Dave Saltzer

This article was just updated to include the introduction to the chapter on Alex Johnson. Rob really does a great job capturing the multiple facets to each of these players personalities and lives. Here's what was added: ============================== Crank, swish, smash. Crank, swish, smash. Like repetitive rifle shots, the sound of the bat striking the ball reverberates off the nearby building, alerting all within earshot that something serious is going down in the batting cage. Peering into the cage one expects carnage, and that’s precisely what one sees: a black man in white flannels hitting baseballs with staggering verve and force. Alex Johnson turns with such violent precision on the ball that it seems to deaden on contact before it smashes into the cage’s nylon netting. Kids along the edge of the cage squirm, not sure if the net will contain the comets screaming their way. Johnson’s stoic gaze is unsettling to say the least. It leaves one to wonder if Johnson would rather hug you or kill you. Then there is his nickname, “Black Bull,” an appropriate moniker for a player who is strong, surly, and defiant. The pitching machine—or “Iron Mike,” as it is called—is Johnson’s most frequent companion. Its metal arm slings ball after ball at game speed, serving as a self-sufficient avenue to success in the real batter’s box. Most good hitters spend a fair share of time staring down a pitching machine; Alex Johnson lives 60 feet from one. Crank, swish, smash. Crank, swish, smash. Just when you think that Johnson—or the machine—may need a rest, he does the unthinkable: he creeps up on the machine. Then you fully grasp the strength, timing, agility, and quickness that Johnson displays as he smacks pitch after pitch. Johnson, whose forearms resemble bridge cables, continues to move forward as he hits, until he is almost halfway between the implacable machine and home plate. It’s an awesome display of bat-speed, concentration, reflex, and most of all, defiance. The batting cage can’t contain his defiance, which makes him a great batter. Like a Lakota warrior, his existence has been built around warfare. His Louisville Slugger is his war club, his means of survival, and his life’s work; it’s an expression of self, his manhood. Best not mess with a warrior’s weapon, or so goes the legend. Herald Examiner reporter Dick Miller tried once, and Johnson retaliated by putting coffee grinds in the scribe’s typewriter. Who’s to say that warriors don’t have a sense of humor? This, of course, is only his exterior. This “hit man” is both physical and cerebral. But no one really knows the real Alex Johnson. How could they? He doesn’t even know himself. Suddenly something happens so unexpected you need to blink for comprehension. Like Sonny Liston singing Christmas carols, it just doesn’t take. During a lull in Johnson’s massacre of baseballs, one of the kids works up the nerve to ask for an autograph. Without smiling, Johnson walks over with the same purpose and conviction he displayed in the cage, takes the boy’s scrap of paper, and writes legibly and deliberately: A-l-e-x J-o-h-n-s-o-n. The script is slightly tilted forward, crisp and legible. Like his hitting, he takes pride in his cursive. And with that, this cold statue to Ted Williams has morphed into a Pied Piper of sorts. More kids emboldened by the first brave lad cluster around and begin to thrust their bits of paper toward Johnson. There is a conviction in their body language that says this is not just a regular player. Sincere love and adoration widens their eyes as if they have some secret connection to this hero that grownups could only dream about. As the mob of kids grows, one smallish tyke in front is being crushed by the onslaught. The growing pack is oblivious. The tyke’s air is squeezed from him but he defiantly holds on, extending his paper as far as his small arm can take it. It seems to him his idol’s signature is worth dying for. Alex observes the child and as he reaches for his scrap barks with authority, “Move back.” Like obedient toy soldiers, the kids obey. Once assured the child is out of harm’s way, Johnson continues signing, and the gasping boy celebrates by running anywhere to show anyone his prize. For the next half-hour, Johnson signs his autograph for adoring fans. When all are satisfied, he heads back into the cage, into his own private sanctuary, the place “where coaches fear to tread.” He pours a fresh bag of balls into Iron Mike, takes his stance, and attacks. Crank, swish, smash. Crank, swish, smash. … Crank, swish, smash. * * * The snowstorm was so fierce it shut down Detroit. Downed power lines and ice forced drivers to abandon their cars on the freeways. For the newest Angel, Alex Johnson, it meant he was going to be late for spring training, and as he waited out the storm out in a diner, he wondered if the storm was an omen of the season ahead. Would his first season with the Angels be this bleak? A few days later, the skies cleared and Johnson resumed his drive to California and his new team. As his car crossed the Michigan line into Indiana, his mind raced back to other teams, other storms. To Philly where it all began, and Gene Mauch, who called him the fastest runner he had ever seen going from second to home. Johnson chuckled to himself recalling when Richie Allen had called him “the baddest of the bad… even badder than myself.” He also remembered Allen telling him that his bad rap was his own doing: calling everyone “dickhead” scared the front-office guys to death. Allen also liked to talk about the day when a stadium employee’s car broke down on the expressway, and how Johnson jumped in his own car and helped him out. “He came back an hour later,” Richie said in wonderment, “grease up to his elbows. Now, is this man a mental case, or is this a man I want as my friend? Just leave him alone and let him play baseball!” “That would have been nice,” thought Johnson. In St. Louis, the managers thought they knew more about hitting than he did. Skipper Red Schoendienst tried to change his approach at the plate, and when Johnson refused, they traded him to the Cincinnati Reds in January of 1968. In Cincy, manager Sparky Anderson didn’t seem to care for Johnson, thinking he was lazy. Despite two productive seasons, he was dealt again—this time to the Angels. Maybe Anaheim would be different. When the sun rose the next day he was in Utah. The flatness of the terrain reminded him of Detroit and the dusty sandlots he played on as a teen with Willie Horton and Bill Freehan. They both played for the hometown Tigers and had won a championship in 1968. Johnson was still searching for his. As Johnson neared Las Vegas, thoughts of home rushed to him. He thought of how proud his dad was of him and his brother Ron, who had rushed for 1,000 yards for the New York Giants the previous year, and of how well they got along. As he crossed the California border the desert reminded him of the Roadrunner cartoons he watched as a kid. His dad had kept switching the channel to the baseball “Game of the Week.” Johnson didn’t like that at first, but soon he warmed to his dad’s appreciation of the national pastime. He thought of Arkansas, Indianapolis, and Detroit, how his family had struggled at each place with segregation, stares, and disappointments. It was hard for a black man to get started, but Johnson’s dad was tough. He began on the assembly line, then started his own trucking repair business. Johnson used to tell Allen, “That’s where I got my big arms, from shoveling junk around at the shop.” When he finally arrived in Palm Springs, the Angels were out of town. Injured outfielder Jim Hicks was there, though, and he let Johnson know what lay in store. “Jim Hicks didn’t know me, he just knew about me and he assumed the sportswriters wouldn’t like me,” Johnson recalls. “He told me a few things about Anaheim. He told me about different characters, how I was going to relate to them. And, sure enough, it all turned out to be true.”

