A Baseball Life | By Dusty Baker A Baseball Life by Dusty Baker

Dusty Baker

baseball JULY 24, 2024

A Baseball life

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BY Dusty baker

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A Baseball Life

By dusty baker

dusty baker

I ended up being in the same room with, walking around with … history. I know now that I was definitely sent to the South for a reason.

“

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By Anthony Joshua

When Hank Aaron hit number 715 and broke Babe Ruth’s home run record at the old Atlanta Stadium in 1974, I was there. On deck. Just a few feet away from where Hank clobbered that Al Downing fastball. When a 6.9 magnitude earthquake rocked the Bay during the ’89 World Series between the A’s and the Giants, I was there. Crouched down in a lunchroom doorway at the stadium, eating my banana nut bread. The first high five in history? Believe it or not … I was there. All I really did was hold up my hand. But still. It counts. Steve Bartman? Yep. I was right there in the middle of that one, too. It’s pretty wild to write all that out, and to realize everything I’ve experienced in this life. But do you want to know something that I haven’t told very many people? I haven’t really talked about it much, but from an early age … I’ve always thought that I’ve had a guardian angel looking out for me. Not that I’m someone special or anything like that, or that I was necessarily deserving of it. But I’ve always had that feeling — like someone or something has been protecting me and guiding me in certain directions. It’s almost like I’ve been chosen for this exact life. I’ve had so many life-changing moments over the years. But when I think back, it’s clear that one of the bigger ones happened very early on, all the way back when I was in high school.

It’s June 5, 1967, the night before the MLB draft. I’m lying in bed at home in Sacramento. Praying to God. It’s been a rough couple of months. Right in the middle of my senior year of high school, my parents told me they were getting a divorce. I was the oldest of five, so maybe you could say I was the most prepared to deal with something like that or what have you, but it hit me hard. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time, because I was also 17 years old and trying to figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. I’d played all different sports as a kid — trying to be like my idol, Bobby Bonds. And whether it was in Sacramento, or back in my hometown of Riverside where I’d lived until I was 14, I was always one of the better players. By senior year, I had a bunch of scholarship offers in football and basketball, and a couple for track. But I also had scouts coming around watching me play baseball. I didn’t know what to do. My dad, though? He knew exactly what would be next for me. “You’re going to Santa Clara University to play basketball, son,” he announced one afternoon. “End of story.” It was college or bust in his eyes. Scouts would call the house, or drop by at games, and my dad, no lie, he’d look them dead in the eye and tell them not to waste their time. “Dusty’s not playing baseball,” he’d say, waving them off. “You can forget it. Don’t pick my son, because he’s going in a different direction.” I wasn’t sold on that plan, though. It’s not that I didn’t want to go to college, or to play basketball. Honestly, after moving from the racially mixed town of Riverside to what was, at the time, an all-white section of Sacramento, I just didn’t want to be stuck at a predominantly white school for another four years. That plan, Dad’s plan, was not my plan at all. So there I am. All this stuff swirling around and around in my head — parents splitting up, college, baseball, basketball, leaving home, about a dozen other things — just lying there saying my prayers. It’s like: Here’s my chance. The draft. Pro ball. I’m praying as hard as I can. The thing is, though, I wasn’t praying that some team would pick me…. I was praying that a certain team wouldn’t.

It wasn’t about the Braves. I swear. That franchise, and Braves scout Bill Wight, had shown the most interest in me. And I appreciated that. To be honest with you … you know what it was? I was worried about going to the South. You gotta remember, this was the ’60s, the civil rights era. I’d already run up against some things I didn’t like when my family moved from Southern California to Northern California. We were the only Black family in our school district. The only two Black kids at the high school were me and my brother, and I saw what it was like when people used their racism to try to bring others down. I was someone who didn’t take kindly to that stuff. I actually ended up fighting a lot. It affected me. Plus, because my parents were big on staying informed, when they came home from work, they made sure us kids learned about the civil rights movement and current events. My dad used to get Sepia, Ebony, and Jet magazine, and they’d always highlight Blacks and Latinos who were excellent in sports and entertainment. My mom studied Black history, so she was reading works by Malcolm X and Angela Davis. In Riverside, our house had been where they held the NAACP meetings for our town. I was in the junior NAACP. Then, in high school, I’d be driving down to Golden Gate Park, Winterland, the Fillmore District. I’d go to Haight-Ashbury. I was always pretty up on what was going down. I knew about the turmoil in the South. It was scary to me, to be honest. So my prayers that night were all about: Anybody but the Braves. Then, the next morning, I wake up and, of course…. It’s the Braves.

