Knuckler (24 page)

You don't get it. You don't know half as much as you think you do. You don't like me, and you never have. You know nothing about the knuckleball, and you don't want to because you want to take credit for everything.

The aftershocks, too, were damaging.

Three days after the win over the Orioles, Duquette fired Jimy Williams, with whom he had been feuding over, among other things, the renegade behavior of Carl Everett. The clubhouse was in turmoil. Veteran players were griping about inconsistent playing time. The Red Sox lacked chemistry and leadership during an injury-filled season in which frustrations had long since begun to mount. Wakefield was quite disillusioned to see a scapegoat made of Williams, whom he liked a lot and for whom he had a great deal of respect, despite some of the personal frustrations he had felt over the past two seasons. While some Sox players seemed relieved that Williams was gone, Wakefield
almost always regarded managerial changes as a bad thing, an indication, above all else, that a team was failing.
It means we haven't been doing our jobs.
And yet, he also knew that teams were known to go on winning streaks in the wake of a managerial change, playing as if liberated from oppression or simply the monotony of a routine that had long since gone stale.

In the case of the 2001 Red Sox, there was no real such benefit, mostly because Williams's replacement was a man for whom Red Sox players had an even higher level of distrust: pitching coach Joe Kerrigan, with whom Wakefield had just had a very emotional falling-out.

You've got to be kidding me.

Oh, shit.

From the very start, like most everyone who had recently spent any time around the Red Sox, Wakefield knew that Kerrigan would be a disaster as a manager. Kerrigan had few, if any, allies in the clubhouse, and he was regarded strictly as a pitching specialist, a skill set that did not bode well for his performance managing the club.

Historically in baseball, for whatever reason, pitching coaches have generally made poor managers, though there have been some exceptions. Kerrigan would not be one of them. At team meetings during the early part of his tenure, the positional players on the Boston roster all but rolled their eyes whenever Kerrigan broached the subject of their offensive approach. Kerrigan knew how to pitch to hitters—pitching, by definition, is
proactive
—but the concept of a reactionary approach was lost on him. His offensive theories were strictly theoretical and based on no real experience. According to some Sox players at the time, Kerrigan would note that a player had good statistics in certain situations: he was batting .377 when the count was 2–2, for instance. Kerrigan would then encourage the player to swing every time the count was 2–2. Such an assessment was obviously simplistic and naive, overlooking the identity of the pitcher, the nature of the pitch, and the situation in the game.

If the 2–2 pitch was over the player's head, should he swing?

In the minds of some Sox players, they believed that Kerrigan would have answered
yes.

Over the final six weeks of the season, pitching exclusively as a reliever, Wakefield went 1–3 with a 6.00 ERA. Had his performance been the only one that suffered, Wakefield might have spent the time soul-searching. As it was, the rebellion spread throughout the rest of the Red Sox clubhouse, and the team self-destructed in a collapse that proved an indictment of the managerial career and capabilities of Joe Kerrigan.

After treading water for the first week of Kerrigan's tenure, the Red Sox lost nine in a row, then 13 of 14, the nine straight making Kerrigan only the third Red Sox manager in nearly 40 years to suffer such a skid. Then, during a period that already qualified as one of the uglier stretches in Red Sox history, the world was shaken to its core by the terrorist attacks of September 11, a tragedy that only briefly awoke the Red Sox from their self-absorbed struggles. Before, around, and after September 11, Ramirez openly challenged Kerrigan on a team bus, Everett was suspended, and a rehabilitating Martinez threw off his jersey and walked out on Kerrigan in the middle of a team workout. The manager had completely lost control of the team, and the Red Sox were a laughingstock.

For perhaps the only time in his career, Wakefield was not proud to wear the uniform as the Red Sox concluded the season in inglorious fashion, each member of the team hurrying out of Boston for the off-season.

"It was embarrassing," Wakefield said.

I'm fine.

They're the ones bouncing all over the place.

