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One reason Finley keeps a tight grip on the cash is that the A's do not produce much profit. Attendance at modern Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum (capacity: 50,000), a few minutes' drive from downtown Oakland, averages only 13,000 per game. Among the reasons: cold, foggy evenings, competition from the San Francisco Giants across the Bay, and Finley's own money-saving cutbacks on promotion. The result last year was a modest profit of $350,000. Much of that came from TV revenue plus play-off and World Series income.
Whatever the state of the team's finances, nothing has ever stopped the lively flow of Finley innovations. No sooner had he bought control of the A's than Finley started agitating for change. At first he turned to gimmicks to pull in crowds and feed his starveling team: greased pig chases before the start of a game; a mechanical rabbit popping up behind the umpire, holding a supply of new balls; half-price tickets for bald men; a mule mascot named Charlie O.
In 1963 Finley persuaded the league to allow the A's to don multicolored uniforms and white shoes—an unprecedented move in a game that had been played in white and gray. Finley designed the gold, green and white outfits himself. Today baseball is awash with bright reds, blues and yellows. After extended lobbying by Finley, night World Series games were finally adopted in 1972. The designated-hitter innovation, allowing top batters to hit in place of the pitcher, is another change the A's owner helped push through.
The hot orange baseball is Finley's latest offering, and it is more than a matter of show. "Batters can see an orange ball better, particularly at night," he argues. "If we start using this ball, batting averages will increase. That means more action, and that's what the fans want to see." His own brand, labeled "The Charles O. Finley Baseball," is already being manufactured.
To increase hitting, which would liven the game, attract more fans and produce more profit, Finley also wants to see batters walked on three balls instead of four. "Just think about the disadvantage the batter has," he says. "In football, there are eleven guys playing eleven guys, in basketball five against five. Not in baseball. We've got nine fielders out there against one batter. We've got to give the batter help."
The three-ball rule would also speed things up and thereby satisfy another Finley urge. "Every other game's got a clock. Why not baseball?" he asks. "There's a rule on the books that pitchers must pitch every 20 seconds. But we've got guys out there who throw every half-hour. Let's put up a 20-second clock in every ballpark. If it runs out before the pitcher throws, charge him with a ball. That'll speed things up."
As if Finley's ideas are not brash enough, he peddles them with a pitchman's flair. When he wanted to press for adoption of the orange ball at one league meeting, he showed up wearing a traffic cop's phosphorescent orange glove. Every time he wanted to talk, he waved the glowing glove over his head.