A week or so later, I’m heading down to L.A. with my mom to work out with the team at Dodger Stadium, and it turns out that the Braves had put Hank Aaron in charge of looking after me and helping me with the decision on whether to sign or not. So it’s Hank Aaron — the Hank Aaron. And me. Are you kidding? I rode on the bus with Hank. I worked out with the team in one of those generic jerseys without a number on the back. And I felt like I held my own out there, for sure. But I prayed again that night. Because I wasn’t sure what to do. When I finally made the decision, and agreed to sign with the Braves, Hank talked to my mom in L.A. and made her a promise. That he’d protect me. And look after me down South. “Ma’am, I’m going to take care of Dusty as if he were my son.” Eighteen years old, fresh out of school, signed to a pro baseball contract, and I already have a mentor. A guy who just so happens to be the greatest living baseball player on the planet. So … yeah, you’re gonna have a pretty tough time convincing me that I didn’t have an angel on my shoulder back then.

Even though I guess you could say he was my friend, Hank was much more of a father figure to me than anything else. I was actually closer in age to his children than I was to him. Once I got to Atlanta, I’d go over his house all the time and shoot hoops with Hankie and Lary, or play jacks with Dorinda and Gaile. I really was like one of his kids. Just like he’d promised my mom. The lessons that man passed down to me, I mean … they have to number into the millions. And, it turned out, one of the first ones was one of the most difficult for me to follow. I’d see Bob Gibson out on the field before a game, or Willie Stargell, or Ernie Banks, and … I couldn’t help it, man. My eyes would just light up. I mean, here I was playing against guys that I had just seen the year before in the World Series. Superstars. The best of the best. “Stop gawking, man!” Hank’d yell to me. “Act like a pro. Look like you belong! You may have to hit against these guys, or throw them out. Respect them, but that’s it.”

Dusty Baker

I’ve always had that feeling — like someone or something has been protecting me and guiding me in certain directions. It’s almost like I’ve been chosen for this exact life.

“

It wasn’t all smooth sailing from there, though. My dad was not happy. He still wanted me to go to school. He was really mad. There was a period after I signed where I actually didn’t speak to him for three years. It was just me and my mom. And money became an issue right away. Even though I was a lower-round draft pick, the Braves signed me for second-round money. At one point, my dad actually invoked the Coogan Act — a law put in place to make sure child actors don’t get taken advantage of by their parents — to protect my earnings and limit how the money was spent. It all was pretty ugly. My mom’s lawyer against my dad and his lawyer. Ultimately, the state of California ended up being in charge of my money. They let me buy a car, set aside an allotment to pay for school, and allowed me to spend a bit of it. They also took a bunch of that money and invested it on my behalf. But get this. You wanna know what they invested it in? IBM. Hahahah. No joke. I was a minor investor in IBM in 1967. At the age of 18. IBM and Standard Oil. Can you imagine? Now, at the time, you better believe I was cursing out those lawyers and pissed off that I couldn’t spend the cash that was coming in. But then, by the time I was 21 … my money had tripled. And eventually I realized that my dad wasn’t trying to hurt me. At the time when I signed, I basically just ran that line that a lot of kids run. Like, “I’m 18 now. I’m grown. I can do what I want.” That hurt my dad at the time. But I came back around a few years later. I did. And I’m grateful for that. (Even though I never said so until 20 years later.) I was extremely fortunate how things ended up working out. I had my dad back; the IBM money really helped my mom, brother and sister, who were all in college at the same time; and I was learning about baseball and life from Henry Louis Aaron.

Hank Aaron or not, though, I still had to go to the South. And those first few weeks of pro ball, way back when … I still remember them like they were yesterday. The thing that springs to mind more than anything is actually just meeting Cito Gaston and Ralph Garr, and having those guys school me on how to live down South. It was a daily thing. Especially when it came to my temper. You gotta understand, I wasn’t some quiet, reserved kid who’d just put up with anything. I was confident. Spoke my mind. The same guy who, as an eight- or nine-year-old got cut from his Little League team on three separate occasions because the coach — my own dad! — thought he had a bad attitude, that he was a hothead. Cito and Ralph, they’d sit me down and be like, “Look, man … you ain’t back home anymore. You need to be more careful down here.” Back then, you really did have to stick together. And there were lots of places we weren’t allowed to go. Heck, in some towns, we weren’t even allowed to get off the bus. Little Rock, for example. I’d hop up out of my seat, and Cito would see me and yell out, “Where do you think you’re going?” I’d tell him I was going to get something to eat, and he’d just look at me and shake his head. “No!” We’d sit there on that bus, hungry as can be, and basically just wait around for the white players to bring us some food when they came back from the restaurant. Then, when the games were over, the Black and Latin players would have to stay in different parts of town than the white players. As long as I live, I’ll never forget rooming with a bunch of my teammates in a motel right next door to Mama’s Soul Food Restaurant in Greenwood, South Carolina. There were a few blocks where we were safe. But if you left that place and went outside, you didn’t want to venture too far — especially after nine at night. And you always told one of your buddies where you were going so at least they’d know where to find you. Or where start looking for you if you disappeared. That’s just the way things were, whether it was Greenwood, Richmond, Shreveport, wherever. Throughout my professional baseball journey, I was just extremely lucky to have Ralph and Cito and guys like Dave May and Paul Casanova and a bunch of others looking out for me, keeping me out of trouble. And then there was Hank.