From his home in Melbourne that winter, Wakefield watched with great interest as the Red Sox underwent massive changes at their very core. Christmas was fast approaching as the Red Sox convened for a morning press conference at Fenway Park on December 20, when the new ownership group headed by John Henry, Tom Werner, and Larry Lucchino was introduced to the media. Though that group would not officially take over operation of the team until the sale was finalized the following spring, the Sox continued to do business, announcing
the signing of outfielder Johnny Damon to a four-year contract later that same day, in the same room, to virtually the same cast of reporters. With the exception of the Damon acquisition, most of the Red Sox maneuvers had involved departures more than arrivals.

In fact, on some levels, Wakefield thought the entire winter felt like a cleansing. Carl Everett, for one, was traded to the Texas Rangers, and disgruntled veterans like Dante Bichette and Mike Lansing, who had been unhappy with their roles in Boston, left the club via free agency. Wakefield had healthy relationships with all of those players—as he did with most everyone—but he also felt that the Sox lacked chemistry and cohesion in 2001, and he knew the clubhouse needed changes. He wondered about the effect of his blowup with Kerrigan, with whom he had not reconciled, but he tried to prepare for the coming season as he had always done. He ran and got his legs in shape. He strengthened his upper body and core. He began throwing before camp and got his arm in shape. Baseball was his
job,
no matter who was in charge, and Wakefield believed that it was his responsibility to show up ready to contribute.

As it turned out, the changes in the Boston organization were broader and deeper than even Wakefield expected, and they shook the Red Sox at the highest levels.

When Wakefield arrived for spring training, the feeling was unlike any other spring during his time in Boston. More changes were coming, and everybody knew it. The uncertainty was palpable. Over the winter the Red Sox had installed former Sox catcher Mike Stanley as Kerrigan's bench coach, a move that Wakefield welcomed and thought was a good one. As a player, Stanley had been an enormously popular player in the clubhouse and someone to whom everyone went for advice, from superstars like Martinez to clubhouse attendant Joe Cochran. Wakefield and Stanley were friends and fellow Florida natives. As teammates, they had spent time fishing together during the off-season. Wakefield confided in Stanley throughout that winter, relying on the new bench coach as a conduit to his manager.

What's my role going to be, Mike? Just let me know how Joe wants to use me.

Mike Stanley never really had to answer Wakefield's questions.

Though the new owners of the Red Sox were not formally installed until early March, heads almost instantly began to roll. Duquette was fired and replaced by assistant general manager Mike Port, who was named Duquette's successor on an interim basis. Wakefield breathed a sigh of relief when the new administration similarly wasted little time in disposing of Kerrigan. A search for a new manager began immediately. Wakefield hoped that the changes would result in his return to the starting rotation, but there was no way of knowing that until the Red Sox hired a new manager. Boston's search was believed to include Grady Little, who had been a bench coach during the early years of Jimy Williams's tenure. Wakefield beamed at the prospect of playing for Little, particularly following the departure of Kerrigan, because Little was someone he liked and a baseball man who understood him.

The state of flux during this challenging time for the Red Sox was a feeling Wakefield knew all too well.

In some ways, I feel used to this.

My whole career has been a state of flux.

Midway through March, with opening day rapidly approaching, Wakefield showed up at the team's spring stadium, as he did every morning, and parked his car in the gated lot behind City of Palms Park. He walked through the back entrance, said hello to security personnel, and strolled to his locker at the far left corner of a rectangular Red Sox clubhouse. Wakefield changed into his uniform and spent much of the morning sitting in the chair in front of his locker, which was stationed next to a set of stairs that descended down to the runway, which led to the Red Sox dugout at their spring home. Beyond the stairs was a hallway that housed a bat rack and led to the team offices, a corridor that essentially connected the uniformed members of the Red Sox to management.

Later that morning, as Wakefield sat at his locker, a succession of Sox officials came through that corridor. Lucchino, Werner, and Henry all entered the room, and all three men were present as team president Lucchino addressed the team. The room was otherwise si
lent. Lucchino told the players that the Red Sox were going through a transitional time, that the changes could be hard on all of them, but that things were steadily beginning to settle. The new owners were committed to winning. And then Lucchino introduced the man who would be the next manager of the Red Sox. Grady Little strolled into the room from the corridor to Tim Wakefield's immediate left as Wakefield and his Red Sox teammates exploded into thunderous applause.

