A Yankees bat boy remembers George Steinbrenner.

A Yankees bat boy remembers George Steinbrenner.

A Yankees bat boy remembers George Steinbrenner.

Bringing out the dead.
July 13 2010 10:58 PM

The Boss, My First One

A Yankees bat boy remembers George Steinbrenner.

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The George Steinbrenner I remember from childhood was a villain as dastardly as any I'd ever encountered in pro wrestling or comic books. Having been born in 1975, I am too young to remember the Yankees' championship teams of my early childhood. I started paying close attention in 1983, Don Mattingly's rookie year, an otherwise mediocre season in a decade full of them. To come of age as a Yankees fan in the mid-1980s was to feel as if Mattingly was all we had. Donnie Baseball could do no wrong, and as an adolescent I could not fathom why this George Steinbrenner guy would go so far out of his way to persecute him.

When I got older and began reading the sports page, my distrust of the Yankees' owner deepened. Threats to move the team to New Jersey, threats to fire whoever happened to be the manager that week, threats to send this or that player to Columbus—what kind of man treated his fans and players this way? What happened next—Steinbrenner's suspension in 1990 for paying a gambler to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield—was no easier for a kid to understand. While I was hazy on most of the details, I was not too young to realize this was an embarrassment to the Yankees. Still, I followed the team as closely as ever. After the following season, on a bit of a lark, I began writing letters to the Yankees front office asking how to become a bat boy. A few months later, rather miraculously, I was hired to work in the home clubhouse.


Steinbrenner was still suspended in 1992, my first of two seasons with the team, but his specter haunted the clubhouse. The more veteran bat boys told tales of epic blowups of years past. I bore witness, by contrast, to an awkward, earnest pre-game clubhouse pep talk delivered by Joseph Molloy, the Steinbrenner son-in-law who was appointed Yankees' managing general partner in the Boss' absence. Molloy went on to become a middle-school gym teacher in Tampa, Fla., which seems a much better fit for his rhetorical skills. The Yankees, I realized, were used to fire and brimstone. I still had never met the man, but as the team limped to a fourth-place finish, it was hard not to wonder whether Steinbrenner's absence was partly to blame.

When Steinbrenner was reinstated in March 1993, he retook the helm in typically bombastic fashion. Inside the clubhouse, the changes were swift. The Boss had apparently spent part of his time away from baseball in consultation with nutritionists from the U.S. Olympic Committee. Forthwith, we were informed by the Yankees' head trainer Gene Monahan, we were strictly forbidden from going on pre-game fast food runs for the ballplayers, who were now expected to eat only the skinned chicken breasts and leafy salads prescribed by Steinbrenner himself. No bat boy needed to ask what the penalty would be if the Boss caught you delivering fried chicken from Cuchifritos or, God forbid, an Egg McMuffin. I'm not sure who took the news harder, the players or the bat boys—food runs were easily our most reliable source of tips. Eventually, as with any other unpopular edict, the banned conduct was merely driven underground. We developed a code to signal when Steinbrenner was up from Tampa and food runs were to be undertaken with elevated levels of stealth and caution. If "Elvis was in the house," the Big Macs were to be delivered to the team's weight room, a place the Boss was unlikely to conduct a spot check.

In the end, the Steinbrenner tantrums we all feared turned out to be infrequent and mild, especially compared to the bat-splintering ones of which the ballplayers proved capable. Still, given the stories I'd heard all my life, it was hard not to fear that any interaction with the man—however casual or careless—might end with the unceremonious termination of my dream job. I remember the morning of a day game when Steinbrenner unexpectedly walked into the clubhouse players' lounge much earlier than he usually appeared. I was eating cereal for breakfast and reading the Post; another bat boy named Silverio was laid out on one of the couches, watching television. I saw Steinbrenner come in, but Silverio did not. I tried to warn him, but Silverio was too busy flipping channels to notice. As I hurriedly stood and set to alphabetizing the newspapers and buffing already-clean tables, I watched with terror as Steinbrenner walked up behind Silverio. By the time my fellow bat boy saw him, it was too late. The Boss was standing right over him.

"Hiya, George," Silverio ventured. Bold move. Not how I would have played it. I waited for the eruption.

"Are you comfortable?" Steinbrenner asked him, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Can I get you anything? Anything at all?"

"Nah," said Silverio guardedly. "I'm fine."

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing, and what I was sure I was about to witness.  It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. I wanted to help Silverio, but I couldn't. The Boss was going to can him on the spot.

"You sure?" Steinbrenner asked, giving him what seemed to be a final chance. Silverio reflected a moment.