Rookie Tribe Manager Frank Robinson Grants a Tryout to T.J. O’Hays

Oh, so you’ve never heard of T.J. O’Hays? Well, until 1975, neither had new Cleveland Indians manager Frank Robinson.

Over the previous six winters, the major league veteran Robinson had managed Cangrejeros de Santurce (the Santurce Crabbers) of the Puerto Rican winter league. The league consisted of six teams, and the Santurce club was its unofficial flagship. Boasting the nicest ballpark in the league, the Crabbers were the only independently owned team. Second generation owner Hiram Cuevas’ sole source of income typically turned a profit. The Puerto Rican league had served as a training ground for several major league ballplayers and managers, including Cuevas’ friend, Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver. When Weaver had moved on from Santurce in the late 1960s as he transitioned to managing the Orioles, he recommended Frank Robinson as his replacement.

Robinson’s first 23-man Crabbers roster was packed with quality players (and included the maximum eight non-Puerto Ricans), and they won the league title. Unfortunately for Robinson, unpredictability made the season quite a bit more difficult to navigate than it might otherwise have been. He had players who, back in the states, had been deeply buried inside major league managers’ dog houses. There were players who’d been involved in bizarre incidents while stateside (like eventual Cleveland Indian Leo Cardenas, who’d pulled an ice pick on Reds teammate Jim O’Toole). Robinson also managed players who were obsessed with evil spirits. One was his second baseman- who, one day, was too mortified to approach second base. Nearby on the field, he noted two sticks that were crossed. This portended an ominous warning.

By 1975, the 39-year-old Robinson was about to again follow in Weaver’s footsteps, this time ascending to a major league managerial role. The Indians had signed him off waivers at the end of the 1974 season, from the California Angels. The follow-up move to ink Robinson to a player-manager contract was not surprising, even as it was momentous and historic. Following through on his commitment to Cuevas, Robinson managed the Santurce club one last season in 1975, after he signed with Cleveland.

While in Puerto Rico for his final winter season, Frank Robinson received a long-distance telephone call. The caller introduced himself as T.J. O’Hays, and he told the manager he had a slide he wanted to show him. Other managers had warned Robinson about guys asking for tryouts, but he was intrigued. So all this guy could do was slide? The caller was supremely confident and enthusiastic. His slide was revolutionary. Even if a fielder is waiting to tag the runner, he will fail to do so. Robinson wanted to hear how this would work, but the caller wanted to show him, in person. He wanted to come to spring training. When Robinson told him he’d need to be invited by the Indians, he said he’d pay his own expenses. Fair enough- the manager told him that would be fine.

Fast forward to the final days of spring training, 1975. The previous few weeks had seen a national media crush in Tucson, Arizona, covering the start of the first black major league manager’s first season. Robinson had already navigated through struggles with grumpy, passive-aggressive veteran pitchers. He’d shared publicly some of his managerial philosophies, such as the way he would like to handle umpires and player curfews. And by this late juncture, the roster was basically set.

Then the telephone rang. T.J. O’Hays was calling, about his slide. He would arrive the next day. He had shown the slide to the Oakland A’s, but owner Charlie O. Finley apparently wasn’t impressed. O’Hays dropped the name of A’s slugger Reggie Jackson to Robinson- at least in O’Hays’ world, Reggie was a personal reference.

While contacting a major league manager to demonstrate a cutting-edge slide may seem unorthodox, it did make perfect sense that O’Hays approached Charlie O. Finley first. Finley was the eccentric owner of the A’s in the 1970s who’d advocated dramatic changes in major league baseball, such as the use of orange baseballs, the designated hitter, and a mechanical ‘rabbit’ that popped out of the ground behind the home plate area to deliver balls to the umpire. 

The next day, the Indians were in Mesa, Arizona, where the A’s trained. A long-haired, thirty-something blond guy walked into the Indians clubhouse holding a small bag. As all eyes followed him, he walked over to Frank Robinson and introduced himself as T.J. O’Hays. “I called you about the slide.” Robinson looked at him and told him they didn’t have a uniform. Undaunted, O’Hays announced he would get one from the A’s. From Reggie Jackson.

