Foreword: Mustaches and Mayhem: Charlie O’s Three-Time Champions: 1972-74 Oakland Athletics

I was deeply honored when approached to write this foreword about my team, the Oakland A’s. The “colorful” and disparate make-up of this talented bunch has always begged the question: What made this group “tick”?

Every team brings contrasting personalities together. This is an inescapable fact, for winning is the number one consideration. Otherwise, why even keep score? As Hall of Fame football coach Vince Lombardi was fond of saying, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

Over the course of a grueling 162-game championship season (not counting playoff and series games) tempers can flare—and often do. Every good team has big egos, low boiling points, and high testosterone levels. If you win, the journalists will call it “chemistry:” the harmonious composition of players and management. Of course, if you should lose, the same journalists still call it “chemistry,” alluding to team disharmony, disorganization, and turmoil. If the latter be the case, the problems inevitably continue simmering, ultimately worsen, and the cast of personnel and/or culture inevitably changes.

Separating fact from fiction is often dependent on the personal biases of the journalists themselves. But, the inescapable reality is teams win with talent, perseverance, and grit. Teams are not put together for chemistry; they are formed around talent. Make no mistake about this. As our Hall of Fame manager, Dick Williams, told the team after winning the 1972 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds: “The writers think I’m a genius. That’s a bunch of crap. If I’m a genius, you guys made me one. No one wins without the horses.”

Chemistry is not a product of putting together “nice” or “compatible” players. Chemistry is a product of winning. The more you win, the better the chemistry. Chemistry is therefore a group dynamic that transcends individual personalities and, as previously stated, often changes during the course of a long season.

The Kansas City A’s organization of the mid 1960s were very aggressive signing amateur talent. There was no amateur draft in those days; teams could go after and sign anyone. The A’s signed and stockpiled better talent than other organizations during those years. When the team subsequently moved to Oakland in 1968, they had cornered the best young amateur talent out there. They were loaded and ready to dominate.

In 1971, while playing for the Washington Senators, I was called into manager Ted Williams’ office after a night game in Minnesota. “We’ve traded you to Oakland. You’ve hit 50 home runs over the past two seasons for me and they need a power-hitting first baseman. This is a helluva break for you.” So myself and Darold Knowles, a top-drawer middle-inning LH reliever, were shipped to Oakland.

Going from a perennial last-place team to a powerhouse with World Series potential re-energized me, as it would any other player. My new A’s teammates and I were all close to the same age: young, talented, uninhibited, and confident. They were good and they knew it. I realized this the minute I walked into their clubhouse when first joining the team in Baltimore to play the Orioles.

Manager Dick Williams quickly called me into his office. “These guys are ultra-competitive, Mike. You’ll fit right in. We think you’re the missing link we’ve needed to take us to the postseason.” I was flattered, but knew I had to cut it or I was out. I wasn’t one of “Mr. Finley’s Boys;” he was definitely partial to those he signed as amateurs. Mr. Finley always let the players he didn’t originally sign know that you either got the job done—or you were history. As fate would have it, I got it done, and played an integral part in the A’s inexorable journey to competitive greatness.

The team immediately went on a tear and started to get some serious national attention. The better we did, the cockier we got, the better the late-night stories, and the closer we all became. A veritable “Band of Brothers.” Everyone had the other’s back—and to add to our camaraderie— a common “enemy:” the owner himself.

This was the most awesome group of athletes I had ever been around. We had fun. Lots of fun. The more we won, the more fun we had. It was always something special walking into the clubhouse the next after a game and hearing the shenanigans and mischief that transpired. I sometimes wondered how we could go out “the night after the night before” and play as hard as we did.

I think it was in 1972, we were playing a night game against the California Angels in Anaheim. The game went into extra innings and we finally got on a plane around 3:00am for a flight to New York City to play the Yankees: a day-doubleheader, no less, which was scheduled at 1:00pm. We didn’t arrive in New York until 10:00am, so the team bus went directly to Yankee Stadium from the airport.

We shut out the Yankees in both games. Afterward, the New York press surrounded manager Dick Williams in his office and asked him if he was surprised at how well his team played with such little rest. “Hell, no. This was just another routine day for most of ‘em.”

This anecdote played an intangible part in the enduring chemistry that helped unite us.

Rod Dedeaux, the legendary and renowned baseball coach at the University of Southern California, coached the first United States Olympic baseball team in Tokyo in 1964. I was fortunate to be selected to that elite team. If one of us made a mental mistake during a game, when you got back in the dugout, Coach Dedeaux would make a gala presentation by placing a female’s blond wig on your head, which you had to wear in the dugout for an inning. Talk about looking stupid! But it was all done in jest, solidified the team’s chemistry, and turned a potentially embarrassing situation for the player into one of levity. Rod Dedeaux was a great coach for a reason.

