Moneyball - Michael Lewis [133]
All that remained was for Billy to sign the Red Sox contract. And he couldn’t do it. In the forty-eight hours after he accepted John Henry’s job offer, Billy became as manic and irrational and incapable of sleep as he had been back in May, after the A’s had been swept by the Blue Jays. As decisive as he was about most things, he was paralyzed when the decision involved himself. He loved the idea of working for John Henry, with his understanding of markets and their inefficiencies. But you didn’t up and move three thousand miles and start a new life just to work for a different owner. Five days before, Billy had convinced himself he wasn’t taking the job just for the money. Since it was pretty clear he wasn’t doing it for the love of the Red Sox, it raised a question of why he was doing it at all. He decided he was doing it just to show that he could do it. To prove that his own peculiar talents had concrete value. Dollar value. And that in any sane world he’d be paid a fortune for them.
Now he had a problem: he’d just proved that. Baseball columns everywhere were abuzz with the news that Billy Beane was about to become the highest paid general manager in the history of the game. Now that everyone knew his true value, Billy didn’t need to prove it anymore. Now the only reason to take the job was for the money.
The next morning, he called John Henry and told him he couldn’t do it.* A few hours later, he blurted to a reporter something he wished he hadn’t said but was nevertheless the truth: “I made one decision based on money in my life—when I signed with the Mets rather than go to Stanford—and I promised I’d never do it again.” After that, Billy confined himself to the usual blather about personal reasons. None of what he said was terribly rational or “objective”—but then, neither was he. Within a week, he was back to scheming how to get the Oakland A’s back to the play-offs, and Paul DePodesta was back to being on his side. And he was left with his single greatest fear: that no one would ever really know. That he and Paul might find ever more clever ways to build great ball clubs with no money, but that, unless they brought home a World Series ring or two, no one would know. And even then—even if they did win a ring—where did that leave him? He’d be just one more general manager among many who were celebrated for a day, then forgotten. People would never know that, for a brief moment, he was right and the world was wrong.
About that I think he may have been mistaken. He’d been the perfect vessel for an oddly shaped idea, and that idea was on the move, like an Oakland A’s base runner, station to station. The idea had led Billy Beane to take action, and his actions had consequences. He had changed the lives of ballplayers whose hidden virtues otherwise might never have been seen. And those players who had been on the receiving end of the idea were now busy returning the favor.
EPILOGUE: THE BADGER
THE JEREMY BROWN who steps into the batter’s box in early October is, and is not, the fat catcher from Hueytown, Alabama, that the Oakland A’s had made the least likely first-round draft choice in recent memory. He was still about five foot eight and 215 pounds. He still wasn’t much use to anyone hoping to sell jeans. But in other ways, the important ways, experience had reshaped him.
Three months earlier, just after the June draft, he’d arrived in Vancouver, Canada, to play for the A’s rookie ball team. Waiting for him there was a seemingly endless number of jokes to be had at his expense. The most widely read magazine in the locker room, Baseball America, kept writing all these rude things about his appearance. They quoted unnamed scouts from other teams saying things like, “He never met a pizza he didn’t like.” They pressed the A’s own scouting director, Erik Kubota, to acknowledge the perversity of selecting a young man