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November 16th, 2001
10:30 AM
Phoenix, AZ
The following Friday, Preston and I had somehow found ourselves among the finalists for the GM position.
Each just 21 years old, either one of us would have been the youngest general manager in MLB history, and by no small margin. It was nothing short of a miracle that we were still in the running. Alongside us were three other candidates: Scouting Director Dave Briggs, Assistant GM Kevin Spade, and Director of Player Development Owen Vickers. We knew all three of them from our time with the team; Briggs was an old school guy in his sixties, focused on tools and a player's "feel." He was hard-nosed and driven, and he didn't talk to Preston or I much. Although he was a bit slow to adopt sabermetrics, his craft was finely honed over four decades of experience, and it was obvious to everyone that he wanted the job bad.
Spade was younger, about 45, and a former minor leaguer. He caught and played first but never made it past A ball, but he had a great reputation as a coach in the minor leagues. The Diamondbacks poached him from the Rangers' farm system, where he was managing AA, and offered him a front office position. He'd served as Tom Gates' right hand man since the expansion draft in '98 and was the clear favorite for the position.
Lastly, Vickers was a bit of a wild card. He was young -- though not quite as young as Preston and I, I had him pegged for late twenties -- and was a fellow proponent of sabermetrics. He and I had worked together on numerous occasion over the past two seasons, evaluating players and offering advice to Gates. He was nice enough, although he gave off the impression that he'd cut your throat to get ahead if he had to. With a degree in statistics from Yale, he represented the new wave of baseball analytics, and those who favored his hiring thought it a great opportunity for the Diamondbacks to get ahead of the curve.
Then, inexplicably, there was us. Two fresh-faced, 21-year old college graduates with less than two years of experience. Spiteful glares from those who'd be ousted from the race had become abundant, and the three men we were up against seemed either unthreatened or insulted by our persistence. But we'd worked hard to keep ourselves in the running -- late nights doing mock interviews and player analysis, preparing reports, and discussing the direction of the team -- Preston and I had been together every step of the way. Just as we'd said we would.
At 10:30 AM on Friday, November 16th, 2001, the interview that would change dramatically the lives of all five of these men commenced.
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"Good morning, Matthew. Please, take a seat. You know John Ohner." Reilly's friendly voice did little to calm my nerves. Mr. Ohner was Reilly's business partner, and the other majority owner of the Diamondbacks. They each owned 30%, or something like that, with the rest divided among several minority stakeholders.
"It's good to see you, Matthew," John said.
"It's good to see you too, Mr. Ohner," I replied, breathing carefully to steady my voice.
"Well, Matthew, I'm going to cut right to the chase. We like you a lot. We think you've got a very bright future in baseball, and we want that future to be with us," Reilly's words were comforting. "That said, we have several outstanding candidates to consider, and we need one who stands out. So that brings me to my main question: what makes you stand out?"
For a moment, words failed me. The question was a far cry from anything Preston and I had prepared for, and it caught me off guard. I looked for a place to start, hoping that the words would come naturally once I found a footing.
"What sets me apart is my unique perspective."
Holy shit, what a lame answer.
"Could you elaborate on that?" asked Reilly.
My mind was racing for something better to say. Come on, what makes me unique? Think, damn it. You haven't said anything for like three seconds now. Finally, I opened my mouth, and words flowed out.
"The cross section of my studies as a student of economics and statistics -- along with my intimate knowledge of baseball -- allows me to analyze and understand the game in a way no one else can." That sentence spilled out of me like vomit, but it felt like a good vomit. Reilly and Ohner looked intrigued. Intrigued enough to give me confidence. I continued.
"What wins baseball games? There's really only one correct answer: runs. When acquiring players, what you're really looking at is a market for runs. There's a supply of runs and a demand for them. And at the intersection of these, there is a fair market price for runs. At this price, say, $100,000 per run, you are getting exactly what you paid for."
"The problem is, we don't know how many runs a player will give us or prevent for us. So there's an uncertainty in the quality of the good you're paying for. We can make a pretty good guess -- Mark McGwire is worth more runs than Toby Hall -- but when players are close in quality, it becomes extremely difficult to discern their values. Sometimes you end up getting less than what you paid for, and sometimes you get more. Some teams -- like the Yankees or the Dodgers -- are able to pay significantly above market value to avoid this uncertainty. If you can sign the absolute cream of the crop, and you can get some underperformers and still have budget space, you have a significantly higher margin for error than a small market team like the Athletics or even a mid-market team like us.
