Moneyball - Michael Lewis [81]
That never happened. What happened instead is that, after starting out well enough, the team went into a tailspin. When the Yankees had come to town in late April the Oakland A’s had been 11–8. Three weeks later they were four games under .500 and falling fast. In mid-May they’d gone into Toronto and been swept by the Blue Jays. The Blue Jays. Hatteberg thought he had seen it all with the Red Sox, but what happened immediately after the A’s were swept by the Blue Jays was unique in his big league experience.
Like the other players, Scott Hatteberg sensed the Oakland A’s were managed oddly, by big league standards. The team, even when it was on the field, appeared to be run not by the field manager but by the front office. And the front office were apparently pissed off. In what amounted to a purge, Billy Beane sent down to the minors the team’s starting first baseman Carlos Pena, starting second baseman Frankie Menechino, starting pitcher Eric Hiljus, and right-handed setup man Jeff Tam. Jeremy Giambi, the starting left fielder, he traded to the Phillies for a bench player named John Mabry. In a matter of hours the A’s front office had jettisoned three of their starting eight, including one guy everyone had tagged as Rookie of the Year (Pena) and another guy everyone thought was the front office’s pet (Giambi). It was Scott Hatteberg’s first real experience of Billy Beane. His first thought: Oh my God, there is nothing this guy won’t do. Once again the team found itself without an everyday first baseman. By default, the job fell to him.
His performance, at the outset, lacked elegance. He labored over the most rudimentary task: getting into position to receive throws from other infielders. “It looks effortless when guys do it,” he said, “but it’s not. Trust me.” At first base the game seemed faster than it ever had to him as a catcher. A ball would be grounded sharply to short or third and the throw would be on him before he was ready. Where was his back foot? Where was the bag? Was anyone laughing yet? Simple pop flies he’d lose in the air and they would drop ten yards away from him in the Coliseum’s vast foul territory. “On a lot of the pop-ups I missed it wouldn’t even look like an error,” he said, “because I’d never get anywhere near the ball.”
And then something happened: the more he went out to play first base, the more comfortable he felt there. By late June he could say, with a smile, that “the difference between spring training and now is that when a ground ball comes at me now, my blood pressure doesn’t go through the roof.” A large part of the change was due to Wash. Wash got inside your head because—well, because you wanted Wash inside your head. Every play Hatty made, including throws he took from other infielders, he came back to the dugout and discussed with Wash. His coach was creating an alternative scale on which Hatty could judge his performance. He might be an absolute D but on Wash’s curve he felt like a B, and rising. “He knew that what looked like a routine play wasn’t a routine play for me,” said Hatty. Wash was helping him to fool himself, to make him feel better than he was, until he actually became better than he was. At the Coliseum it was a long way from the A’s dugout to first base, but every time Hatty picked a throw out of the dirt—a play most first basemen made with their eyes closed—he’d hear Wash shout from the dugout:
“Pickin’ Machine!”
He’d look over and see Wash with his fighting face on:
“Pickin’ Machine!”
Hatty sensed that he was naturally more athletic than most guys management hid at first base, and he was right. He began to relax. He began to want the ball to be hit to him. He began to feel comfortable. He began to feel himself. One of the things he had always enjoyed as a catcher was the chance to talk to the other teams’ players. First base was a far richer social opportunity. First base made catching feeling like a bad dinner party—what with the ump hanging on your shoulder and all the fans and cameras staring at you. At first