The Muscle and Soul of the A's Dynasty

Charles O. Finley, who pays him $135,000 a year to hit and catch baseballs, would not have been amused. Neither would the insurance company that covers his life for $1.7 million. Or his teammates on the Oakland Athletics, who are depending on his play this year for a shot at their third consecutive World Championship. But practical concerns were the last thing on Reggie Jackson's mind. Wearing a cotton tennis hat instead of a crash helmet, the A's slugger tore round the Oakland suburb of San Leandro on a motorcycle. As he bolted past a group of astonished friends, Jackson shouted, "I love it!" Then he disappeared back into the traffic. When he finally skidded to a stop, Jackson affectionately patted the borrowed Harley Davidson Sportster and announced, "You sure can raise hell down here."

Jackson loves to raise hell anywhere, any time--in his own style. Leaving rubber on San Leandro's main street is part of his superstar gig, along with collecting old cars and racks of new custom-made clothes. But to Jackson, raising hell means making his presence felt in quiet ways as well as loud. He is accused of insufficient sympathy for fellow blacks; yet he unobtrusively gives away thousands of dollars every year to black, Indian and Mexican-American community groups. He sometimes likes to come on like just another impulsive free-spending jock; actually, he is a shrewd businessman (land development) who just may make good on an ambition to become baseball's first black team owner.

In the show biz world of sport, Jackson wants the record to show that he is a serious citizen, something more than yesterday's mixed-up kid grown up to be today's hero. Success and psychotherapy have helped give him a strong sense of himself as a person as well as an athlete and celebrity. He means to enjoy all the roles available to him.

Introspection has ruined some players. Not Jackson. At 28 he is in his prime and fully mindful that winning baseball games is what he does best. He did it better last year--and continues to do it better this year--than any other player in the American League. When the 1973 regular season ended, Jackson led his league in five offensive categories: home runs (32), RBls (117), runs scored (99), game-winning hits (18) and "slugging percentage" --the production of extra-base hits (.531). He also managed to hit a very respectable .293, the tenth best A.L. average. On the base paths he is a daring thief, diving into bases to stretch singles to doubles or doubles to triples.

Streak Hitting. Though once a sloppy defenseman, Rightfielder Jackson now makes a habit of circus catches and bullet throws to the infield and home. Last October Jackson tormented the New York Mets in the World Series as he led the A's in hitting and spectacular outfield defense. For his efforts, he was named Most Valuable Player of the league and the series. The awards merely underscored what everyone in baseball already knew--Reginald Martinez Jackson is the best player on the best team in the sport.

He looks like the champ's champ. At 6 ft. and 200 lbs., he is built like a bull, with musculature that would make Atlas envious. He puts his 17-in. biceps. 27-in. thighs and 36-oz. bat to good use. When Ted Williams first watched Jackson swing, he said, "He's the most natural hitter I've ever seen." Williams, the hitter's hitter, has not been proved wrong.

In 1969, his second full year in the majors, Jackson hit 47 home runs. He hammered several balls more than 500 feet. In streak hitting, Jackson is unrivaled today. He has clubbed eight home runs in six days, accounted for ten runs batted in in one game and hit .630 over a seven-game stretch. As of last week, Jackson had a league-leading 13 home runs, 37 RBls and was batting .397--second in the A.L. In one win over Minnesota last week, Jackson was a one-man wild bunch, knocking in five of the A's seven runs with a homer, double and single.

Although Jackson's overdeveloped build leads to frequent muscle pulls--he sat on the bench for five days recently nursing a hamstring pull in his right leg--it also equips him with 9.6-sec. speed in the 100-yd. dash. But his game utilizes more than power and speed. "Reggie is a smart hitter," says the California Angels' Frank Robinson, one of only three players to win the batting triple crown in the past quarter-century. "This time you may strike him out, but next time he'll be waiting." In fact, Jackson goes to the plate with a plan for every pitcher. "I know what to expect," he explains, "and I know how to get what I want. If I want a fastball, I move up in the batter's box as though I am expecting a curve. When the pitcher tries to blow it by me, I'm ready. It's goodbye baseball."

