Charlie Finley: Baseball's Barnum

Charles Oscar Finley, owner, president, general manager and remote-control field manager of the Oakland A's. was on a typical tear. "Get this crate rolling," he ordered. Chauffeur Howard Risner nosed the sleek black Cadillac into the moving traffic and headed toward Chicago's O'Hare Airport. "Shoot the works," said Finley. Risner hit a button, and downtown Chicago echoed to the Caddie's musical horn. "Now the siren," demanded Finley. A muted wail sent other cars skittering for the curb. Finley switched on a loudspeaker hidden beneath the hood and began broadcasting a stream of chatter to startled pedestrians. "Hey, Howard!" he exulted. "Now we're really going. Hit that horn again."

In fact, Charlie Finley was just starting to warm up. By the time his Braniff plane landed in Kansas City, where his A's were playing the Royals, Finley had invited half the first-class passengers to be his guests at the game. A stewardess, tickled by his flattery ("Hey, baby, you look great"), had bestowed a farewell kiss, and a leading Kansas City lawyer had offered to drive Finley to Royals Stadium. That saved a $20 cab tab, and Finley was quick to accept.

In the A's clubhouse, he was greeted by growls from his players: "Christ, Charlie's back again." If Finley heard, he gave no sign; he was too busy handing out samples of his latest innovation for the national pastime—Day-Glo orange baseballs. Pitcher Vida Blue, still seething with the memory of past salary battles, flicked his orange ball into his locker with contempt. Slugger Reggie Jackson asked Finley only half facetiously if his recent hitting streak (eight home runs, 21 RBIS and a .388 average in 17 games) was worth a raise. "You've got to hit consistently," shot back Finley, "not periodically."

When the A's took the field and began warming up with the new orange balls, the stadium buzzed with comment. Even Home Plate Umpire George Maloney was captivated. He dispatched the A's bat boy to ask Finley for a ball. When it was delivered, Maloney promptly sent it back—for an autograph.

The request was not surprising. Charlie Finley, 57, is the winningest and most notorious businessman in baseball. The national pastime has never been noted for imagination in the front office, and change of any sort has usually been equated with heresy, but Finley is an unabashed maverick. "I've never seen so many damned idiots as the owners in sport," he sputters. "Baseball's headed for extinction if we don't do something. Defense dominates everything. Pitching is 75% of the game, and that's why it's so dull. How many times have you seen a fan napping in the middle of a football or basketball game? Hell, in baseball people nap all the time. Only one word explains why baseball hasn't changed: stupidity! The owners don't want to rock the boat."