I distinctly remember this one time during spring training when I looked out into the grass down the right field line and saw Roberto Clemente stretching. And, honestly, I was in awe. Clemente had always been my brother’s favorite player, and I’d watched him for years do things on the field that seemed impossible. I just kind of stood there staring. Hank, of course, he caught me. “Quit your gawkin’!” But then he took me over and introduced me, and I got a chance to talk to Roberto. When I remarked afterward to Hank about how nice Clemente had been, there was another lesson in store. “Yeah. OK. Look … listen up. If he hits the ball to you, do not be taking your time with it out there. You get that ball in immediately. Because that man, that nice guy … he will take an extra base on you before you even know what happened. He’ll absolutely make you look like a fool out there if you don’t watch it.” That one, I absolutely took to heart.

Those first few years for me in the big leagues … it wasn’t like it is now. Things were different. In a lot of ways. Off the field, the money was definitely different. There just wasn’t as much of it to go around, you know what I mean? It was nothing like today. When I first got to Atlanta, I actually had to get a second job to make ends meet. Back then, you had to work outside of baseball. Nearly everyone did it. And with me, I was sending money back home, too. What I made playing definitely wasn’t enough. So, get this, you know what I did? No lie, I was a car salesman. New cars, though. At least I had that going for me. I wasn’t a used car salesman, right? I was selling brand new Ford sedans, pickup trucks, Pintos, and Gremlins to people in Augusta, Georgia. Then I would come back to Atlanta on the weekends. And, at this point, I know what you’re thinking. It’s like: So, Dusty, were you a good car salesman? Yes and no. I wasn’t bad. I sold some cars. But I wasn’t great at it. I remember the boss at the dealership, he told me, “Never take ‘no’ for an answer. A ‘no,’ actually is really a ‘yes.’” What now? Come again? I’m the kind of person where, you tell me “no,” then that’s it. A no is a no. So I wasn’t getting my picture up on the wall as salesman of the month or anything like that. I was doing what I had to do. Just like my dad, who worked two jobs for 30 years, I was doing what was necessary to make ends meet.

Dusty Baker

Eighteen years old, fresh out of school, signed to a pro baseball contract, and I already have a mentor. A guy who just so happens to be the greatest living baseball player on the planet.

“

Make no mistake about it, though, my focus was on baseball. I absolutely loved being a major leaguer. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. And the biggest thing about those early seasons for me was just the camaraderie and the bonds that I made all throughout the league. It was almost like having a second family, you know what I mean? As long as you were respectful and played hard, guys from all the teams would open their arms to you as a young player. And every team had guys who would take care of us when we came to their town. In Pittsburgh, we’d go to Willie’s house and eat a home-cooked meal, or Dock Ellis, Al Oliver, and Gene Clines would take us up to the Hill District. Then we’d go to St. Louis and hang with Lou Brock and Bob Gibson. In Cinci, we’d be with Griffey and Joe Morgan. Or Pete Rose would take Ralph Garr and me out, and we’d talk baseball and compare notes. In New York, we’d go out to dinner with Jerry Koosman, Cleon Jones, Tommie Agee, and Donn Clendenon. It was wonderful. On the field, we’d fight and claw and compete. But then after the game, we’d get together and have a lot of fun. And Hank was a huge part of all that. He was always connecting people. Bringing folks together. He was a natural leader like that. Everyone respected him. He led by example. Hank would walk into the clubhouse, and, I kid you not, he’d walk in lookin’ like Fred Sanford. Then the game would start, and he’d be out there running around like Bob Hayes. He’d have you marveling at what he’d do out there. Then the game would end and … he’d walk back into the clubhouse like good ol’ Fred Sanford again. Hank had the mental strength to think away pain. And he took care of his body. Hank was always talking about conditioning and nutrition, and the importance of a good breakfast. Every few weeks, I’d get this knock on my door at like eight in the morning. Day after a game. Super early. It’d be room service, with breakfast. I’d be dead asleep, and then: KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. The first few times, I was pissed. It was like, “What is this? It’s too early for this. I didn’t order anything from room service!” Then, eventually, I realized what was going on. You know those little notices you can put on the doorknob at hotels — like for towels, or a wake up, or whatever it is. Well, Hank, this guy was writing out these notes like, “Please deliver breakfast at 8:00 a.m. sharp,” and then leaving them on my doorknob for the staff. All because he wanted me to eat right and start the day off at a reasonable time. And you want to know the kicker? Hank wasn’t picking up the tab. No way! I still ended up having to pay for those breakfasts.