Courting umpires is another Jackson tactic. Always speaking softly to the man behind the plate, even when he feels wronged, Jackson often gets the benefit of the doubt in return. "One umpire appreciates my manners so much," says Reggie, "that he reduces the strike zone when I come to bat. Whenever he's umpiring on the bases, he tells me, 'You'll get your pitch when I get behind the plate.' "

The final ingredient in Jackson's game is a passion to win and to dominate. "I'd rather hit than have sex," says the man who is not exactly a social recluse. "To hit is to show strength. It's two against one at the plate, the pitcher and the catcher versus you. When I'm up there, I'm thinking, 'Try everything you want. Rub up the ball. Move the fielders around. Throw me hard stuff, soft stuff. Try anything. I'm still going to hit that ball.' God, do I love to hit that little round sumbitch out of the park and make 'em say 'Wow!' " Opposing pitchers like Baltimore's perennial 20-game winner, Jim Palmer, believe him. "When I'm pitching against Jackson," says Palmer, "I'm happy just keeping the ball inside the park."

Black Mistrust. Jackson is not satisfied with individual domination. He wants--and insists--that his fractious, calamity-prone team reach for the same goal. Five years ago, when the A's were first emerging from mediocrity, Jackson brashly announced, "We are going to be a dynasty." He has been pushing the team to win ever since. When the A's show signs of failing, as they did early this season, Jackson attempts to goad them by example and word. A month ago, for instance, Jackson was on a typical tear while the A's were in an early-season slump. Midway through a game against the Indians, Oakland Centerfielder Bill North hit a hard grounder to second. Sensing that it would be an easy out, he trotted to first base. When North returned to the dugout, Jackson greeted him with a stream of obscenities for not hustling. The rest of the team, obviously embarrassed by the verbal spanking, looked the other way; but when Jackson himself went to the plate, the outcry was sharp. "Who the hell does Jackson think he is?" asked several players. The next day, North, a black, bitterly informed Jackson that they were no longer on speaking terms.

For Jackson, the reaction to his outburst was only the latest manifestation of growing unease between him and other black players on the team. As a black who speaks Spanish and has many white friends, Jackson used to be a man for all cliques. But the attention paid to his white associations, plus his growing assertion of authority, has caused problems.

"I've made a special effort to help my own kind," he says with some anguish, "but it has backfired. I'm having trouble communicating with them, and that upsets me. I know they mistrust me because I spend so much time with white people. But I'll tell you something. On the field I don't respect anyone just because he's black or white. I respect him if he performs."

The A's as a team are otherwise free from tangible racial tension, though an undercurrent of division persists. Black players tend to stick together socially, as do the Latin Americans and whites. This atmosphere of tolerance minus affection is now commonplace in baseball, with the last of the "white" teams like the Red Sox, Yankees and Angels now thoroughly integrated.

For the A's, family quarrels are nothing new. In the past few years, the team has learned to live with contention and even thrive on it. "Our emotions, our gripes, our passions are up front," says Third Baseman Sal Bando, the team captain. "We're like a floating encounter group." Whether at home or on the road, the mustachioed A's are a wild, rambunctious crew. On a typical charter flight from New York to Oakland, the players were barely settled in their seats when half a dozen portable stereos started blaring a discordant mix of rock music, an unlimited supply of beer began to flow, and a less-than-chivalrous pursuit of the stewardesses got under way. Before the flight ended, one player, thoroughly inebriated, started punching wildly at teammates blocking his way to the bar.

The usual emotional earthquake, though, pits the players against some external adversity. There are a few from which to choose. In Charles O. Finley, the A's have baseball's No. 1 madcap owner and general manager (see box page 64). He is responsible for the team's multiplicity of uniforms--the A's wear various combinations of green and gold during the week and an all-white outfit on Sundays--and its multiplicity of managers (13 in 14 years). Every season Finley issues at least one directive that infuriates the team. Last year he decided in the middle of the World Series to fire Second Baseman Mike Andrews for twice booting the ball. His daily phone calls to the manager from his office in Chicago keep the clubhouse humming with rumors about the "Great White Father" or "Rasputin."

Former Fire-Eater. The city of Oakland is another irritant for the A's. For a town that has long looked for some characteristic to distinguish it from San Francisco across the bay, Oakland has been slow to seize on the distinction of the A's. Attendance at games in the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum, a modern ballpark situated only a few minutes' drive from downtown Oakland (pop. 361,561), averages a meager 6,400 per game. And many of the fans who do show up come from communities half a day's drive away. Annoyed by the lack of support, the A's call their empty stadium "the mausoleum."

Despite the hazards, the A's keep winning. In 1972 and 1973 a key reason was Manager Dick Williams, who encouraged candor in the clubhouse while applying a strong hand on the field. Williams quit after last year's World Series. His replacement is Alvin Dark, who managed the A's for Finley when the team was still in Kansas City.

