin to let him in the club. He would have to imagine an executive who didn't keep to-do lists, whose desktop was barren of paper, whose expense accounts were filed by emptying months of crumpled receipts from his pocket onto an assistant's desk. To trust a commander who carried no crackling air of authority, whose shoelaces might be untied, who transferred his cellphone from his ear to his mouth and back, as if it were a walkie-talkie, to make sure of the hookup. Know what I'm sayin'? That's what O asked after nearly everything he said. That's what mattered most: that you knew what he was sayin' and he knew what you were sayin', that he was connecting with people, not controlling them. Could rich men and baseball lifers grasp the power of the circle? "It's going to happen," O told Pe�a.

He flew to Los Angeles in the autumn of 1998 to interview for the Dodgers' G.M. job. Didn't get it, but then every candidate needs a warmup or two under his belt. The Milwaukee Brewers called him in '99, then the Colorado Rockies. Great interview, great nose for talent, extraordinary interpersonal skills, they'd say. Lacks administrative skills, they'd whisper, and let what O didn't have eclipse what he did.

He interviewed for the Mariners' and the Anaheim Angels' jobs that same year. O was becoming O-fer. O for 3 ... 4 ... 5. The Pittsburgh Pirates called a year later. Now he was trapped, risking a reputation as a serial runner-up if he accepted every interview offer, risking the future for all minorities if he didn't. O went to Pittsburgh. O for 6.

The tide had shifted. Teams were hiring Ivy League grads to be their G.M.'s, lawyers and businessmen and statmongers who'd never hit fungoes to a flock of skinny 16-year-olds and picked out the weed that would bloom five years later. O's frustration grew. "Look, if you want paperwork, I'm not your guy," he'd tell his inquisitors. "I see the job in bigger terms. Paperwork, that's false hustle. It takes away creativity. People who are into paperwork are into covering their asses, so if things go wrong they can point to all the work they did. They're thinking more about failure than success. The more paperwork the opposition does, the better my chances are. Know what I'm sayin'?"

His old team, the Rangers, called. Their management had changed, but this couldn't be a token interview. Someone there had to know what he brought to the table. He never made it to the table, intercepted at the airport by the team's headhunter, Bob Beaudine. A half hour into the interview, Beaudine found himself thinking, Wow! He carries a room. He's got dignity, character. You know it, you feel it right away. You feel good with him. He's a great listener. He hears the heart of the question. G.M.? Sure, but this man's a senator. He could facilitate change at the international level. He's a possibility opener. He's a community.

He didn't get the Rangers job. The headhunter became another dear friend. O for 7.

How many contortions would it take for MLB to find space for O? This many: In December 2001 the Boston Red Sox would have to be sold to the owner of the Florida Marlins, John W. Henry, who would have to sell the Marlins to the owner of the Montreal Expos, Jeffrey Loria, who would have to sell the Expos to Major League Baseball--in order for MLB to erase them from existence. It would probably take a year or two of planning, like any deft murder, but in the meantime, someone would have to be the general manager of the Expos ... no?

O got the phone call during a family vacation in the Dominican Republic. It was Bud Selig, commissioner of Major League Baseball, the new owner of the Expos, eager to cover two corporate black eyes with one powder puff. The team was miserable, its payroll and fan base a farce, the job likely brief, but--pssst, hurry!--the backdoor was open to the kitchen of the club.

No, wait. It was worse than that. O flew home from the Dominican Republic, reported to MLB's offices in New York City and discovered--three days before pitchers and catchers were to report--that he had six people on his staff. In the entire organization, including his five minor league teams. Loria had stripped the franchise and hauled off the parts--humans, computers, scouting reports, radar guns--to Miami.