Shortly after his firing Thursday, former Red Sox manager Jimy Williams appeared on Bravo’s new talk show “Inside the Manager’s Studio,” with host James Lipton. Here’s what transpired:
James: Welcome to “Inside the Manager’s Studio” … I’m your host, James Lipton.
(The audience applauds).
You know today’s guest as the baseball manager who guided Boston to two playoff appearances over the past four years, even as his critics maintained that he was legally insane. You also know him as the man who revolutionized the spelling of the name “Jimy,” heroically eschewing the second “M” and forever earning a place in our hearts.
On Thursday, tragically, he was jettisoned by those same Red Sox, concluding the latest unsatisfying chapter in the folklore of this tortured, tragic franchise. He joins us in the Manager’s Studio today. Jimy Williams, welcome.
(Audience applauds again.)
Jimy: Thanks, James … it’s an honor to be here. I’ve heard good things about this show.
James: You’ve never seen the “Manager’s Studio”?
James: Um, Jimy, yesterday you were relieved of your duties as Red Sox manager. What does it feel like when you get that call? What does that rejection feel like?
Jimy: Well, you know, it’s part of the game.
James (nodding): Part of the game. Mmmmmm … yes.
Jimy: I mean, some things about this game can’t be controlled. And if you try to control them, you end up looking like a sorcerer waitin’ for a genie to
spring out of the bottle. Hey, sometimes that genie just isn’t poppin’ out, because it’s busy making fortune cookies in there.
James: Be honest … will you miss Boston?
Jimy: Yes and no. I’ll miss dreaming about becoming the manager of the first World Series champion in Boston in generations. That would’ve been neat. But
I won’t miss the players. And the other coaches. And the front office. And the owners. And the stadium. And the traffic. And the area. And the fans. And
the press. And the —.
James: How difficult was it to deal with the press in Boston?
Jimy: Well, it’s difficult anywhere. Reporters want answers, fans want answers … and most of the time, I didn’t have any answers. Hell, I put on my pants this morning right leg first. Why the right leg? I dunno. If you keep searching for answers, you drive yourself crazy and end up feeling like a kangaroo with a hangover.
Decision” to answer many of their questions. Some Sox fans believed this phrase made you sound like Dustin Hoffman in “Rain Man” and compared you to his character in that fine film, the the autistic savant, Raymond Babbitt …
Jimy: I loved that movie! “Two minutes to Wapner! Two minutes to Wapner! Manager’s decision!” Hey, I like that!
James: Well, the reporters most certainly did not like that phrase. You frustrated them quite a bit over the years, didn’t you?
Jimy: I guess. They had a job, and I had a job. When you have two sets of people trying to do a job, sometimes one job interferes with the other job
and both jobs get affected, which means that somebody’s not doing their job as well as the job can be done. I tried to do my job and help them do their
job, but there were times when my job prevented me from helpin’ them do their job, so the job didn’t get done as well, both their job and my job …
James: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you think newspapers, Internet message boards and sports radio conspired against you and possibly
led to your firing?
Jimy: I’d rather not say.
James: Why not?
Jimy: Manager’s decision.
James: Well done, my friend. Well done. Let’s switch gears …
Jimy, you suffered through a stormy relationship with your general manager, Dan Duquette. As legend has it, you went weeks without speaking to one
another, and when you did speak, you kept things as, shall we say, succinct as possible, didn’t you?
Jimy: I guess that’s accurate. Dan had this weird hang-up where I had to justify every decision, no matter how ludicrous that decision was. All I wanted was for him to leave me and Mr. Weebles alone, and he just couldn’t do that. I don’t care if you’re managing a baseball team or scooping ice cream at a Dairy Queen, it’s tough to find the jimmies when the boss is hovering over you and tellin’ you that you need more butterscotch.
James: I would think it would be easy for Jimy to find the jimmies.
(Lipton laughs uproariously. Jimy looks confused.)
James: You mentioned Mr. Weebles. Tell us about him.