Dark was once a fire-eater, but several inactive seasons seem to have cooled him to a point of passivity (see box page 65). These days the former N.Y. Giants' shortstop inspires little respect from the players. In fact, earlier this year one pitcher openly defied the manager's orders by walking an opposing batter instead of pitching to him. Dark quietly accepted the affront.

That the A's continue to win--at the end of last week they had a precarious hold on first place--is a tribute to the players' spirit as much as to their skill. "We win because we have guys who love the challenge," explains Third Baseman Bando. "We have a nucleus of gutsy players who don't know how to lose." That nucleus includes Shortstop Bert Campaneris, Leftfielder Joe Rudi, Pitcher Catfish Hunter, Reliever Rollie Fingers, Bando and, of course, Jackson.

Jackson has not always been a leader. When he began playing with the A's full time in 1968, he was an angry and confused young man. When he struck out, as he did often enough to lead the league for four consecutive years, he would toss his bat to the ground or slam his batting helmet onto the dugout bench. His morale was not helped by a bitter feud that quickly developed with Finley. This dispute, which began over salary and spread in 1970 to Jackson's quality of play, reached a peak late that summer. While crossing the plate after hitting a grand-slam home run, he saluted Finley with an obscene gesture. Finley demanded, and got, a written apology; but the incident plunged Jackson into a foul mood--to say nothing of a slump that ended the team's chances for a pennant that year. Today the two have, at best, a cool relationship. "I respect Finley for his business knowledge," says Jackson, "and I think he's made some needed innovations in baseball. But unless we have to talk business, I keep clear of the ole man."

Jackson knows how to keep clear of all of baseball when he wishes. In fact, his life is so busy off the field that he says, only half in jest, "I play baseball as a sideline." A typical day off begins in midmorning when Jackson climbs out of bed in his penthouse apartment overlooking downtown Oakland. (Later this year he will move into an $85,000 condominium in the Berkeley Hills.) Once he has selected the day's outfit from three oversized closets that contain 100 shirts and pairs of pants, twelve leather jackets ("I've got every color") and a dozen hats, he heads to a diner called Lois the Pie Queen for brunch.

Lois's is an Oakland institution. Straddling the racially mixed and often explosive border with Berkeley, the simple restaurant is one of the few places where black and white comfortably coexist. Jackson, a regular customer, gives Lois a friendly pat on the backside and helps himself to biscuits and milk as he waits for his usual order of pork chops, rice and scrambled eggs.

Jackson's next stop is 15 miles and seemingly 15 light-years away. It is Del Rio Customs, a garage that equips cars with elaborate racing stripes and mag wheels. The place gives a visitor the feeling that two dozen Hell's Angels are about to wheel in looking for some feral fun. When anonymous death threats were made against Jackson before last year's World Series, he hired beefy Proprietor Tony Del Rio as his temporary bodyguard.

Gleaming Speedster. "I can let my hair down at Del Rio's," Jackson says. "The place is like an amusement park." When he is not speeding off on one of Del Rio's roaring motorcycles or playing pinch and tickle with a girl in the middle of a stack of tires, Jackson exchanges stories with Tony and the boys or busies himself rebuilding the motor on his 1940 Chevrolet.

The 1940 Chevy is only one of four show and racing cars Jackson owns. "I've loved tinkering with cars since I was a kid," he says. His pride at the moment is a 1927 Ford roadster that holds the world record for quarter-mile drag racing in its class. Whenever he gets the chance, Jackson climbs behind the wheel of the gleaming yellow speedster for a few unofficial runs.

After a couple of hours at Del Rio's, Jackson may pick up the younger sister of one of the A's former ball girls and drive her and her mother to a dermatologist to have the girl's acne checked. Jackson pays the bill for the examination and any follow-up care. "When you leave your friends," he says, "they should feel better--whether you gave them a dime or a dollar, ten minutes of your time, looked at them with a smile or just told them they looked great." In carrying out his philosophy of wealth ("If you've got money, spread it around"), Jackson finances a home for delinquent boys in Tempe, Ariz., where he lives in the offseason. He plans to open a ranch for the same purpose near Tucson. Last year he gave the car he won as best player in the World Series to a Chicano and Yaqui Indian community organization in Tempe. Jackson's generosity is an extension of his religious beliefs. He is a Methodist who rarely attends church at home, but he organizes an informal Sunday chapel while on the road. "Religion to me," he says, "is doing things for my friends and neighbors."