“Of course, as a result of the uncertainty, the market isn't perfect. Players underperform, get injured, what have you. Which means that the market can be "beat," in a sense. This is either where supply is too high or demand is too low, resulting in an equilibrium price for a specific player or type of player that is below the market price for runs."
I came out of the zone I was in to see the two men in front of me looking highly interested and impressed.
"So you would apply this sort of economic thinking to the role of General Manager," Ohner suggested.
I nodded. "But it's only a piece of the puzzle. We still need to find a way to evaluate players that other people aren't already doing. Which is where advanced statistics come in."
"Do you mean to suggest that traditional scouting is useless?"
"Of course not. If statistics tell us the what, scouting and film can tell us the why. Perhaps a player is striking out too much because he's pulling off on the off-speed pitch away. Maybe a pitcher is giving up too many home runs because he's tipping his slider by changing his arm slot. Really, it's the perfect marriage of three concepts -- markets, sabermetrics, and scouting -- all of which must be done proficiently to create a winning baseball team."
Reilly and Ohner looked at each other, then back at me.
"That's some great stuff, Matthew," said Reilly, "and it's exactly why we're so thrilled about having you on board. If you don't mind, though, I'd like to change the topic of discussion for a moment, and it could be considered a bit of a sensitive subject. Is that all right?"
I had no idea what was coming, and I began to sweat.
"Certainly, sir," I replied.
"We interviewed Preston Greene earlier this morning, just before you. I know you two are close friends. You were roommates at NYU, correct?"
"Correct."
"Of course, none of this should leave this room."
"Right." My heart was racing. What the hell was he about to say?
"John and I both felt that that interview went pretty well. He talked about some of the same things as you, although it was a bit more financial. Both of you are very bright young men, but we have some questions about his..." Reilly dug around for the right word. "Well, let's just say we have some questions for you, since you know him so well."
"Okay..." By this point, I was so nervous, my entire body went numb.
"Preston is a very charismatic and friendly individual, no doubt, but we feel like he might have trouble making the tough decisions that come with the position. Things like releasing and trading players. Do you feel like that might be an issue for him?"
"Uh..."
"I know he's your friend, but the best thing you can do for him is be honest," Reilly encouraged.
I thought for a moment. It was an impossible question. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t lie. I did my best to find honest words that wouldn’t make him look bad.
"The great thing about Preston is he has this heart of gold. He loves everyone. He never wants anything bad to happen to people, even those who maybe don't like him."
"So it might be hard for him to tell a player that he's been cut or traded."
I thought again, briefly. Reilly was pushing me towards a firmer answer. "Yeah, it probably would,” I conceded.
Reilly nodded, then continued on. “The GM position is one that comes with a lot of pressure. Pressure from the media, from the fans, from the players, from your colleagues. Pressure that we feel you can handle. Do you believe that Preston could handle that kind of pressure?"
I thought about it for a second. I thought of how Preston was always thinking what people thought of him, how he took the smallest perceived slight to heart. I had no choice but to answer honestly.
"No."
Reilly nodded once more, and continued. "Do you think Preston would make a good General Manager?"
I straightened in my chair, taken aback by the question. It wasn't like the others. It wasn't about Preston's personal character, something I'd had first hand experience with. Reilly was directly asking me to evaluate him professionally, to do what he was supposed to do. I didn't understand why he felt he had to ask something like that. Was he testing me, to see if I'd put the team over a personal friendship? The interview had gone really well to that point, and I didn't want to blow it by making it seems as though I'd let a personal relationship stand in the way of my work. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought Preston wouldn't really be a good GM. He would put on that confident air, as he always did, but inside the constant scrutiny and difficult decisions would tear him apart. I knew that better than anyone. It was for his own benefit, really, and he would never have to know.
Having made up my mind, I sat up straight, looked Mr. Reilly dead in the eye, and spoke firmly.
"No."
_________________
Who'd want to be men of the people when there's people like you?
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