The A’s, as a team, basically did the same thing. We were never afraid to let our teammates know if they messed up during a game, though it seemed like the message was always said in a joking way and everyone on the team bus got a good laugh out of it. We would “serenade” the player with one of our famous “hymns” (which would be difficult to fit into a “Mature Audience”-rated program). It was cool to be able to laugh at mistakes and move on. However, with a team of personalities like we had, on rare occasions tempers would flare and players had to be physically separated. But, this was all part of the A’s DNA and what made us tick.

I remember the great Oakland Raiders football team at that time was known as a hostile, rebel-rousing bunch of “social deviants.” Of course, this made for good copy and “branded” the team. Knowing some of them personally at that time helped me understand the importance of a banner for the team to rally around. We’ve seen this over the years with good teams in all sports. I wouldn’t call us “social deviants” by any stretch of the imagination, but we were a team sorely needing something to rally around.

Mr. Finley probably didn’t realize it at the time, but he did something to help our sought-after team identity. During the 1972 season, future Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson started growing a beard. The team “rule” at that time was no facial hair would be tolerated. Reggie always had a penchant for the limelight and often did things to individualize his self-importance, often at the expense of the team. Dick Williams talked to him about shaving off his beard. He was told that it was really painful to shave because of the ethnic nature of his skin, characteristic of many bumps and ingrown hair follicles. In short, Reggie did nothing about it.

Mr. Finley recognized he had a potential team morale problem at this point and personally got into the act. He couldn’t let one player defy his team rules and not allow everyone to do the same. He talked with Reggie and Reggie tested his star power by simply telling him that he was “the straw that stirred the drink.” Well, everyone on the team knew it was “Reggie being Reggie” and that he was “Mr. Finley’s Boy”—so the club did nothing about it. He would be the only one allowed to grow facial hair. Characteristic of our team, we got pissed off, and we decided we had had enough of Reggie’s attitude. Everyone decided to grow some type of facial hair.

Having lost control of the situation, Mr. Finley decided that he would make “lemonade out of lemons.” He staged a “Mustache Day” at the Oakland-Alameda Coliseum: anyone who attended the game with facial hair would be admitted free of charge. In addition, he commemorated the event by presenting each of us with a gold-plated mustache spoon as a remembrance.

The result? Mr. Finley looked like a hero instead of a pushover, we got the identity we craved with our facial hair, and Reggie (temporarily) lost his individuality. In short, it made us a tighter group, Reggie notwithstanding.

Dick Williams knew there was no love lost for the ornery Mr. Finley by his team and would go out of his way to make it clear that we weren’t alone. Dick tired endlessly of Mr. Finley meddling with his on-the-field running of the team. Especially when it came to making out the game’s starting lineup. Dick was not a “yes-man” and was one of the reasons he was revered by us.

On a “whim,” Mr. Finley would instruct Dick to play a bench player he thought would make an impact on that day’s game. Often times, this meant taking one of his core eight players and sitting him down. This could happen to any one of us—even if the player was on a batting tear. This would infuriate the manager, who was left with the tough task of changing his already posted lineup and smoothing out the affected player’s ego. His meddling finally became so bad that Dick resigned after consecutive World Series championships in 1972 and 1973. I liked Dick. He was a “man’s man” and I thought he ran a ball game better than any other manager at that time. He got the best out of everyone, despite the owner’s incessant interference.

Dick was a risk-taker, which further endeared him to us. We were talented but had never been on the “Big Stage,” in contrast to the powerful Cincinnati team already branded “Big Red Machine.” The 1972 World Series opened in their home park. We were huge underdogs—but that seemed to help our motivation. 

The Reds featured Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, and Joe Morgan. We had lost Reggie Jackson for the World Series due to a leg injury he suffered in a home plate collision in the playoffs with Detroit Tigers catcher Bill Freehan (on the back-end of a successful double steal with me on first and Reggie on third).

But, we did have Campy Campaneris, Matty Alou, Joe Rudi, Sal Bando, Dave Duncan, Gene Tenace, George Hendrick, and Dick Green ready to go. Oh, and lest I forget: Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue, Ken Holtzman, Blue Moon Odom, and Rollie Fingers.

Speaking of Rollie, he was part of one of the biggest baseball “hoodwinks” I can ever remember. Johnny Bench was the unfortunate fall-guy. I’m not sure which game it was in Oakland, but Bench was the hitter in a very close game. I believe two men were on, first base was open, with two outs. The count went to three balls and two strikes. Dick Williams jogged out to the mound to talk to Rollie. A bad pitch here to a great hitter like Johnny could mean three runs and losing the game. I trotted in to the mound.

Dick told Rollie to fake an intentional pass to Bench, but throw a strike. But he didn’t want Rollie to throw a fastball because Bench was a fastball hitter. In typical Rollie fashion, he blurted out, “Are you kidding?  Is this Little League or what?”

