A Brief, Memorable Encounter With Billy Martin

One of the great and enduring bonuses of almost five decades in journalism has been the opportunity to meet and make quick--and probably often facile--judgments about the people who were making news during those years. One such person was Billy Martin.

When he died in a car crash in New York state on Christmas, my thoughts went back instantly to the dozens of times I’ve seen him play and manage, but mostly to the one time when our paths crossed directly. I make no claim to knowing him beyond this one incident; yet it left such a stark image for me that all of my reactions to Martin over the past 15 years have been colored by that single experience.

I had been assigned by a national magazine to do a piece on Martin while he was manager of the Oakland A’s. I wanted real time with him, so there was--what seemed to me, once they accepted the request--a ridiculously long period of negotiation with the A’s publicity people. Finally it was arranged. I was to fly to Oakland and show up at the ballpark several hours before the game that day. Martin would talk to me then and pick up any missing pieces after the game.

Oakland was in first place, and a big crowd was expected, but when I arrived the ballpark was virtually deserted. I checked in with the press people and was told that Martin knew the interview was scheduled and would be along any minute. I was led to an anteroom off Martin’s office, next to the A’s locker room.

Except for a couple of brief forays through the locker room to chat with players, I sat there for more than two hours, reluctant to go very far away in case he showed up. One of his coaches wandered in and out, making small talk with me. He became steadily more attentive and concerned as time passed.

Finally, I asked the coach where Martin parked his car, then stood nearby, just inside the players’ entrance gate. Martin careened into his parking place in an expensive sports car about 20 minutes before game time. He hit the ground running, and when I started to identify myself, he brushed by me without a look. I followed him to his office, which he burst into, slamming the door behind him. The friendly coach passed by me, looking pained, and went inside.

I heard him talking to Martin, then Martin shouted, “The hell with him”--or more pungent words to that effect. The coach came out and told me that Martin had been detained unexpectedly and now had to turn his attention to the game. He would have to talk with me when it was over.

I watched the game from the press box. The A’s were beaten rather soundly, and at the end of the eighth inning, I went back to the locker room to await Martin, accompanied this time by the press agent. Martin came storming in a few minutes later, throwing things. After a few minutes of this, the publicist went into his office and came out rather quickly.

“Billy’s mad about losing the game,” he said helplessly. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

There was no other time. The team was leaving on a 10-day road trip the next morning. The publicist said he would try to talk to Martin again “after he calms down,” but we both knew it wasn’t going to work.

So I was sitting in his outer office, steaming, when Martin burst out again. He didn’t look at me. I followed him down the hall to a briefing room where the baseball beat writers were assembled. I went in and sat down.

He growled something about “five minutes” and started taking questions. But he never looked at the questioner; he looked only at me. Throughout the question period, he never took his eyes from me. They were icy and angry; they said: “You don’t belong here, and I want you out.”

Finally, at a lull in the questioning, I asked about a disputed play in the game we had just seen. Still looking directly at me, he said: “That’s the most stupid question I’ve ever heard, and it doesn’t deserve an answer.” Then he stalked out.

I have no idea what demons were driving him that day--or why he directed them at me. Still don’t. I hung around until the friendly coach tapped me gently on the shoulder and said: “There’s no point in staying any longer. He’s not going to see you.”

And so I went home with a near-empty note pad, a lot of anger and a non-story. Plus a searing recollection of that cold, piercing stare that Martin fixed on me--for reasons hidden somewhere in his own belligerent approach to life.

I’ve heard many other views of Martin expressed over the years from people who knew him, some corroborating, some contradicting my expressions. A few months ago when I attended the University of Missouri homecoming, I spent a drinking evening with one of Martin’s close friends, and we talked about him at length. He insisted that Martin was a gentle, affectionate, intensely loyal man whose repeated public escapades happened only because Martin--trying to withdraw--was finally goaded into them.

Maybe so. I have no way of judging beyond my brief encounter with him. But I know that on the field he was one hell of a competitor, and I really hope he gets a few pennant winners where he is now.