I very much agree. It is a great read, especially for Angels fans who came after much of the history had occurred. While the 2000s have seen the organization achieve its greatest glory, the cast of characters from the early years truly made the team special. Rob Goldman does a great job capturing all of that and has so many details, quotes, etc. to make it all work. It's sad to realize that we are now in the era when we will be losing many of these early players who played such an important role in the formation of the organization.

Ellen, your style, your prose, truly captures a moment and paints a great picture. Spring Training is a homecoming, and Fanfest is a wonderful annual tradition. I am so glad you got to share it with your dad. I look forward to seeing you.

I keep saying it folks, if I could pick anyone with whom to watch a baseball game, Jerry would be in my top ten list. If you haven't bought your tickets yet for Fanfest, do so now. Jerry alone is worth the price of admission.

I agree. Olivera would make some sense. As much as I would prefer Moncada, we aren't going to get him. Moncada makes a lot of sense for the organization, who can use him at either 3B or 2B.

That was actually the original title for this piece . . .

With two more Cuban defections today, the move by the Obama administration to normalize relations between our countries, etc. Moncada should sign quickly before the market on top Cuban prospects gets more diluted. All of which will push MLB to move towards a world draft. Personally, I would like to see a world draft done at a different time than the American draft and I would like to see it arranged in a way different than the reverse order of winning percentage. For example, it might be interesting if a team's world draft order was based on the reverse order of the amount of money spent on free agents that weren't on a team's roster during the previous season. So, if a team makes a big FA splash, that lowers their draft position on the World Draft.

Simple solution: make me the commish!

I don't think that the beat reporters would do that (although I got my suspicions of that Alden guy), but I was thinking more of the National people who come through and are doing a 1 or 2 day thing who'd want to make a story on him,especially as part of their coverage of the overall organization. I'm hoping he starts at Inland Empire so I can see him play in a few games.