With Johnny standing in the box expecting a wide pitchout, Rollie broke off one of his patented sliders for called strike three. Gotta love him. We still laugh about it to this day.

Gene Tenace had been a backup catcher for us, but Dick (or more likely a Finley whim!) decided to start him in the 1972 World Series. He responded with one of the finest World Series performances the Fall Classic has ever seen. He batted .348 with four homers and nine RBIs, including two hits and two RBIs in a deciding Game Seven. Without Geno’s home runs, there’s no Game Seven and no Ring. He made it possible.

We had some characters. Real “beauties” you might say. Holtzman was a professional instigator and “needler,” always getting under somebody’s skin. Vida was Vida, a wide-eyed young kid from Louisiana with an infectious personality and immeasurable talent; you couldn’t help liking him. Campy was, in my opinion, the catalyst of the team; our “table-setter.” Low-key, a consummate professional and gentleman. One of Campy’s favorite diversions was attaching a wallet (with a one-dollar bill half-way sticking out) to some very thin fishing line and suspending it from his hotel window. When some pedestrian would try to pick it up he’d jerk on it. If the pedestrian would run after it that was frosting on the cake for him. Like I said, it’s a long season.

Campy was also a fierce competitor despite his seemingly outward appearance to the contrary. During the 1972 playoffs, Billy Martin, the Detroit Tigers’ fiery manager, ordered his pitcher Lerrin LaGrow to throw at Campy’s feet, trying to sideline our base-stealing star. Campy had already singled, stole second and third, and then scored the first run of the game. He would also get two more hits and score yet another run before facing LaGrow. He hit Campy in the ankle; Campy threw his bat at LaGrow precipitating a dugout-clearing brawl. Ever the competitor, Campy felt he did what he had to. You’ve got to respect a teammate like that. It fired us up.

Captain Sal Bando did a nice job trying to keep Reggie happy and the team from killing him. Believe me, this was no easy task, but Sal was up to it. I thought Dick Green was, by far, the best damn defensive second baseman I had ever seen. A real acrobat in the field. Nothing bothered “Greenie,” who always had a big smile on his face and the loudest, most contagious laugh on the club.

Joe Rudi just went about his business in a low-key style. You’d hardly know he was there until after the game when you looked up and realized he had three hits, two RBIs, and a great catch in the outfield. His leaping catch against the left-field wall saved Game Seven for us. Dave Duncan, also low-key but a fierce competitor, was a power-hitting catcher that everyone respected and liked. Gene Tenace was a fun-loving Italian kid that brought a lot of life to the clubhouse. “Blue Moon” Odom was also someone who everyone liked and let his feelings be known of his personal dislike of Reggie. This led to an altercation on the team bus when Reggie went off verbally on Moon. Ah, the good old days….

I could probably write a book about Hall of Famer Rollie Fingers. He just made everyone laugh, always playing a “naïve” role and the perfect foil for Holtzman’s needling. It was hard to believe that a happy-go-lucky guy like him off the field could transform into such a “lights out” reliever when he crossed the white lines. Nothing fazed him. Kenny always said he was “too damn dumb to know what was really going on.” Maybe that was what made him so unflappable in tight situations. And endearing to all of us.

Hall of Famer “Catfish” Hunter was, well, maybe the best teammate anyone could ask for and a great guy. He was another of our many team agitators, someone you just couldn’t get mad at. He was always on Reggie’s case. Happy-go-lucky off the field, but I can’t think of anyone I played with that I would rather see start a big game. As they say, he had “ice cubes in his veins.”

And, the supporting cast was just as great. Mike Hegan and Don Mincher kept everyone loose. They and I had a word routine that everyone on the team contributed to. Things like, “Hey Minch! You know what ostentatious means, don’t you?” He’d think a bit and come back with, “Yeah, I know. It’s a town in Texas.” And it would go on from there. In fact, before Game Three in Oakland, me, “Mo” (of course, he was known as “Mo” Hegan), and Minch did a pregame interview demonstrating our word game on national TV.

Smooth-fielding Ted Kubiak was always ready to fill-in when he was needed. He didn’t get the nickname “Smooth” for nothing. He could really “pick it.” Dal Maxvill was a veteran infielder you could always count on to come through. I could go on and on. Everyone contributed in their own way.

Then, of course, there was Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson. Our “lightning rod” for all things good and bad. A great talent. I actually liked him despite his eccentricities. He’d “go off the reservation” once in a while and have to be brought down to earth by the guys, but overall, he played hard for us. It was unfortunate that he was sidelined and didn’t play in the ’72 Series. He deserved to be there to show his ample talents to the entire country. But, he got his opportunities in later years and certainly made the most of them.

To this day I am proud to have “walked the walk” with these men. A lot can be said of my team. Disparate? No doubt. Winners? You bet. I consider them all great friends. A terrific bunch, for sure!

— Mike Epstein
December 5, 2014