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The Yankees traded him in 1957 after a brawl at New York's Copacabana nightclub. His career rapidly declined, and he wandered through six teams in five years. Then Martin was hired by the Minnesota Twins as a coach in 1965 and became manager four years later.
In eleven years as a manager with five separate teams (Minnesota, Detroit, Texas, Yankees, Oakland), Martin has always improved his teams' fortunes.
Indeed, he has taken faltering teams near the top wherever he has been. Then, inevitably, he would clash with the front office. Just as inevitably, his bosses answered his challenge by firing him. Tigers Hall of Fame Outfielder Al Kaline tries to explain Martin's kamikaze past: "I think it's his desire to win. He thinks he can do it better. He wants to give advice on the scouting, tell the minor league managers what to do, and he goes a little bit too far." Says Yankee Owner George Steinbrenner, whose differences with Martin constituted a four-year national soap opera until the two parted for good in 1979: "I'm happy he's in a situation now where he has complete latitude. That was never going to be the case with me." Counters Charlie Finley: "He's the best manager in baseball."
At 52, Martin shows the effects of his hard-hitting life. His face is weathered by time and his troubles. His most prominent features now are the eyes, darting to take in every scrap of action on the field. They are dark, with haunted circles that reveal his anguished inability to give up on a game, even long after it has ended. As a manager, Martin does not go gently into the night: "When I leave here to drive home, I think about the game the whole way. When I drive in the next day, I'm still thinking about the game." His chief form of relaxation, however, is still a post-game drink. He keeps a chilled bottle of vodka in the refrigerator next to his desk.
Currently in the middle of divorce proceedings with his second wife, he has remained close to his daughter Kelly Ann, 29, and son Billy Joe, 17. There is another generation, a granddaughter Evie, 2. "She calls me 'Grandpa,' " Martin says with uncharacteristic softness.
Martin is a walking advertisement for his three western-wear boutiques—a sartorial taste acquired from that small-town Oklahoman, Mantle. Off duty, the manager sports hand-tooled lizard boots and wide-brimmed hats, making him the unlikeliest bandy-legged urban cowboy of them all. He lives quietly with a woman friend in an East Bay apartment. Nowadays, he spends less time in bars—and less time in fights. Martin has had his share of them. Outside a bar with one of his own players (Twins' Pitcher Dave Boswell, 1969), in a bar with a Reno sportswriter (1978), in a Bloomington, Minn., bar with a marshmallow salesman (1979), anywhere.