During Hank’s chase for Ruth’s record, a time that you’d think would be filled with excitement and joy, things were not great for him. It’s a real shame. How things went down. On a number of different levels, it was just a very tough time for Hank. He had gotten divorced a few years before. And he missed his children. Then, on top of that, you had all the backlash he got from racist individuals who couldn’t stand the idea of a Black man breaking baseball’s most cherished record, and taking it away from the Babe. It got extremely ugly. Those years when he was getting close to Babe’s mark, ’73 and ’74, I mean … just real ugly. Hank, for better or worse, he did whatever he could to keep the ugliest of it out of his teammates’ view — especially Ralph Garr and me. He didn’t want us to be exposed to that stuff. In his own way, he was protecting us. He’d never let us see him reading the letters he received, because he never knew when one would be a death threat or be filled with racist stuff. Ralph and me, though, we could always tell when he got a letter like that. You could see it in his eyes. Sometimes he’d crumple it up and throw it to the ground. Or he’d throw it in the trash can. On a few occasions, when he left the room, Ralph and I would go over and grab that letter, and uncrumple it and read. It was some of the most vile, hateful stuff you could imagine. I saw the death threats. I read where people would not only threaten him, but also be specific about it. Like … On this day, in this place, you will be shot dead. It’s over for you. You will be dead by the end of that night. And it wasn’t just the letters, either. It was … everything. When we’d go on the road, Hank would always get two rooms. He’d register with his name in one room, and that one would be left empty. That was the fake room, in case anyone was thinking of trying to do him harm. Then he’d get a second room where he’d sleep, and that one would be under a different name. His bodyguard, Calvin Wardlaw, would stay in an adjoining room. I can’t even imagine having to handle all of that and then still having to go out and perform at the highest level on the field. But by doing what he did, he taught us how to deal with that type of adversity. (Something that would come up for me a few years later, after my playing days had ended.)

To Hank, though, it wasn’t anything special. Or at least he acted as such. He was just doing his job. He was completely focused on winning games, nothing else. He wanted to get the record over with as quickly as possible so no one would be distracted by anything beyond winning. It actually gave him increased concentration, focus, and determination. And I really respected that. That’s why, if you go back and look at the video footage, you’ll see that, even though I was on deck when he hit that homer, I don’t even run over to home plate right away. If I had wanted to, I could’ve been the first one to congratulate him. I would’ve been all over that video, for all of history. But I didn’t want that. I wanted it to be Hank’s moment, and I tried to treat it just like any other home run he hit. I didn’t want to make it into a big, huge deal. Because I knew Hank didn’t want it to be that. I was mainly just feeling lucky to be there. I felt very fortunate, very honored.

And you know what? Bigger picture, looking back on those days now, I fully realize that … me going South? Getting drafted by Atlanta and being placed in the South during that time? The exact thing I had prayed against happening…. It absolutely ended up being one of my life’s great blessings in disguise. It was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. And a lot of that had to do with Hank. Because of everything he taught me, about baseball and life. Everything he introduced me to, on and off the field. Being connected at the hip to Hank meant I got to meet Gibson and Mays and Clemente and Stargell, and Billy Williams, and on and on. But also Jimmy Carter and Ralph Abernathy. Andrew Young, Maynard Jackson, Jesse Jackson. Important, historic individuals. I ended up being in the same room with, walking around with … history. My parents couldn’t have been happier. They were so proud. I know now that I was definitely sent to the South for a reason. I’m so glad that prayer wasn’t answered.

Once Hank left the Braves, that was pretty much it for me in Atlanta. I hung around for one more season, and still played my tail off. But it was like there was a huge void in the clubhouse. Something that simply could not be replaced. All the rest of us, after that, we were kind of lost. Hank was our protector. Then, all of a sudden, he was gone. Off to Milwaukee. And before long I was packing up my little Porsche 914 and driving across country to California.

When I landed with the Dodgers, I was beyond excited. I had been a Dodgers fan as a kid, and I wore number 12 because of Tommy Davis. After I arrived in L.A., I had guys like Jim Gilliam and Roy Campanella and Sandy Koufax and Joe Black, all welcoming me and making me feel wanted and looking out for me. It was like: Whew, back home, let’s go! And then, before I knew it, almost before I even got unpacked, I hurt my leg playing basketball. I could barely run for a good long while after that. I had some wonderful seasons in LA. — won a World Series, made some All-Star teams — but let me tell you, that first season? After I was injured? It was rough. I remember I hit a home run in my very first at bat as a Dodger, and then I didn’t hit another one until the 15th of July. I was bad, man. Down and out. Luckily Tommy Lasorda believed in me and gave me a chance to redeem myself, and I took that opportunity and ran with it. I had knee surgery after that first season and hit 30 homers that next year. But you know what? Even after that, and after winning the world championship with the Dodgers and playing some real solid ball for many years in Los Angeles, you know what I get asked about almost more than anything? That first high five.

