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Black Mistrust. Jackson is not satisfied with individual domination. He wants—and insists—that his fractious, calamity-prone team reach for the same goal. Five years ago, when the A's were first emerging from mediocrity, Jackson brashly announced, "We are going to be a dynasty." He has been pushing the team to win ever since. When the A's show signs of failing, as they did early this season, Jackson attempts to goad them by example and word. A month ago, for instance, Jackson was on a typical tear while the A's were in an early-season slump. Midway through a game against the Indians, Oakland Centerfielder Bill North hit a hard grounder to second. Sensing that it would be an easy out, he trotted to first base. When North returned to the dugout, Jackson greeted him with a stream of obscenities for not hustling. The rest of the team, obviously embarrassed by the verbal spanking, looked the other way; but when Jackson himself went to the plate, the outcry was sharp. "Who the hell does Jackson think he is?" asked several players. The next day, North, a black, bitterly informed Jackson that they were no longer on speaking terms.
For Jackson, the reaction to his outburst was only the latest manifestation of growing unease between him and other black players on the team. As a black who speaks Spanish and has many white friends, Jackson used to be a man for all cliques. But the attention paid to his white associations, plus his growing assertion of authority, has caused problems.
"I've made a special effort to help my own kind," he says with some anguish, "but it has backfired. I'm having trouble communicating with them, and that upsets me. I know they mistrust me because I spend so much time with white people. But I'll tell you something. On the field I don't respect anyone just because he's black or white. I respect him if he performs."
The A's as a team are otherwise free from tangible racial tension, though an undercurrent of division persists. Black players tend to stick together socially, as do the Latin Americans and whites. This atmosphere of tolerance minus affection is now commonplace in baseball, with the last of the "white" teams like the Red Sox, Yankees and Angels now thoroughly integrated.
For the A's, family quarrels are nothing new. In the past few years, the team has learned to live with contention and even thrive on it. "Our emotions, our gripes, our passions are up front," says Third Baseman Sal Bando, the team captain. "We're like a floating encounter group." Whether at home or on the road, the mustachioed A's are a wild, rambunctious crew. On a typical charter flight from New York to Oakland, the players were barely settled in their seats when half a dozen portable stereos started blaring a discordant mix of rock music, an unlimited supply of beer began to flow, and a less-than-chivalrous pursuit of the stewardesses got under way. Before the flight ended, one player, thoroughly inebriated, started punching wildly at teammates blocking his way to the bar.