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Big-league managing is a notoriously uncertain job,* but Finley's dealings with his managers are far from routine. "He calls you in the dugout, in the clubhouse and at home," says a former manager. "He makes you explain every move. And he's never satisfied with your explanation. He tells you who to play, where to play him, when you play him."
Finley claims he is acting like any other general manager consulting with his field manager. "The one difference," he says, "is that this general manager also happens to be the owner. It's my club, my money, and I'm gonna roll my dice as long as my money's on the table." Two other differences are that Finley is Finley, and he lives in Chicago, attending many games in Midwest cities, but getting to Oakland for only a dozen or so a year. Instead of huddling daily with Manager Alvin Dark, Finley calls him long-distance.
To stay in touch with play, during every game Finley either dials the press box and gets Traveling Secretary Jim Bank to feed him the details, or he calls a special number at KEEN radio in San Jose to plug in on the play-by-play broadcast. When he hears something he does not like, he is not shy about demanding an explanation.
Even Dark, who accepts Finley's interference like a stoic, admits that managing for the man can take its toll. "What's it like working for Charlie? It's tough. Charlie's tough and rough, and at times you think he's cruel. But he is a winner. His whole life in baseball is winning, and I enjoy winning."
For all the bad blood, so do the rest of the A's—though it sometimes seems improbable that the team can concentrate on playing long enough to win a game, let alone three world championships. There is often anarchy in the clubhouse, with players in an uproar about Finley or, in a spillover of antagonism, battling each other. That they still win is a tribute to sheer skill and unshakable self-confidence. "We win because we have guys who love the challenge," says Bando. "We have a nucleus of gutsy players who don't know how to lose."
The one group in Finley's operation that does end up losing is his front-office staff—the smallest in baseball, and probably the most overworked. In 15 years, Finley's autocratic rule has used up five scouting directors, six farm directors (last week the seventh, John Claiborne, quit in disgust), ten publicity managers and 16 broadcasters. He sends the staff scurrying with round-the-clock calls—there is even a telephone in the men's room (located a safe distance from the clubhouse)—and supervises everything from bat orders for the players to food in the press room. Frank Ciensczyk, the A's equipment manager, sometimes gets five or six calls a day. When Gene Tenace asked for a new pair of pants recently, Ciensczyk replied, "I'll have to check it with Charlie." Says Frank: "Whether it's 5¢ or $5,000, you better be sure you know what you spent it on and that it was the right thing to buy."