When coaching hires are made outcomes aren’t known for a while–sometimes years—the Red Sox fiasco of 2012 aside.
All of this went through my mind last week as I was watching the Tigers’ press conference announcing Brad Ausmus was the new Tigers’ manager.
“Rising star.” “Relates well to today’s players.” “Superb communicator.”
The Tigers pulled off a coup, I felt. Another brilliant move by Dave Dombrowski. He’s the best in the business, isn’t he?
Courtesy: Yahoo Sports
Early in the press conference Dombrowski talked about “risk.” Why, a reporter asked, had he hired a man without managerial experience?
As I thought about the question I wondered if a more important issue had been overlooked, about the issue of “context.” Risk can’t be that important, I thought, because just about everybody takes positions they’ve never held before; and many do it repeatedly over their lives. Is the context in Ausmus’s favor?
For one thing, we know for sure that he has Dave’s support. But what’s the nature of the situation?
When I took my job at Michigan State years ago I was 27-years old, chosen over a full professor 25 years my senior. But I came into a situation that was broken. Change was needed—and an unknown person without baggage was the ticket; somebody who could come in—fresh—with new and different ideas. I had time to build a program worth merit.
Ausmus? He’s expected to win, and win now: the Tigers are championship-caliber and Dombrowski will make them even better in the off-season.
Contrast that to Leyland, who had all kinds of experience when he was hired in 2006, including a World Series ring. Given the context, the easy route for the Tigers to take would have been to bring in somebody with plenty of experience. No need to learn the ropes, just deliver the goods.
But that’s not what the Tigers decided to do. That’s where faith comes in, trust, too. Tigers’ fans must believe that Dave’s intuition is right: he found the best candidate. He has faith that Ausmus, a rookie manager, can bring Detroit the flag. He said as much during the press conference.
Yet, truth be told, almost everybody I talk with has expressed doubts. But the record shows plenty of examples: people have won, and won big, either without having experience or when they’ve faced improbable odds. They make up for one or both with an uncanny combination of personality characteristics (like grit and determination), people skills, and other traits—traits so elusive that most people can’t even describe what they are.
We simply call it “IT.” A friend of mine, a former college football lineman, once put it this way: “I don’t know what “it” is, but I certainly know when I see it.”
Magic Johnson is an example. He has “it.” Fred Stabley, Jr. gave him that audacious name, an unbelievable moniker especially for a teenager. But Magic lived up to that name by winning championships at every level of basketball: high school, college, and pros.
Perhaps Magic’s most impressive feat was with the Lakers as a first-year pro. He did something that pushes the margins of a Hollywood script. His team was in the Finals against the Philadelphia 76s in the spring of 1980. He agreed to position change in Game 6 (the series was 3-2 Lakers at the time), moving from guard (normal position) to center. He did it because the Lakers’ iconic center, Karim Abdul-Jabbar, was injured—injured so badly that Paul Westhead, the Lakers’ coach, wouldn’t let him make the flight from LA to Philly. So, Johnson stepped in, jumping center against the 76s. The indomitable Daryl Dawkins—a hulk of a man, “Chocolate Thunder” was his nickname—and teammate Caldwell Jones played center for the 76rs in those days.
All Magic did that day was score 42 points. He playing all five positions; grabbed 15 rebounds; dished out 7 assists; had 3 steals; and one block. It was one of the most remarkable accomplishments in the annals of any sport, at any time, and in any place.
And here’s a guy who had less than one year of pro experience, let alone any experience playing center. And he did it with everything on the line and in the most important game of his life: the Lakers won the NBA Championship because of it.
That feat stands right up there with the heroics of a gimpy-knee Kirk Gibson, so hurt was he that he could hardly walk to the plate as a last-minute, late-inning, pinch-hitter in the 1988 World Series against the highly-favored Oakland As. Gibson was the Dodger’s rock that year. Their left-fielder, he played in 150 games and hit .290. He scored 106 runs, hit 25 HRs, had 76 RBIs, and stole 31 bases. A late addition to the club that year, Gibson didn’t even sign a contract until a month or so before reporting to Spring Training.