Jimy: Well, as you probably know, Mr. Weebles is the microscopic man that lives in my mouth and orders me to make some of my quirkier moves.
James: Quirky … yes. Mmmmmm. Let’s define “quirky,” shall we? By quirky, do you mean like letting Doug Mirabelli hit in extra innings with two outs and
the team trailing by one? Or pitching Rod Beck in 73 consecutive games in an apparent quest to make his arm come flying off? Or having Pete Schourek pitch
in any situation where the team is either leading or trailing by less than six runs? Or platooning Trot Nixon presumably until he’s 45 years old.
Jimy:Yeah, things like that. Nobody can see Mr. Weebles. I’m the only one who can see him. He gets ascared when people ask about him.
clairvoyance. Is your relationship with Weebles like that?
Jimy: A con-doo … what?
James: Forget it. Is Mr. Weebles here right now?
Jimy: I’d rather not say.
James: Why not?
Jimy: Manager’s decision.
James: Fair enough. So for instance, when you kept playing Troy O’Leary this season even though he practically had a mortuary tag dangling from his right
foot, that was all Weebles? And when you kept using Derek Lowe as your closer this season even though he looked more terrified than Haley Joel Osment in
the “Sixth Sense,” that was Weebles’s doing?
Jimy: I guess. I dunno. I black out sometimes during games. I don’t remember much.
James: So Weebles must have been responsible for the move you made this weekend in Baltimore, when you moved Nomar Garciaparra into the leadoff spot
in the lineup? That struck me, because I remember reading Sports Illustrated’s cover story about Nomar last March — it focused on Nomar’s tireless
devotion to repetition and habit.
And Nomar said something to the effect of, “It drives me crazy when Jimy tinkers with the lineup. It screws me up when I’m moved in the order. … I
need to be in the same place every game.”
the bowl waitin’ for something to happen. I ended up stuck there, howlin’ like a werewolf waitin’ for a full moon. Anyway, that’s when I read the article.
James: So you knew that Nomar hated being yanked around in the lineup?
Jimy: Yes.
James: And you suddenly moved him to the leadoff spot for Sunday’s game, anyway?
Jimy: Yes.
James: Why?
Jimy: Manager’s decision.
(The audience laughs.)
James (guffawing): Brilliant. Brilliant work. In case you’ve just joined us, we’re here on “Inside the Manager’s Studio” with former Red Sox manager Jimy Williams. We’ve reached the section of the show where I ask a question that’s three minutes long.
Jimy, using Joe Torre’s runaway success with the Yankees over the past six years as an example, it would seem that a successful manager needs to exhibit three traits consistently:
- Good communication
Players need to know where they stand at all times. - Respect
Players have to respect the manager and his choices. - 3. Continuity.
Teams seem to thrive when everyone comes to the ballpark knowing their specific role.
In your case, the Boston players openly questioned and defied you … there was no communication whatsoever … and there was a total lack of continuity on your part from game to game. In fact, every time your team lost more than two games in a row, you would radically change your batting order like a 12-year-old shaking up his Strat-O-Matic team. And yet your team was an astounding 12 games over .500 when you were fired yesterday.
Jimy Williams, I ask you, are you one of the unwitting geniuses of our time, a Chance the Gardner of the baseball world, if you will?
Jimy: That’s for you guys to judge. I’m just a squirrel tryin’ to get a nut. Sometimes you come up empty, sometimes you end up scurrying down a tree with
three acorns in your mouth. You never know. As long as you stay away from those woodchucks, you’re OK.
James: Yes. Yes. Yes. You never know. Well said.
(long pause)
You butted heads with Mr. Everett many times over the past two seasons … looking back, would you have handled him any differently?
Jimy: That guy’s crazier than a barrel of coyotes, no question. Sometimes I didn’t challenge him enough, sometimes I challenged him too much. I never did
get a handle on him. But hey, I escaped with my own life … there’s something to be said for that. You don’t get bonus points for a good parachute landing.
James: Did Everett respect you?