A short while later, Robinson was out on the field. O’Hays appeared, wearing Oakland A’s uniform pants and a windbreaker. Robinson noted: “He had on a pair of spikes that were patched up with protective metal on each side that made them look like football high-tops for a knight in armor. Then he taped a big sponge over his pants on each hip.”

O’Hays was ready.

Robinson walked him to the right field corner of the outfield, and tossed a base on top of the grass. O’Hays instructed the manager to stay at the base. Again, from Robinson: “He trotted away, then turned and ran at me as if I were covering the bag. Suddenly he did a flip in the air with a Kung Fu kick and he landed on the base with one foot, whomp.”

He looked at Robinson, waiting for a reaction. No fielder would hold his ground and tag such a runner. And if he tried, the runner could decide to slide instead. Robinson allowed that it was something he had not seen. O’Hays began offering to teach all the Indians players his move. Robinson paused… Before he could respond, O’Hays launched into his next proposal. He could pitch. All he needed to do was warm up with the two-pound rock he retrieved from his bag. He moved off on his own and began tossing the rock ten feet one way, then back. He would be happy to provide the Indians pitchers with this effective warm up drill. Of course, it could easily take two weeks to sufficiently teach the technique.

When he was done with the rock, O’Hays was ready to begin pitching. Coach and former catcher Jeff Torborg was his batterymate. Unfortunately, after two or three pitches, O’Hays was holding his arm in pain. They sent him to trainer Jimmy Warfield, and about fifteen minutes later, the prospect reappeared in street clothes. This could have been his big break, and he might later lament his rotten luck- but wait. He hadn’t shown Robinson his catcher’s mitt. A dial on the mitt measured the speed of a pitch. All you had to do was calibrate it: you knew Nolan Ryan threw 100 miles per hour, right? So catch one from him- you’d see what the dial showed, and then you could figure other pitchers’ speed based on that. When the manager informed O’Hays that Ryan doesn’t always throw 100 miles per hour, O’Hays was surprised. But that fact did not matter: “There must be something I can do with your ball club. I’ll do anything. I need the money.” For Robinson, what began as an amusement ended with a measure of admiration mixed with pity. If only some of his ballplayers had that kind of enthusiasm.

Frank Robinson’s 1975 Cleveland Indians started the season slowly. Veteran players failed to produce, and sowed dissension in the clubhouse. At the end of April, the Indians paid a visit to New York. The manager received a call at the hotel. It was T.J. O’Hays, who informed him that he was alive and well. And his arm was improving. He needed a few more weeks.

The season continued to frustrate the new manager. The young players had promise, but the veterans continued to fail to impress. They began to be dealt off, and the kids generated some excitement. The team had struggled out of the gate with the fundamentals of the game, a fatal flaw that never did improve.

In early August, the Indians visited New York on a road trip. By this time, the team had completely fallen out of contention. Frank Robinson had an appointment with the American League president to face disciplinary action over one of his many run-ins with an umpire. Upon returning to the club at the team hotel, a hand-delivered letter was waiting for him.

The letter was a running stream-of-consciousness from T.J. O’Hays: After three tries, the shoulder was finally able to handle his strenuous exercise routines. During the down time, he’d concentrated on his legs. He wore ankle weights, although he did gain weight due to feeling depressed over his not being able to throw. But the shoulder was healing up better than ever. And oh- by the way, John Ellis had “broke his balls” back at spring training over the new slide, and was the “rottenest bastard” he ever met.  He would have taught Ellis a lesson, but didn’t want to cause a problem. He didn’t like to use force with people, but sometimes it’s the only thing people understand. Like his buddy who bullied people when he drank. And the prostitute whom he’d declined, who kicked him repeatedly. He hoped Robinson wouldn’t let him down and “change his mind” about the slide. He wanted the manager to say hi to Reggie Jackson. And he had been thinking about another new way to slide, on plays where the pitcher takes the throw on a sprint to first.

Come mid-September, the Indians returned to New York one final time. There was no sign of T.J. O’Hays. Frank Robinson figured his arm had not come around.

Robinson’s historic first season as a big league manager was about over. Several prominent story lines had played themselves out, while some would stretch into the offseason and beyond. It was becoming apparent to Frank Robinson that the odd saga of T.J. O’Hays had come to an end.