Pyrotechnics by Finley

"I found out one thing about baseball people right away," says Charles Oscar Finley. "They like to make the game sound so complex that nobody but them can run it. It doesn't take a genius to run a ball club." Since he bought the Athletics 14 years ago when they were steady losers in Kansas City, Finley has proved his own dictum on a number of occasions. His imperious, cantankerous ways have earned him enemies from coast to coast and have often hurt the team. Yet in a slow-moving sport that is top-heavy with tradition, Finley's innovations and flights of profane fancy have made him one of the most visible and successful of team owners.

Determination to win--his way --has been a lifetime obsession. His skill on the field never got him beyond semi-pro status in Indiana, his home state, but First Baseman Finley kept his love of baseball. If he could not star on a major-league club, he would own one. This took some doing for the son of a steelworker who followed his father into the Gary mills. Kept out of World War II by an ulcer, Finley began working in an ordnance plant by day while selling insurance at night.

A case of tuberculosis slowed him down, but during 27 months in a sanitarium he devised a group-insurance program for professional people. Today the Chicago-based Charles O. Finley & Co., Inc. is a leading insurer of physicians and collects some $40 million in premiums annually.

By the late '50s, Finley says, "I was so hungry for a ball club I could taste it." After losing bids to buy teams in Detroit, Los Angeles and Chicago, he finally acquired the A's for $4 million.

His gimmicks would doubtless have revolted Connie Mack, the austere, dignified former patriarch of the A's. But the team was in desperate condition. To attract fans into the decrepit Kansas City stadium, he sponsored cow-milking contests and greased-pig chases, released helium-filled balloons containing tickets to A's games, offered discount days to bald-headed men, Missouri farmers and almost every other identifiable group. He grazed sheep outside the rightfield fence, built a picnic area and miniature zoo beyond the bleachers in left. He used a yellow cab to drive pitchers in from the bullpen, hired Miss U.S.A. as a bat girl, and installed a mechanical rabbit that popped up behind home plate with baseballs for the umpire. When the A's multicolored uniforms began to catch on, he tried (unsuccessfully) to win league approval for orange balls and phosphorescent gold bases. Along the way, he also built the team into a pennant contender.

After a long dispute with city officials over his stadium lease, Finley moved his show to Oakland in 1968, quickly bought the California Seals hockey team and, in 1972, basketball's Memphis Tams. But baseball remained his first priority. Finley promoted the designated-hitter experiment in the American League. This year he hired Sprinter Herb Washington to serve as a kind of designated runner for the A's. In an era of absentee ownership, General Manager Finley exercises more day-to-day control over his empire than does any of his major-league rivals. "In reality," he says, "you could get one of the park policemen to stand in the dugout and wave pitchers in and out of the ball game." Recently, he seemed ready to fire his present manager, Alvin Dark. "I'm playing to win!" he screamed at Dark after a game against the White Sox. "If you don't start playing aggressive baseball, I'll kick your [expletive deleted] ass out of here. We won two years without you, and we can win again without you." Those who overheard the explosion say that it was quintessential Finley.

He is no less mercurial with his players. Finley has defied league rules by rewarding spectacular performances with spectacular bonuses. He has given away automobiles, credit cards and even provided interest-free loans for his players. "He can be a great, generous man, even lovable at times," says Sal Bando. Yet Finley can be skinflinty as well. The A's led all teams in requesting arbitration for salary disputes this year, and his loud money hassles with Reggie Jackson, Vida Blue and others are famous. When Dick Williams wanted to switch to the Yankees, Finley demanded a huge payoff in players. As a result, Williams is out of baseball for the time being.

Two heart attacks last year forced Finley, now 56, to slow down a bit. In February he sold the California Seals. Yet he has hardly mellowed. Piqued by poor attendance in Oakland and the delay of his TV contract, he has retaliated with a series of economy moves. The 25% discount on A's season tickets has been removed, and half-price family nights at the Oakland Coliseum have been reduced from twelve to four. Players' fan mail goes unanswered because Finley has refused to supply the team with stamps. Now, thanks to an order by Oakland fire officials, Finley will shave his budget even further by discontinuing the Scoreboard fireworks displays. As the pennant race warms up, however, Finley can be counted on to supply his own special brand of fireworks.

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