Here’s what kind of ticks me off about that. Everybody always mentions me when it comes to that moment, but, in actuality, I really had very little to do with it. If you want to give anyone credit for it, that person should be Glenn Burke. He’s the real inventor of the high five, not me. I was just reciprocating. Doing what anyone would’ve done, basically. Someone puts their arm up and shows you their open hand … you’re probably gonna open your hand up and let him slap it. Or at least that’s what I did. That’s it. There’s no way I should be getting credit. That’s all Glenn. It was enough for me to have just hit my 3oth home run of the season off my total nemesis J.R. Richard. That was enough for me. What really bothers me about it all, though, is that it’s almost like Glenn … he gets forgotten in the whole thing. And maybe, you know … maybe it’s because Glenn was gay. I guess baseball wasn’t ready for an openly gay player back then. But it’s not right. Glenn was a hell of a ballplayer! And, more importantly, he was just a cool person, a great guy. He was so fun loving, always smiling. He’d crack you up and leave you in a better mood than before you saw him. He was like my little brother, or my own son. I tried to take care of Glenn and all the young players, just like Hank, Cito, and Orlando Cepeda did with me. I loved Glenn. We all did. So, give that man his due. I was there for it, but Glenn Burke was the originator of the high five.

That high-five game, when I hit number 30, it was definitely a highlight of my career. And I’m proud of the season I had that year. But if I’m being honest here, it was never quite the same for me as a player after that injury. I basically played my last 10 years on one leg and with a bad wrist. Bounced around to a few places — the Giants, the A’s. But I didn’t even really play my final three years in the majors. When it came time to retire, I was still that same confident kid from Riverside. The kid who felt like he could hang with the best in the game, even when he was only 18. I still believed in my talent as much as ever. I knew I could still hit. I wasn’t ready to quit. But the end comes for everyone at some point, you know what I mean? Whether you like it or not.

After I retired, I was at a crossroads in my life. I was in the process of getting a divorce, as my parents had. Had a young daughter, my pride and joy, Natosha, who was eight at the time, and I had vowed to always be close to her. But I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to do next in terms of a career. I had tried to be a stockbroker in 1987, the first year after I retired. And I couldn’t get a baseball job initially. At one point, Al Rosen got in touch about a potential coaching position with the Giants, whom I’d played for in ’84. I didn’t know him, but he said he gained a respect for me while he was GM of the Astros in the early ’80s. I remember I called up my dad and told him about all the things that were going through my mind, and I was just like, “Dad, what do I do?” And my dad, no lie, he’s like: “Go to the mountaintop and pray on it.” Dads, right? Anyway, so I’m like: My Dad usually IS right. I get in my car and head up to Lake Arrowhead with my brother Vic and our daughters. And I get there and there’s this big group of people gathering around to check in. So I get in line with everyone else, and then, out of nowhere, I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s Bob Lurie. Owner of the San Francisco Giants, whom I’d played for in 1984. “Hey, Dusty!” I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even know what to say at first. “You gotta come join us. We need you. Come coach for us!” I really wanted no part of coaching or managing, back then. But after that, I got to a phone and immediately called my dad. I asked him if maybe this was a sign. He just laughed. “Son,” he said, “Oh my aching back! You hadn’t even prayed yet!?!?!? And the ‘sign’ walked up and tapped you on the shoulder.” So I moved up north and joined the Giants as the team’s first base coach. When I first took the job, Al Rosen told me it was going to take five years to get the player out of me and have me full on become a coach, to have that coaching perspective entirely. And when he said that to me, I was definitely like: “Nah, no way. Get out of here.” But, I mean, I gotta give it to that guy because…. It was five years to the day that I was named manager of the San Francisco Giants. And, by the grace of God, that was the same month that Barry Bonds came to town.

