Grinding It Out (24 page)

 

15

Everyone, including my wife and the commissioner of baseball, was shocked when I grabbed the public address microphone at the Padres' first home game in 1974 and chewed out the players for putting on a rotten performance. The 40,000 fans roared, and the baseball writers went crazy. Joni was on the telephone as soon as I got back to the hotel to say she was ashamed of me. How could I do such a thing? Was I drunk? No, I assured her, I wasn't drunk. I was just plain mad as hell.

That moment had been building for a good many weeks, probably since I first asked Don Lubin to begin negotiations to buy the team for me. I had read that the owner, California banker C. Arnholt Smith, was in deep financial difficulty and would be forced to sell. Several groups had expressed interest, so there was more than a little suspense about the affair. Don called Buzzy Bavasi, general manager of the club, and told him that Ray Kroc wanted to buy.

“That's fine,” Buzzy said. “Who else is in the group?”

“He
is
the group.” There was a long, skeptical silence. Then Don added, “He owns seven million shares of McDonald's common stock, which is selling for about fifty-five dollars a share.” Buzzy did a little mental arithmetic and said he would be glad to talk to Mr. Smith about it.

We had a preliminary meeting in which I swapped baseball yarns with Buzzy and his son, Peter. We hit it off right from the start. I'd always admired Buzzy and respected his professionalism since the days when he was one of the old Brooklyn Dodgers and was associated with baseball executives like Larry MacPhail, Branch Rickey, and Walter O'Malley. Our chat stirred all the memories of my lifelong interest in baseball and made me set my heart on owning this team. But there were to be many anxious weeks of bargaining before the deal was concluded. Smith at first wanted half a million dollars more than I was willing to pay. After the price was agreed upon, his lawyers still stalled while trying to extricate him from his problems with the government. Don Lubin kept me posted by telephone on the day-to-day meetings with the Smith group. In one crucial session, held in an elegant suite atop a bank that Smith had once controlled, the going got particularly heavy, and Don and his partner, Bob Grant, held a strategy conference in a room that looked out over San Diego Bay. He told me later that they believed Smith was ready to throw in the towel and go along with our demands, but they weren't sure. Then they noticed a photograph on a table that was so faded by the sun they could barely make out the faces of the three men in it—C. Arnholt Smith, Richard M. Nixon, and Spiro Agnew. That symbol of faded glory was particularly striking in the wake of Watergate, and it gave my men a psychic lift—they went to bat with renewed vigor. Finally, they narrowed the differences down to one or two points. I flew into San Diego late one evening and met with them and Smith.

“Look, Mr. Smith, we have delayed long enough,” I said. “Unless this deal is signed now, there isn't going to be any deal.”

We signed.

The Padres had been in the cellar for five straight years, so I wasn't expecting any miracles. I told the sportswriters I thought it would take at least three years to build the team up, and I wasn't surprised when they started the season by dropping a three-game series in Los Angeles. Disappointed but not surprised.

I was greeted like a hero in San Diego. Old men and little boys stopped me in the street to thank me for saving baseball for the city. The mayor presented me with an award in the opening ceremonies of our first home game. The sportswriters also gave me an award, the U.S. Navy Band and Marine Band played, and cameras flashed as I stood there, arms raised, making the V-sign, acknowledging the cheers like a presidential candidate.

Gordon McRae sang the national anthem and the umpire called, “Play ball!” I was so excited when that first Houston Astro batter walked to the plate that I could hardly contain myself. But the mood passed quickly as I watched error after error by my team. After a few innings I got disgusted.

Then the Padres showed some signs of life. They loaded the bases with one out. Our fourth batter hit a high pop-up behind the plate, and we all watched it tensely, giving it body English, trying to will it to fall into the stands for a foul strike. But the Houston catcher took it for the second out. I turned to Don Lubin and said, “Doggone it. We had a rally going there. Well, we still have one out left.”

As I turned to watch the play again I was astonished to see the Astros trotting in off the field. “What's the matter?” I yelled. “There's still one out to go!” Don shook his head and said, “Yes, there was. But our man on first ran to second on that foul fly and was doubled off first by the catcher.”