The worst is behind us.

We're starting over.

Though Little was unfamiliar to some of the new members of the Red Sox, many of the existing Sox knew him and adored him from his previous tenure as a bench coach with the club. Little spoke in a slow, southern drawl and never seemed to overreact to
anything,
and he had a clever wit to go along with his easygoing nature. He made others laugh and kept them loose, and he had enjoyed Williams's complete confidence as bench coach because both had most recently come from the Atlanta Braves organization, where Little had been an accomplished minor league manager. Little knew how to speak with players, and he knew how to treat them. Those skills made him a most refreshing and welcome change given the shortcomings of Kerrigan.

The moment Little appeared in the clubhouse, Wakefield felt an enormous sense of relief.
This guy
knows me and knows what I can do.
Because the Red Sox were so late into camp, and because roster decisions had been made, Little informed Wakefield that he would remain in the bullpen to start the year. The simplest truth was that it was far too late to make changes. Wakefield still wanted to start, to be sure, but as he lamented his plight in the past to Little, he felt like he could communicate openly with his new manager. His specific role didn't seem to matter as much anymore. As bench coach of the Red Sox, Grady Little had heard out Wakefield on more than one occasion, and he had assured Wakefield that his contributions were valuable.

"I just felt like he appreciated me," Wakefield said.

And in the end, that was really all Tim Wakefield wanted.

In the first month of the 2002 season, thanks to unforeseen injuries
and issues, Wakefield made two starts and three relief appearances, recording a win and a save while posting a 3.10 ERA. Over the next three months, he pitched almost exclusively out of the bullpen. On the morning of July 31, Wakefield was 4–3 with a 3.50 ERA and three saves, again having filled any and all gaps the Red Sox had asked him to fill. He was having another good year. The Red Sox had gotten off to a blazing start under Little before playing the final months of the season on a rather uninspiring plateau. They began the season 40–17 and finished it 53–52—for a total of 93–69—and ended up missing the playoffs by six games. Their spot in the standings was partly the result of a bullpen that undermined their efforts, but also partly the effect of an unusual season in which the fourth and final American League playoff spot, the wild-card entry, went to an Anaheim Angels team that had won 99 games.

Beginning on July 31, because of injuries, Little had permanently moved Wakefield into the starting rotation, a decision that paid enormous dividends for the team as well as the player. Over the final two months, Wakefield went 7–2 with a 2.01 ERA while the Red Sox went 8–3 in his 11 starts. He was positively brilliant. Opponents batted a paltry .193 against him, and he walked just 20 batters in 76 innings, a rate of 2.4 walks per nine innings that would have been commendable for a
traditional
pitcher. Wakefield finished the year with an 11–5 record, a 2.81 ERA, and three saves to go along with the lowest ERA of his Red Sox career, all as he approached an off-season during which the Red Sox again held an option on his contract.

Suddenly, all of the pieces for Wakefield seemed to be back in place. He had a manager who understood and appreciated him. He had acquired the wisdom and experience of a veteran knuckleballer. And he had reason to believe that the best years of his career were still in front of him and that the worst was indeed behind him.

Still, for Tim Wakefield, the damage done to his career during the Kerrigan years remained impossible to overlook.

During the four-year period from 1999 to 2002—what should have been the heart and peak of his career—Wakefield pitched in 190 games and made only 66 starts, his versatility hurting him as much as
it helped him. Given what Wakefield had contributed to the Red Sox prior to that span—and what he would contribute after—it is clear that the Red Sox badly misused him. From 1995 to 1998, a four-year period during which Wakefield was used as a starter (with relief outings when necessary), he had averaged 15 wins and 206 innings per season; during the period 2003 to 2005, the three years after his turbulent four-year stretch, Wakefield would similarly average 13 victories and 205 innings. The four-year period from 1999 to 2002 thus stands out as a time when the Red Sox failed to get maximum use out of their knuckleballer, depriving him of the victories that by 2010 would already have made him the winningest pitcher in Red Sox history.