Barry, you know, at this point, I mean … what more can I say? Everyone knows what an incredible ballplayer that guy was. How dominant he was. It’s pretty much all been written at this point. But I did have a unique vantage point to it all, I will say that. And that guy never ceased to amaze me. He could do anything he wanted to do on the baseball field. He was just that gifted. Barry and Hank, those two actually had many similarities — great vision, balance, strength, quickness, intelligence. And they were both so hard-working, too. Barry worked as hard as anyone I’ve ever been around. But also, I don’t think people fully realize how intelligent he is. He doesn’t miss a thing. There’d be games where he’d say to me: “O.K. man, look. I’m gonna hit the second pitch he throws me out of the ballpark. Just watch. He’s gonna throw me a slider inside, and I’m going to take it. I’m gonna jump back as if the pitch was close. Then, he’s going to throw me a fastball away, and I’m gonna hit it over the center field fence.” Then, doggone it, he would actually go out and do it. To the letter. Exactly like said. It was like watching a genius composer at work. It was that impressive. People ask me all the time about what it was like for me when Barry broke Hank’s home run record. About how it made me feel, or if there were any mixed feelings at all, because of what Hank had meant to me over the years. And the short answer is…. No way. There were absolutely no mixed feelings for me. Records are meant to be broken. That’s how Hank felt, and I know that’s how Willie Mays felt when Barry passed him. I know Willie told Barry to pass him up and to not stop there. If you’re a truly great player, you don’t get too worried when someone passes you by. You know you’re great. You’re secure in that. So you’re actually just happy for the younger guy. Legitimately happy. So, no, I wasn’t upset or anything like that when Hank’s record fell. More than anything I was happy for Barry. And my son, Darren, he couldn’t have been more excited to see Barry get that record. One of the coolest things in all of my years in baseball was the relationship that Barry and Darren built from the time Darren was very, very young. Something people maybe wouldn’t guess about Barry is that he’s really great with kids. Sometimes a bunch of adults would come around, and he would kind of clam up and go do his own thing, but with kids, he had so much fun. And he took to Darren from the time when he was like three years old. He was always kind to him, loved having him around the clubhouse. It’s probably how Willie was with Barry when he was young, and he was just kind of passing it down to my son.

Dusty Baker

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned being around this game for so long it’s that … you never know. Baseball is never predictable.

“

Of course, pretty much the only thing people remember when they think about Darren from back then is that time during the World Series in 2002 when he almost got run over at home plate. All they see is the video. But the full story goes much deeper. I remember, for that game, almost all the guys with kids had them there with us. And the way we did it was, when a dad was up to bat, his kid would be the one to go and get the bat. But with Darren, because I obviously wasn’t playing, he didn’t have anyone’s bat to go get. He decided he’d be the bat boy for Kenny Lofton, but the problem was that there was another child there who thought he was the one who was supposed to get Kenny’s bat. So Kenny hits that triple, and the other kid is like, “I’m going now!” And Darren, he’s super tiny at the time, but he goes, “Oh no you’re not!!!” And then, before I have a chance to grab him, he runs out to get the bat. But he’s out there way too early, because he’s trying to beat the other kid to it. And then … the rest is history. J.T. Snow scooped him up at home plate like a rag doll and saved the day.

Not many people know this, but the funny thing about it is, right before that game, my mom called me up and told me she had a bad feeling about Darren being the bat boy that night. She told me to keep him off the field. And me, of course, you know how it is when your mom’s worrying about something you think is no big deal? It’s like, “Yeah, O.K. Sure, Mom. Whatever you say.” Then the thing happens and … you can probably guess what took place after the game, right? I’m just about to speak to reporters, and I get word that there’s a phone call for me. It’s Mom. So I pick up the phone and, immediately, right from the second I say hello … she’s giving me hell. No “Hi, son,” no “Great game!” No nothin’. Just yelling about how I almost got her grandbaby killed. At one point, there was a slight pause. I guess she was catching her breath or something. “Hey, Mom. Listen, wait, wait. I have the press here. I gotta go.” And I’ll never forget what she said next. It was like, “Well, then … you better go and tell them they’re gonna have to wait.” “But, but … Mommmm.” “No! You are going to listen to what I have to say.” I felt like I was 12 years old all over again.

Darren doesn’t even remember it. People still talk to me all the time about how crazy and dangerous it was. But, honestly, I feel like it wasn’t that big of a deal. No one was really going to run him over. He didn’t get hurt. (It was fortunate. And, who knows, he may have had a guardian angel of his own that night.) You gotta understand, though, that’s me. I’ve seen a lot of stuff. A lot of almost unbelievable, one-in-a-million-type stuff. I mean, shoot, 1989, not long after I joined the Giants as a coach, you have an earthquake hit during a World Series featuring two teams that are based where the earthquake happened. What are the odds of that? I remember my daughter was eight or nine at the time, and, believe it or not, for school she was doing a book report on earthquakes right before this happened. So about a week earlier, we’re talking about earthquakes and she’s like, “Dad, do you know what to do in an earthquake?” She tells me to find a doorway and stay there. I don’t think much of it, of course. Then, I’m in the lunchroom at Candlestick eating a big slice of banana nut bread and the floor starts shaking. The cement walls shook like jelly, almost like liquid. It looked like gel, almost like mud, but it was actually cement. Like thousands of pounds of cement. I’ve never seen anything like that. I thought about what Natosha had told me and got to a doorway. I stood there, and ate my banana nut bread. And when the shaking stopped, I went out on the field. We could’ve easily been buried under the stadium on that afternoon. But I made it through, banana bread intact.