That really made me furious. I jumped up and stomped down to the PA booth. The man at the microphone looked up in disbelief as I burst in. “Hello, Mr. Kroc,” he said. Without replying, I grabbed the microphone out of his hands. At that very instant a man ran stark naked across the playing field from the left field stands. My voice boomed out into every corner of the park, “Get that streaker out of here! Arrest him! Get the police!” The streaker was never caught, but he had created quite a stir in the audience. It was nothing, however, compared to the commotion I was about to generate.

“This is Ray Kroc speaking,” I told the fans. I said I had good news and bad news for them. There were ten thousand more of them in the park that evening than had turned out to see the Los Angeles Dodgers' opener in the larger Chavez Ravine stadium a few nights before. That was the good news. “The bad news is that we are putting on a lousy show for you,” I bellowed. “I apologize for it. I'm disgusted with it. This is the most stupid baseball playing I've ever seen!”

Interviewers still ask me about that incident. Usually the question is whether I regret it. The answer is
hell no
! I only regret that I didn't lay it on them a lot harder. I did have to make a diplomatic apology to the commissioner, but I have the satisfaction of being responsible for a new rule in baseball—no one but the official announcer can use the public address system at a game. I also introduced a novel concern to baseball. It was my insistence, well known to McDonald's employees, that customers receive a quality product for their money. Apparently I was the first owner ever to suggest that players owe top performance to the fans who support them.

At the time, reaction to my outburst was mixed. Newspaper columnists expounded on it, and television commentators hashed it over. I think that, generally, they agreed with the point I was making—that it's no crime to lose unless you fail to do your best. All kinds of baseball personalities were quoted pro and con as to how that applies to professional players. Doug Rader, the third baseman for the Houston Astros (who later joined our club), said, “Who the hell does he think he's talking to, a bunch of short order cooks?” I told the press that Rader had insulted all short-order cooks, and I invited any of them in the San Diego area to be my guests at the opening game of our next home series against the Astros. If they came wearing a chef's hat, they would be admitted to the ball park free. Thousands of people showed up in chef's hats for that game, and they were all seated behind third base. Rader was presented with a chef's hat at home plate before the game started. Our fans booed every play he made during the game—all in the spirit of fun, of course.

It was wonderful to see how the San Diego fans got behind the Padres and supported them even when they were losing, which was most of the time during our first two seasons. Attendance at the park has increased dramatically each year. It will get even better as the team continues to improve. We have had a lot of fun encouraging this spirit with promotions like tailgate parties, which had become traditional for football games and adapted readily to baseball. One time I gave away ten thousand dollars in a big money-grab before the game. We picked forty spectators out of the stadium at random and let them onto the field, which was strewn with paper money. They could keep all they could pick up in a certain time limit, and I'll tell you, there was some mighty scrambling out there.

Buzzy clearly appreciated my active interest in the team. He told me that all too many owners are absentee landlords, he says. We stay in touch by telephone all the time. When he first took me on a tour to meet the office staff, I was appalled at the wages we were paying. I understood that had been necessary because of Smith's financial troubles, but I didn't want the front office folks to think I was a miser. I'm not talking about players; they're pros and have good contracts. I told Buzzy, “I want you to give all these people raises, across the board.” He really boggled at that. He told me that baseball people traditionally scrimp by on very low pay. They have to, because they have more bad years than good years. I replied that, tradition be damned, any team I own is going to pay decent wages. Well, we compromised on it. We didn't make an across-the-board increase. But I made sure that the people who deserved a raise got one. They all got bonuses at Christmas and when the team was doing well. Buzzy had to admit later that part of the team's increasing success was due to the new interest and efficiency in our front office.

Our ball park is owned by the City of San Diego, so I can't do as I please there. Some of my plans for landscaping and other improvements to beautify the park got scuttled by the city fathers. No hard feelings. They have their football crowds to consider, and my plans would have eliminated some seating. But I keep coming up with ideas to make our games a more pleasant experience. One of them was the electric one-man band, a player piano rigged up with drums and cymbals and all kinds of other effects. I had it painted Padres yellow and brown and installed it near the entrance to the stadium. Buzzy thought it was really a nutty idea. But he changed his tune when he saw how the crowds gather around to watch it play before games. I also came up with the idea for selling a big bucket of popcorn for a dollar. We promoted it as
the world's biggest box of popcorn.
I have some other ideas along this line, too, such as the new kind of cookie we're calling the
Farkelberry Snickerdoodle
—I got the idea from Jim Delligatti in Pittsburgh, where Snickerdoodles have been described as “albino brownies with measles.” I am just getting started with these promotions.

