For years I have advised George Steinbrenner out of town because they dishonored my house with his harassment and bombast.Then a strange night in San Diego, I found it embraces. Very strange.He was a blow. I've learned over the years. I would criticize the way they use their managers Billy Martin or others, but then I would go with him into the race with Harvey Schiller and Mike Moran or some of his friends in Calgary Olympics or Havana, and was easy to make jokes with him . Thick skin. Short memory. Big ego. Whatever.
He was also a bit of a crier. There are very emotional about the flags or young children, including sunsets on the beach. I never realized that until the night the Yankees won the World Series in 1998, four in a row on the Fathers of the last two in San Diego. Reporters were allowed in the clubhouse, all smoking of Champagne, and we were going around looking for someone to interview, and suddenly, right in our midst, there was George. And he began to mourn.
I do not think it was the champagne. It was only around for something emotional, winning four straight, or maybe it was deeper, something he could not express. They surrounded him and waited until a few brief comments, but not much out.Finally, I do what men have learned to do in the previous generation, it was for him a great man of big hug and congratulate him and just babble whatever I talked. In the midst of success, George needed comfort. It seemed to come around and give us some feedback from our notebooks. Do not shoot anyone that night, the old Goedzak.
I kind of miss that type, the owner who tormented his staff, his players called chicken, but I knew that things could joke when in good humor. Since it started fading, I kept thinking I was going to show in the field one day, his old self, intimidating its employees, plunging the journalists, but George was gone. Fun. I called the man from Tampa. Now that is really gone, I miss him.