When I left the Bay to go to Chicago, things didn’t get any less dramatic, that’s for sure. That very first year, I wanted to be the first manager to go to a World Series one year, then go to a new team and win the World Series that next year. And we were so close, too. We had the players to do it — Sammy Sosa, Moises Alou had an incredible year, Aramis Ramirez, Kenny Lofton, Randall Simon. We had Wood, Zambrano, and Prior. The fans were behind us. Everything seemed to be lining up perfectly. Then Steve Bartman happened.

The truth is, we had some bad breaks, and the Marlins got some clutch hits. That’s just how baseball goes sometimes. I could never bring myself to blame Bartman. Still can’t. Here’s a guy who left home that morning wanting nothing more than to just go to the ballpark and cheer his team on. He was a massive Cubs fan. Someone who loved the game and loved his team. How can I be mad at that? He’s no villain. He was just doing what a lot of fans would’ve done, myself included probably. And, if you go back and look at the video, he wasn’t the only one reaching for that ball. There were a bunch of guys there reaching for it. I think it even hit someone else’s hands first. But now this guy, he gets kicked out of the game. He can’t root for the team he loves. Steve Bartman didn’t deserve that. I wanted more than anything to win it all the next year so I could invite Steve to ride on the parade float with me. That would’ve really been something.

Of course, unfortunately, it never happened. And some Cubs fans, they could never get past that night when we lost to the Marlins. So Bartman wasn’t the only one who heard it from the fans in Chicago. During those last few years in town … let’s just say there were times when I harkened back to Hank reading those nasty letters when he was chasing the Babe’s record. It was almost like those experiences with Hank, seeing the stuff he was going through, it basically helped prepare me for what was in store for me with some of the ugliness I experienced near the end of my time in Chicago. Those fans were so hungry for a championship. And I can’t blame them. The passion there was second to none. But it was tough dealing with some of what happened after that game. Especially because … you don’t think I want to win? You don’t think I want this as much as you? I wanted to bring a championship to Chicago more than anything in the world. It just wasn’t meant to be.

One thing that people often ask me is if, since I came so close to winning the whole thing, but always seemed to come up just short, whether I ever got to a point where I doubted that it would ever happen. Did I ever feel like maybe I just might never get over the hump? And all I can tell you is…. Nope. Not ever. There were times I doubted if I was going to get another chance. Because time was no longer on my side. But I never doubted that a championship would happen for me at some point. Never gave up hope. The way I was raised, if you persevere and stay the course and keep working, then you'll reach your goal. But even beyond that, the other big thing that was driving me was my dad, who would sometimes use negative motivation on me. When we lost that World Series in San Francisco in 2002, my dad, I remember he called me up and he goes: “Son, if you couldn’t win this one, I mean … I don’t know. You may never win one now.” I didn’t respond. I didn’t say anything when he told me that. I just let it sit there. But I’ll tell you this much for sure: In my mind, in my heart, everything was all about … hoping to prove my biggest supporter wrong. So I wasn’t going to give up, or let doubt creep in. Now, of course, at the same time, that didn’t mean it would definitely happen for me. I didn’t know if it was going to happen or not. And, to be honest with you, after my time in Washington there was for sure a chance that was going to be it for me. That one … it hurt. I’d been fired before, or not had my contract renewed, and I just kind of let it roll. But that one, Washington, I thought I did a hell of a job there. And I really liked the city a lot. I mean, an awful lot. Big time. I loved it there, and I wanted to come back. But at the same time, there’s always a silver lining in my book. There were always these two-year pockets where, after I wasn’t re-upped, I didn’t get another job opportunity during that span. And those gave me the chance to live life in different ways, and to do some important things. I got to walk my daughter down the aisle and have her get married in my backyard. Then, another time, I got to bury my dad and honor him in a way he deserved. Another year, I had the chance to be there for the burial of my brother, Vic, who had suffered from manic depression. During another of those gap periods, I got to see my son play at Cal and graduate from college. There were a lot of positives that came during those gap periods, even though I didn’t realize it at the time, didn’t really understand. I was able to turn some of those negatives into positives. While never giving up hope. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned being around this game for so long it’s that … you never know. Baseball is never predictable. You just never know when your name might get called.

Look at what happened with me getting an opportunity in Houston? I mean, who could have ever predicted that? I guess what happened to the Astros, and to me, happened for a reason. I don’t know anymore. But it’s something! And I can tell you that if none of that stuff happens in Houston with the scandal, there’s no way I get hired there. All they’d been doing before that was winning. They had no need for a new manager. It was all very improbable. Things happen, though. Things happen in this game. Then, before I know it, I’m getting my shot at 2,000 career victories. And I finally break through with a great bunch of guys and win that elusive World Series.