Jimy: Judging by the swearing, the shouting, the angry looks, the threats and the open defiance … well, I would have to say no.
James: Did that affect your ability to manage this team?
Jimy: It was difficult for anything to affect my managing of this team, James. Remember who was managing it. You can’t mess up a pot of tomato sauce,
after you’ve already poured gasoline into it.
James: The following players complained about your performance at some point this season, and I’ll use last names only: Martinez, Bichette, O’Leary,
Nixon, Hatteberg, Castillo, Lowe, Beck, Lansing, Offerman, Valentin, Saberhagen, Ohka, Kim, Everett, Wakefield, Merloni. At what point does constant griping and sniping erode your confidence as a manager?
Jimy: I’ll be honest, it never bothered me. Baseball players are like bathtubs — they need to let off some steam every so often. Just make sure
that the hair doesn’t start pilin’ up in the drain, and you’re OK.
James: Not to play Devil’s advocate, but there was an infamous team meeting in Oakland back in May — you berated your team for its lack of
professionalism, but when you turned to storm out of the room, your players hollered for you to stay.
Then, according to published reports, many of those players laid into you, fracturing your relationship beyond repair. Some believe you lost control of
your team for good. What would you have done differently, if you could re-live that day?
Jimy: Differently? I’m not sure I could have done anything differently. It’s tough to win an argument when it’s 25-against-1, especially when half the
team doesn’t speak English.
James: But that was an eye-opening afternoon for you, no?
Jimy: Not really. I just got my revenge by ignoring them, going into my own little cocoon and letting Mr. Weebles make out the lineup cards for the next
three months.
James: Speaking of lineups, there was a Sunday afternoon game against the Yankees last April when you played Mike Lansing at shortstop and Lou Merloni
at second. The following day, you switched them — Merloni moved to short, Lansing moved to second, with no explanation given. Was that Weebles, or was
that your idea of pure genius?
Jimy: That was actually my move … the best part was seeing the looks on their faces when they saw the lineup card. Merloni and Lansing looked like
they just saw El Guapo comin’ out of the shower. (He giggles.) That’s the stuff I’ll miss about managing the most.
James: You mean, taking your players by surprise, confusing them, dumbfounding them?
Jimy: Yeah, all of that stuff.
James: How do you respond to the conspiracy theorists who point to the fact that you pushed for a contract extension last winter? According to these
budding Oliver Stone wannabes, when you didn’t get that extension, you forced the team’s hand out of pure spite, with wacky lineup cards, lack of
communication, general apathy, inane and totally random moves …
Jimy: Hey, I resent that! Wacky lineup cards, lack of communication, general apathy, inane and totally random moves … that’s all stuff I’ve been doin’
for years! I don’t know where people get this crap from! Look at my track record in Boston! Look at my record in Toronto!
James: I apologize if I touched a nerve.
Jimy: Look, I’ll let your students in on a little secret about this business: It’s much more fun to manage a baseball team, if you pretend there’s a degree
of difficulty involved.
Jimy: Well, for instance, anybody can win a game with Nixon batting first, Nomar batting second, Everett batting third and Manny batting fourth. Hell,
that’s the only lineup that makes sense with this year’s Boston team. Even a banjo player on a flatbed truck could see that.
But how many managers could win a game with Scott Hatteberg batting second? Or Darren Lewis leading off? How many managers would stick with a closer who
fails 25, 30 percent of the time? How many managers could get themselves fired when their team is 12 games over .500? I mean, has that ever happened before?
James: Not to my knowledge. I tip my cap to you, my friend.
Jimy: Thank you.
James: We’re taking a brief break. … When we come back, we’ll play word association with Jimy Williams, discuss his favorite swear words and take
questions from our studio audience.
Jimy: Wait a second, you never said anything about questions from the audience!
James: Jimy, that’s one of the regular features of our show.
Jimy: I’m not doing it.
James: Why not?
Jimy: Manager’s decision.
Bill Simmons writes three columns a week for Page 2.