Everything—a horse, a vine—is created for some duty ... For what task, then, were you yourself created?”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations.
The soul of baseball is there if you know where to look. In Atlanta, whether it was at the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium or Turner Field, you followed the whiff of cigar smoke down a narrow concrete tunnel and took a sharp left into a tiny room before you reached the home dugout. A small television was always tuned to a weather channel, even on the most cloudless of days. A grandfatherly Platonic philosopher-king—thoughtful, humble, more teacher than ruler—sat in a comfy office chair and, between pulls on his stogie, asked you to grab a seat, or a stool as the cubbyhole allowed.
This was Bobby’s Room. Bobby Cox spent much of his time before games there. He was more comfortable here than up the runway in his large, well-appointed office off the main clubhouse, the one with fancy furniture, shelves, bookcases and framed pictures, for goodness’s sake. Bobby’s Room, co-opted from an original groundskeepers’ area, fit him much better. Closer to the field. Utilitarian. Players, reporters and groundskeepers would have to pass by going to and coming from the field, each one an invitation for a conversation.
When Cox died Saturday at age 84, my mind went directly to that room. What a privilege it was to be one of the many welcomed in. So small was the room that it was always a private conversation. For a passerby to insert themselves into the conversation was an intrusion. I treasured those conversations, never knowing the corporate-style, formal press briefings with managers of this generation would burnish them with a sweet patina of nostalgia, like vinyl records.
Bobby Cox always—always, even four hours before the game—wore a full uniform. Game jersey, stirrups, spikes. Yes, spikes to manage a baseball game. He dressed for baseball like an admiral. Putting on a uniform was an honor, a sign of respect for the game and the job that should never be compromised. No cutoff hoodies for Bobby.
Many times in Bobby’s Room, one of the televisions would be tuned to an afternoon game from Wrigley. We would talk baseball like two guys skipping work to sit in the bleachers. Most impressively, Bobby would ask questions. Maybe it was about a team I had seen recently. I’m sure not much I ever told him was of much use. I was always impressed by his humility. The smartest people don’t try to show you how smart they are; they have an unsatiated thirst to learn, not to hear the sound of their own voice.
To be in Bobby’s Room once or many times is to know that Bobby Cox found the task for which he was created as surely as few fortunate people ever do. He was a born manager. Not in the John McGraw sense of a master game manipulator who squeezed every competitive edge from a ballgame, but as leader of men.
He was a benevolent ruler (until you showed a lack of respect for the game, in which case Cox ran many a player off his team so as not to poison the orchard he tended). A teacher. A friend, never more so than in tough times. A powerful leader who wielded power not for his own sake but for the unit. A Marcus Aurelius in spikes.
He aged, but his style never got old. He was teammates with Mickey Mantle and managed Freddie Freeman. He spent 50 years in professional baseball. He was ejected from 162 games, a record, but never held a grudge, for which umpires loved him. The arguments were born of his fatherly instinct to protect players, not to demean umpires. He won 2,504 games, fourth all-time. Only McGraw, who got his start in 1899, had a higher winning percentage among the 17 managers who managed 3,500 games.
More than his prolificacy, loyalty to and respect for his players set him apart. “Players’ manager” can be used as a euphemism for a manager who runs a loose ship. Cox was a players’ manager in its original form. He backed them like a fiercely proud parent.
Braves pitcher Tom Glavine once told me he would be stunned when he picked up the next day’s papers to see Cox’s quotes after a game in which Glavine was shelled. Cox would say Glavine threw the ball well, was unlucky, or maybe a few calls didn’t go his way. “I would be bad,” Glavine would say, “and it’s like he saw a completely different game.” All in the name of backing his boys.
Cross him, though, especially by not giving an honest effort, and look out. Andruw Jones learned that lesson on July 21, 1998. Jones was thrown out at home by 10 feet after running through a stop sign, laughed about it in the dugout, then allowed a pop-up to fall in front of him while pouting over a strikeout in his previous at-bat. Cox pulled him from the field, then ripped him after the game in language a manager today would never use.
“He’s only 21,” Cox said. “I have to remember that, I suppose. But I didn’t act that way when I was 21, nor did Hank Aaron or Willie Mays. You don’t like to do stuff like that. But to me, it was obvious that Andruw didn’t try for the ball.
“Either go home or play. Mistakes are nothing. But it’s a mistake not to try.”
Asked if he would fine Jones, Cox said, “I’ve taken so much money from him it’s a joke. I don’t know what to do. He’s been sent home when he was in the minor leagues. We’ve done a lot of things with him.
“He’s got to grow up. It’s as simple as that. No one is bigger than the game.”
Jones called the incident a turning point in his career. He loved Cox for the tough love.
Cox managed 4,644 games. I was there for the last of them, a painful 3–2 loss to the Giants in 2010 NLDS Game 4. Cox and the Braves were eight outs from sending the series to a fifth game when San Francisco scored twice in the seventh. Something remarkable happened after the last out. The Giants stopped their celebration on the field, turned toward Cox in the first-base dugout and applauded him. Ever gracious, Cox stood for an on-camera interview with me only moments after barely getting through saying goodbye to his team.
A short while later, he sat in the interview room to field questions from reporters. He deflected questions about himself and held up well—until someone asked him if he spoke to his players.
“The best I could,” he said. “I told them, um, I was really proud of them ...”
And that’s when it hit him. The emotions rocked him like a wave against the side of a boat. It wasn’t that he was sad that he had managed his last game. It was the reality that he would no longer lead, teach, instruct and mentor a team of players. It was the sense of team, not self, that sent him reeling.
He pursed his lips, stroked his chin, pulled his cap down ... anything to hold back the tears. For 17 seconds, he could not speak. When he did, he apologized.
“A grown man shouldn’t do this,” he said quietly.
Another five seconds passed. Finally, he righted himself by falling into his default mode of protecting his players.
“But I can’t say enough about Derek Lowe ...” he said, referring to his hard-luck losing pitcher.
When Cox was done, he stood up and walked out of the room, still in full uniform, with his spikes click-clacking for the last time. The room of hard-bitten reporters applauded.
The greatest impact Cox had in the game is not measured in wins but is carried by those he influenced, especially his players who were introduced to his form of baseball Stoicism, a hardball philosophy built on selflessness, wisdom, respect and understanding. As Marcus Aurelius said, “People exist for the sake of one another; teach them, then, or bear with them.”
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