Winter of His Discontent

Under the managing of Dick Williams, the Padres won their first and only National League championship in 1984. He tells of his Padres years in his just-released autobiography, “No More Mr. Nice Guy,” written with Times Staff Writer Bill Plaschke. The Padre chapter is called “McNightmare.”

Shortly after the 1985 season, I was talking with Jack McKeon and Ballard Smith in Ballard’s office, where I’d gone to see about a contract extension because I had just one year left. Out of the clear blue, Smith said, “Dick, if you don’t want to come back for the last year of your contract, I’ll pay you off.”

My jaw dropped. Talk about a sucker punch.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked him. “Hell, no, I don’t want to quit.”

After I left his office and drove home, I became even madder. I reached Ballard on his car phone and asked him to repeat his original statement. He sounded nervous, like he’d just driven that car to the edge of a cliff. He told me we’d discuss the offer when I returned from a Caribbean cruise scheduled to begin in a couple of days. You bet we would.

While we were relaxing in the sun, Jack McKeon was home on the phone, ringing up my right-hand man, Ozzie Virgil, in Venezuela. According to Ozzie, the phone call went like this:

“Ozzie, we’re not going to renew you next year,” McKeon said to the one man I trust more than anyone in this game.

“You mean I have no job?” Ozzie asked.

“That’s right, you have no job,” McKeon said.

When Virgil finally reached me upon my return to the United States a week later, I was furious. Word of Ozzie’s firing finally reached the newspapers, complete with speculation that this was part of a ploy to fire me.

Joan Kroc read this and, incredibly, stated that she had no idea what was happening. The owner had no clue that her president and general manager were fixing to fire the manager.

So she came out in the newspaper and said that if Ballard and Jack wanted to buy me out, they’d have to do it with their own money. Then she phoned me and asked if she could stop by my house.

“Dick,” she said, “I’m very sorry about what happened. You turned this franchise around. I was going to sell it, but you brought us a pennant, and it’s never been more valuable or more loved in the community. So I had to keep it. I suppose I should be mad at you for that, but I’m just grateful.”

Then she said something I can still hear: “Dick, if you want me to fire Jack McKeon, I will. He has always wanted to manage. He has always pushed for doing both jobs, manager and general manager . . . As long as I’m the owner of this team, Jack McKeon will never be down on that field. If you want him fired, he’s fired.”

She caught her breath and continued: “If you also want me to fire Ballard, I will . . . “

I was so surprised that my heart was racing. She’d confirmed my suspicions and let me know where her loyalties lay. Suddenly, I had what I wanted. I didn’t need anybody fired.

“Don’t take anybody’s job over this,” I said. “It’s just that I need Ozzie. Without Ozzie watching my back downstairs, this kind of thing will continue all next season.”

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll meet at my house and clear all this up.” She paused. “You know, none of this would have happened if Ray were still alive. Those people wouldn’t try to step on Ray.”

A couple of months later, and two days before the start of spring training, we received a phone call from Joan Kroc. Norma picked up.

“Norma,” Joan said, “does Dick drink a lot?”

She told Joan what she’d told Ballard in his rude call more than a year and a half before, that she rarely saw me drink.

“Norma,” Joan said, “we don’t want another Billy Martin on our hands.”

Before Norma could respond, Joan asked, “Norma, does Dick really want to manage?”

With her face red, Norma muttered, “Ask him.”

What could I say? My reputation with Joan had obviously gone from solid to shambles in the span of two months. What could possibly have changed her mind so drastically? I knew this: I couldn’t spend the next season monitoring everything Ballard and Jack told her.

“Hell, Joan,” I told her, “the way I’ve been treated this winter, I guess I really shouldn’t want to manage, should I?”

We arrived at Joan’s lush Palm Springs house, and the rules had already been made.

“We will pay you your final year’s salary on one main condition,” she said. “You have to make it look like it was your decision. You have to bow out.”

Norma lashed out: “No, it has to be mutual agreement.”

Suddenly, Joan looked cold. “If we don’t do it this way, we don’t do it at all.”

Now it was Norma’s turn: “Then fine. Dick will go to spring training.”

Joan turned white. “Uh, no, we can’t do that. We’ll work something out.”

The announcement still made it look like my fault.

Later, we discovered another stipulation in the separation agreement, a clause saying I couldn’t talk about what happened for a full calendar year.

Geez, I thought, the Padres must be real proud of this.

Excerpted from “No More Mr. Nice Guy: A Life of Hardball,” by Dick Williams and Bill Plaschke. Copyright 1990 by Dick Williams and Bill Plaschke. Published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.