Even though he had a stellar year, Gibson was seriously hurt during the National League Championship Series. Because of that, he wasn’t supposed to play in the World Series. He was hurting so badly (both legs were injured) that he had trouble walking across his living room floor that morning. But this was the World Series and Game 1 was in LA.
Courtesy: Sports Illustrated/CNN
The Dodgers were trailing 4-3 in the bottom of the 9th. Gibson, always known for his emotions and resolve, was watching the game on TV in the Dodger’s clubhouse. He got into the game because the Dodger bat boy at the time, Mitch Poole (who now runs the Dodger’s clubhouse), raced to the dugout telling LA Manager Tommy Lasorda that Gibson wanted to hit. Gibson, it’s so told, got angry at TV announcer Vince Scully for saying that Gibson was too hurt to play. Gibson was determined to show Scully he was wrong. Lasorda pulled the scheduled pinch-hitter and inserted Gibson into the line-up.
Gibson wasn’t just ornery; he was smart, too. It was the only way to be effective, because his injury disabled him from relying on his normal athletic abilities. So when he got to the plate his plan was to look for “HIS pitch.” He kept fouling off pitches, working the count, so that he could stay alive. He also kept in mind what a colleague had told him—what pitches the A’s relief pitcher liked to throw in certain counts.
Gibson looked really bad each time he swung; the pain was really obvious. He would take long walks from home plate to give him time to refresh. But, finally, the moment came. The count was 3-2. It was the right count; the right pitch; and the right swing, even though the swing looked more like a tennis player trying to push a ball over the net than a major leaguer trying to Go Yard. But the ball went up and away, landing over the right field fence. A man was on base. The Dodgers scored two runs and won 5-4. The Late Jack Buck’s words that night are immortal: “I can’t believe what I just saw.”
Gibson didn’t hit that HR off a no-namer: he hit it off Dennis Eckersley, one of the best ever, a player later inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame. And while it was Gibson’s only time at bat during that Series—a Series the Dodgers’ won—never does a World Series goes by without a TV network showing that play: Gibson pumping his right arm, to and fro, rounding the bases in victory.
It’s a baseball classic that—in so many ways—never should have happened. Just like Magic’s 42 points as a rookie in the deciding game of the NBA Championship shouldn’t have happened. Lasorda had faith and trust in Gibson, just as Westhead had in Magic. The reality is that gimpy guys aren’t supposed to hit HRs and rookies don’t become centers of attention. Both feats came at times when everything was on the line, just as it will be for Ausmus in 2014.
But, you see, it makes no sense for any of us to “hope” Brad will do well. Hope can’t come first; it’s an antecedent, a product of faith and trust. It’s really important for Tigers fans to remember that, especially nay-sayers out there. First, we need to have faith in Ausmus as a manager; and, then, we have to trust in his abilities. That’s easy to do with folks like Johnson and Gibson: they earned their spurs before engaging in heroic efforts. Ausmus? He has to earn it first. I have faith he will: 162 games gives him plenty of time.
What doesn’t help, though, is when people pre-ordain success, saying that somebody like Ausmus got the job because he has “potential.” I hate that word! Potential is important, but potential can yield disappointment: expectations tend to run high, often unrealistically so.
Those of us at Michigan State know all too well about “potential” and how it applies to a player named Andrew Maxwell. Many of us (me included) are damn proud of Maxwell, but not for what he ever did on the field: it’s how he has handled himself off the field—with maturity, character, and class. That’s because he didn’t deliver on the field in ways many expected of him and, more importantly, what he expected of himself.
Maxwell was Kirk Cousins understudy as Michigan State’s football QB. Cousins took MSU to the Big Ten Championship Game in 2011, and Maxwell was to be Cousins successor. Maxwell fit that role as tightly as a Hollywood script. A young Mark Harmon he is articulate, good-looking, and presentable—an impressive representative of which any university would be proud. He was going to take MSU to new heights.
MSU had just come off a 11-3 year, culminating in a come-from-behind New Year’s Day bowl win over the University of Georgia. It was Cousins last game; and the baton was now in Maxwell’s hands.