How to Win Friends and Influence Umpires by Earl Weaver, forward by Bobby Cox. The Umpire Whisperer by Billy Martin.

I actually think that this is a good idea. Let him get his feet wet, get himself adjusted to living and playing in the States, and back into playing shape, all while not being under the bigger spotlight of the Major League camp. If he were with the ML camp, he'd be hounded by the press more (because it is a natural story), and any mistakes he makes, or issues he needs to work through (not playing for a year at a competitive level will add rust to anyone), won't be magnified.

Teams That Will Sign Me for 5/$125 million by James Shields

His story is why I love going to see the Minor League affiliates play, and inviting some of those guys to our Spring Training Fanfest. They work so hard just to get a chance to give us some fun at the ballpark. I'm very happy for Shoemaker.

I think a 3 year deal with a mutual 4th year would be best for him. The market rate will in all likelihood go up over the next 3 years, so he can always try to take advantage of that. At age 36 he could still seek a multi-year deal. At age 37,he will in all likelihood get a 1 year deal and for much less money. I believe adding him would give us depth in case Richards takes longer to recover and in case Wilson struggles. Of he's willing to take a realistic rate for his services for a chance to play on a playoff caliber team close to his home, he should sign with us.

I was thinking the same thing this morning, except I'd make the 4th year a mutual option year. If, after 3 years, he thinks the market is better, he can go find out (at a year younger he might get a better or longer deal). I'd at least serious consider floating the idea.

Understanding the Kendrick Trade--Harold Reynolds

Causes and Effects of Inflation and Deflation--The New England Patriots

Dressing for Success--Jason Grilli

How low is your image if doing something good for lawyers would improve it? The only thing lower would be improving your image by donating to a politician's campaign. Disgusting.

Leave it to Adam to always bring a goat to batting practice.

Stradling, thanks for a well written reply. Let me be clear, I have no problem with Barry charging for his services. Everyone should get paid for work. That's what work is--unlike volunteering. People volunteer to do things that are often as hard (if not more difficult) than work, but they are doing so because they derive a greater purpose from it than just the pay. Generally, I praise people for their volunteer activities, not their work activities (there are some jobs that I will always praise because the people who do them aren't paid commensurate to their risks or the benefits that they provide--so that it becomes a hybrid mixture of work and volunteerism--such as police, fire fighters, teachers, soldiers, etc.). So, I have no problem with Barry charging for his work, but will give him no praise for it. Additionally, as I have pointed out with Pete Rose and others, if you go to the Hall of Fame and look up the record for the most hits or the most homeruns in the game, and it will tell you that Pete Rose has the most hits and Barroid Bonds has the most homeruns. They even have items from both players (or at least they did a few years ago). So, the records are recognized. What isn't recognized is Pete Rose the man or Barroid Bonds the man. Now I know all the arguments about how some players in the past were not great men (Ty Cobb being the worst), but I can't change who has already been placed in there. I can, however (although I do not have a vote for the real Hall of Fame) make it better for the future and not put known cheats into the Hall of Fame.I think it would be very bad for the sport overall to do so.

Got it! He is a complete moron. Baseball should have given him a lifetime ban and gotten past him. The unnecessary and pathetic drama that he will bring to Spring Training will be a major distraction for the entire sport. No one person should be greater than the sport. And yet, A-Fraud will be. They should have banned him for life and moved on.

"The Challenge of Living within a Budget" George Steinbrenner with an intro by the Guggenheim Group.

I don't see how you can see this as a good move by A-Fraud. Let's see, the current villain from baseball's cheating getting lessons from the previous villain of the game? Not a good move. A good move would be to say that he only really cares about winning with the Yankees and wants to show the world that he can still perform while clean, so he is donating his entire salary this year to anti-drug/steroid programs for youth athletes. This is also not a good move for Barry Bonds, as again it comes across as low and petty of him. After the amount of money he made in the game, and the villain status he had for cheating, why would he be charging anyone to help them with their swing? The fact that he has to charge them (the article referred to them as "clients") shows that he is still greedy because he has no other interest than self-interest. I think that this article makes both of them come across as worse, not better.

If I had a list of people with whom I could talk baseball for an hour, Jerry Dipoto would be on that list near the top. Everything Chuck said is true. If you are even on the fence, Jerry Dipoto is worth the price of admission alone.