The team itself is improving all the time. Before the start of the 1977 season we added some fine players in Gene Tenace, a catcher, fielder, and power hitter, and Rollie Fingers, an outstanding relief pitcher, both of whom were formerly with the Oakland A's. Another relief pitcher, Butch Metzger, was named Rookie of the Year for the 1976 season. We were expecting another super season from pitcher Randy Jones, a regular starter who won the Cy Young Award in 1976.

Unfortunately, Buzzy Bavasi resigned after the 1977 season. I became president of the club, but not to run it—I am leaving that up to my son-in-law, Ballard Smith, who is executive vice-president. Bob Fontaine, vice president and general manager, is in charge of everything that has to do with playing baseball, and Elten Schiller is business manager. This will be a completely different style of management for the Padres. Buzzy ran a one-chair barbershop and nobody could make a move or spend a nickel without consulting him. I don't believe in that. I delegate authority. Bob Fontaine is free to make any trade he wants without my approval. Of course, he can't make any million-dollar deals without my consent. But he and Ballard and Elten are mature, stable, and competent men, and I intend to let them do their jobs without interference.

On the whole, owning the Padres has been very rewarding. One of the best things about it was discovering the progressive spirit of San Diego. I think it's destined to become one of the fastest-growing communities in the country. It's wonderful. Weather conditions are perfect for all kinds of manufacturing, labor is plentiful, and there's an energetic mood about the place that Phoenix and Miami and Fort Lauderdale once had but have lost. That's why I bought the San Diego Mariners of the World Hockey League in August 1976. I felt the city deserved to have professional hockey as well as baseball and football. But that didn't work out very well. The fans didn't seem to be ready to support hockey, and I wound up selling the team back to the league. I never paid much attention to the game personally anyhow.

Doing things like buying baseball teams and hockey teams always opens a person to criticism from folks who think they have better ideas about how one's money should be spent. There is a common fallacy that money will solve problems. It won't. Money creates problems, and the more you have, the bigger the problems, not the least of which is how to spend it wisely.

People have sometimes accused me of being a hungry tiger for money. That's not true. I've never done anything for the sake of money alone. Several years ago, when we were first beginning to generate big income, I made a speech at a financial meeting, and a fellow got up and said, “Isn't it interesting that Mr. Kroc has so much enthusiasm and spirit. You know that he owns four million McDonald's shares and the stock went up five dollars.” I was floored. Actually embarrassed. The fellow was looking at me. So I said into the mike, “So what! I can still only wear one pair of shoes at a time.” I got a hell of a hand. But, you see, that's the mentality. The person who thinks only in terms of “Where's mine?” can't imagine anyone else not thinking the same way. We've actually had writers criticize McDonald's policy of furnishing free coffee and hamburgers when natural disasters strike as being a self-serving public relations gimmick. That's kind of hard to take, because we're always trying to be good neighbors and responsible citizens. We've always encouraged our franchisees to become involved in community activities and to make donations to worthwhile charities.

Other unfair things have been published about us. For example, we were accused of having torn down a Greek Revival “landmark” building in Cambridge, Massachusetts, so we could build a McDonald's on the site. The writers failed to mention that the building was a wreck. It had been vandalized and burned before we bought it. The city of Cambridge had refused to designate it as a landmark building. That store had a rough time after it opened in 1974 because of all the politically motivated demonstrations against it. The operator, Lawrence Kimmelman, was only able to hang on because he had a couple of other stores in the Boston area. Gradually, however, the residents of Cambridge began to realize that the store was an asset to them. They forgot about all the negative rhetoric. Business picked up. A black woman who was a Democratic ward coordinator and had been one of the most vocal opponents of our opening was so impressed later that she went to work for Kimmelman in that store. Then in 1976 Congressman and Speaker of the House Thomas P. “Tip” O'Neill told Kimmelman he was glad that McDonald's had overcome their problems in Cambridge because, “You are doing a terrific job of community service here.”