When we won it all in Houston in 2022, it was more of a relief than a surprise. The main thing that was going through my mind when we were poppin’ those bottles had to do with the value of perseverance. I was thinking about how there are lots of people out there who had given up or quit on some goal or challenge that, had they just kept going a bit more, just pushed through, they would have achieved it. And how sad that was. I never wanted to be someone like that. A person with doubts about whether they gave up too soon. That would’ve eaten at me for life. And in that moment, I truly was just happy knowing that I stuck it out. That I persevered. Other than that, I was just thinking about winning another one. And what I could do to try and make that happen. That’s all I was thinking as the champagne was spraying around that locker room.

Dusty Baker

Did I ever feel like maybe I just might never get over the hump? And all I can tell you is…. Nope. Not ever.

“

The following year, 2023, I knew that was going to be it for me as a manager. And I made sure to soak it all in one last time. But when I look back on those last few years in the game, you know what I’m proud of more than anything? The thing that made me happiest? Right up there with winning it all. It’s that me and Darren were able to room together down in spring training for a couple of years and spend lots of time together. It’s probably tough to imagine this but … the kid actually wanted to live with his dad. His idea. He requested it. That’s really special to me. We were able to sit around at night and talk baseball. We shared meals together. Laughed a ton, busted each other’s chops. It’s something I’ll never forget, a true highlight of my life. And in a lot of ways, it was kind of a full-circle moment for me. Get this: We had spring training at the same place where, 57 years ago, I started out as an 18-year-old. West Palm Beach, Florida. Back then, they wouldn’t rent to us there. Now, I can live wherever I want in that town. And going back, all these years later, I saw progress. I mean, sure, we still have a long way to go, but I saw a lot of progress. A lot of growth. The same can be said for me. And for Darren.

I’m so proud of that kid. As a ballplayer, but even more as a person. As a young man. I’m proud of the people that he and his sister, Tosh, have become — college graduates out in the world making their own way. Darren’s really become a player, too. He’s on a pretty fast track to the majors. He’s young, and eager, so he doesn’t necessarily think so. But if you’re already up at AAA after your second full year of pro ball, you’re doing something right. And heck, who knows, maybe my guardian angel has moved on to my son at this point. I am so grateful for everything, so thankful to my mother and father, and to the Lord, for everything I’ve seen and done in my life. But it’s Darren’s time now. He’s carrying the torch. He’s doing his dad proud. But he is his own man. And the really cool thing is … he’s going to get better from here. Because us, our family, we’re late bloomers. We improve. We stick it out. We see things through. That’s just how things go with us Bakers. We get better with age.

You want to know how much I've seen in this game?

A Baseball life

BY Dusty baker

Elsa via Getty

Courtesy of the Baker Family

The Sporting News via Getty

Brad Mangin/Sports Illustrated via Getty

Kevork Djansezian/AP

John Biever/Sports Illustrated via Getty

Jonathan Newton/The Washington Post via Getty

Jonathan Daniel/Getty

Steph Chambers/Getty

dusty baker

You gotta understand, though, that’s me. I’ve seen a lot of stuff. A lot of almost unbelievable, one-in-a-million-type stuff.

“

dusty baker

If you’re a truly great player, you don’t get too worried when someone passes you by. You know you’re great. You’re secure in that.

“

dusty baker

That’s just how baseball goes sometimes. I could never bring myself to blame Bartman. Still can’t.

“

Courtesy of the Baker Family

David J. Phillip/AP

Dusty Baker

But, honestly, I feel like it wasn’t that big of a deal. No one was really going to run him over.

“

You want to know how much I've seen in this game?

Courtesy of the Baker Family

Brad Mangin/Sports Illustrated via Getty

Courtesy of the Baker Family

The Sporting News via Getty

Stephen Dunn/Allsport via Getty

dusty baker

I just didn't want to be stuck at a predominantly white school for another four years. That plan, Dad's plan, was not my plan at all.

“

dusty baker

But honestly, I feel like it wasn't that big of a deal. No one was really going to run him over.

“

dusty baker

I ended up being in the same room with, walking around with … history. I know now that I was definitely sent to the South for a reason.

“

dusty baker

If you’re a truly great player, you don’t get too worried when someone passes you by. You know you’re great. You’re secure in that.

“

Courtesy Baker Family

Courtesy of the Baker Family

dusty baker

I’d see Bob Gibson out on the field before a game, or Willie Stargell, or Ernie Banks, and … I couldn’t help it, man. My eyes would just light up.

“

dusty baker

I just didn't want to be stuck at a predominantly white school for another four years. That plan, Dad's plan, was not my plan at all.

“

getty, Courtesy of the Baker Family