By dinnertime, Jackson picks up a second wind at home with a shower and a few minutes in the living room grooving to a pulsating rock number like For the Love of Money recorded by the O'Jays ("Music is a psychiatrist for me. When I turn up the volume, I escape into a peaceful inner world. I split from reality"). This particular evening he heads toward the exclusive Silverado Country Club in Napa to address a group of automobile dealers, one of whom lends Jackson a new Pontiac Grand Prix every year. As Jackson swings his car past the long line of Cadillacs and Mercedeses ringing the driveway at Silverado, he mutters, "The only niggers out here are the ones that cut the grass." Though he mixes easily with the wealthy white crowd, he also twits the audience: "It's nice to see all the nationalities represented here."

Marriage Breakup. If Jackson has some energy left, his typical evening will end with some dancing at the Playboy Club in San Francisco, where several Bunnies appreciate his company after work. For more substantial relationships, Jackson dates several white girls, including a film editor at a Phoenix TV station. Jackson shows no particular concern for the color of his girl friends --or for that matter, of most of his friends. "There are 200 million people in this country," he says, "and 180 million of them are white. It's only natural that most of my friends are white."

Jackson's social life, despite its frenetic pace, hardly satisfies him: "I sometimes get into depressed moods. I get lonely. You know, when I'm going good on the field I want someone to share that with, and when I'm going bad I need someone to help me rebound. Family life is the most important thing on God's earth. When I have a family, I'm going to hit 50 home runs, 49 for them." Jackson was married for four years--his wife was Mexican American--but they were divorced two years ago. He and his wife had no children.

It was during the marriage breakup that Jackson started to see a psychiatrist. "I wasn't ready for the responsibility of having a woman love me," he recalls. "In those days I was concerned with only one thing--Reggie Jackson hitting home runs. I got some help. It was too late to save the marriage, but I think I've learned a lot about myself."

Divorce has stalked Jackson since he was six and his parents split up. The second youngest of six children, Reggie was raised with two of his siblings by his father Martinez, a tailor in Wyncote, Pa., a suburb of Philadelphia. "He was a father during the day," recalls Jackson, "and a mother at night." Reggie traces his color blindness to the atmosphere at home. "My father didn't, and still doesn't know what color is," says Jackson. "I grew up with white kids, played ball with them, went home with them, and more than one time beat up some punk trying to hurt them. I didn't know what prejudice was until I got to college and the football coach told me to stop dating white girls."

Martinez Jackson, whose mother was Spanish, had played two years of semipro baseball, and he encouraged his son to take up the game. Reggie began by hitting a softball in the backyard when he was seven. By the time he reached high school, he was a star, pitching three no-hitters and batting .550 his senior year. "I told Reggie," says the senior Jackson, who is still a tailor in Philadelphia, "that if he didn't make the team, he'd have to work in my shop."

From Wyncote, Jackson went to Arizona State University as a promising halfback on a football scholarship. When he started blasting baseballs out of Phoenix Municipal Stadium, the big-league scouts turned up in droves and Jackson signed with the Kansas City A's after his sophomore year for an $85,000 bonus.

He has never since had to worry about working in the tailor shop. Aside from his $135,000 salary, Jackson earns another $100,000 a year from commercial endorsements and from the Phoenix land company in which he owns a half interest. United Development Inc. reflects the personalities of Jackson and his white partner and closest friend, Gary Walker, a former insurance salesman and Arizona State alumnus. Employees can take a break any time to play a piano placed outside office quarters, and they will soon be able to observe an "artist-in-residence" at work down the hall. They are encouraged to attend corporate encounter-group sessions several times a year to air both their office gripes and personal problems. When he is in Arizona during the winter, Jackson reports to work at United Development almost every day and takes an active part in the encounter gatherings.

Paper Millionaire. With 60 employees and real estate holdings valued at more than $20 million, United Development makes Jackson a paper millionaire. Why not retire from baseball right now in view of his prosperity? Reggie Jackson listens to that question quizzically and responds, "Why not?" Then, with a grin spreading across his face, he adds, "I know why. I dig my life. Hell, man, I'm having a great time." There are still pennants to win and batting titles within reach. Besides, Charlie Finley does not seem ready to sell the A's just yet. If he ever is, he may not have to look far for a buyer.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.