All through the spring and summer we read about how well Maxwell was progressing and how well MSU would do in 2012. It didn’t turn out that way, though: by mid-season Maxwell and the Spartans were struggling. MSU had lost 5 games by 13 total points, often losing in last-minute, heartbreaking fashion.
The season hung in the balance as MSU entered its final game. A win against the University of Minnesota and MSU would end up 6-6, good enough to at least qualify for a bowl game. Lose the game and the season would end…a losing season, such an improbability given the hype of late summer and early fall. Maxwell ended up playing the whole game that day, competing 13 passes for 143 yards. MSU won on the road, coming from behind, 26-10.
But that’s not the end of the story. In fact, it’s just the start of a different and more compelling story.
The next game would be played in late December against Texas Christian University, a formidable foe, and MSU was the underdog. Maxwell started that game and the Spartans struggled mightily. Down 13-0 at halftime, the Spartans managed just 76 total yards in two quarters—a pitiful showing.
Maxwell readied himself for second half play, but, then, things changed significantly: Maxwell was replaced by his understudy, a little known and lightly-regarded player, named Connor Cook. Cook had hardly played all year—in only two games before TCU—and he had attempted just 6 passes (all in the same game). Here he was, a very young man without experience playing in the most important game of his life.
With the bravado of a young gunslinger on a reputation-seeking foray, Cook led the Spartan’s down the field. MSU scored. It was TCU 13-MSU 7. A little more than 7 minutes later MSU scored gain, taking the lead for the first time, 14-13. But down the field came TCU and, five minutes later, the Horned Frogs hit an improbable field goal, 60 yards long. With less than 3 minutes left it was TCU 16-MSU 14; and it looked like the Spartans were headed for yet another close loss.
But Cook took control and drove the team down the field. This time, though, the drive stalled. It was 4th down at the TCU 30-yard line with about 1 minute left. Dave Conroy, the MSU placekicker, came in. He kicked a 47-yard field goal. The Spartans won.
Cook’s success reminds me of a friend, who (over time) has worked himself all the way up the system to become CEO of a large organization. He once told me that “I never knew what I really knew until I had to know it.” Sounds weird, but it’s real wisdom. Nobody cares about whether you have experience or what’s going on in the rest of your life: all they want are results. “You just need to find a way.”
It explains why people find themselves in improbable positions and perform at levels that even surprise themselves. That’s Conner Cook story. With only 6 pass attempts all year before TCU, he ended the TCU game with an incredible passer rating of 102.3. I’m also reminded of that school secretary in Georgia, Antionette Tuff (great surname), who talked a gunman out of rendering havoc to children at her school. She wasn’t trained to do that: she is neither psychologist nor a hostage specialist. But she has “it,” just never having had a chance to show it—until it counted the most. Her “it” saved countless lives.
But the stark reality is that most of us (me included and perhaps Ausmus) need to “learn our way” into being competent in a role. Potential sometimes takes time to bloom, just like a flower. When I first saw Connor Cook on the field (Spring Game) I wondered why MSU had even bothered to recruit him. Now (as I write this) he’s the starting QB of a nationally-ranked team challenging for a conference championship. The coaches had faith and trust in him, and they did what we all need from those who serve as our mentors: they help develop us from the person we are today to the person we will be tomorrow.
We all know that the Tigers could have done what the Red Sox and Indians did in 2012—go out and get a proven winner as manager (like Boston did with John Farrell and Cleveland did with Terry Francona). But that isn’t what the Tigers did. The reality is that Leyland is gone and other proven winners, like Maddon in Tampa and Melvin in Oakland, are staying put.
What we have is Dave Dombrowski’s judgment about Brad Ausmus’ capacity to win. Without question, Dombrowski has earned our faith and trust. And every Tiger fan wants Ausmus to “be the guy.” It won’t be easy and it will likely take time. But we have hope, right?
The Old English D isn’t a letter only: it’s a symbol—revered and respected—that stands for something that’s much bigger than athletics and more important than baseball. If there’s something called Boston Strong, then in Michigan we have “Detroit Determination.” It comes from being down a lot, but never, ever being out.
Success always boils down to having Faith. Trust. Hope. It’s the batting order of life.
(Dedicated to my brother-in-law, Pat Burns, who lives those virtues.)
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