PORT ST. LUCIE — I want to tell you how bad my relationship was with Bobby Valentine when he first became Mets manager and why that matters with Terry Collins — at least for me.
Valentine replaced Dallas Green late in the 1996 season, and our conversations were strained and untrusting. Nothing got better in spring of 1997. Actually, it worsened, peaking in West Palm Beach in late March when we engaged in a heated on-field exchange just outside the visiting dugout.
This went on for about an hour before a Mets-Expos game. We stopped for a few minutes, almost comically, for the Canadian and American national anthems before resuming until, you know, the first pitch kind of forced a cessation. Our relationship changed after that.
I wanted to believe it was because Valentine had gained respect that I would not back down from a fight. But, really, the fight and the tension almost exclusively were my fault. I had made a poor human decision and a terrible journalistic one — I had allowed the impressions of others, mainly out of Texas, to poison my impression of Valentine. He was not to be trusted or believed, he was a self-promoter and user, he was smug and came with the rep of the most hated man in baseball.
Over time, Valentine turned three-dimensional to me, not the two-dimensional villain I had been warned about. Valentine taught me more about baseball than anybody but Buck Showalter (more on him in a bit). Valentine was open with his time and insights. I saw the elements that people disliked, but also a warmth, a charity and a curious intellect.
This is how we get to Collins. Because based on his history and pre-Mets word of mouth, he was caricatured as someone I would dislike, depicted as a baseball Great Santini, just with even less charm. But if age and the relationship with Valentine taught me nothing else, it was to wait, make my own decisions and not let others do it for me.
And, of course, if you are following this narrative, you know I have ended up liking Collins. I see, among other items, the intensity that must have worn out folks with the Astros and Angels in his two combustible previous stops. But I also see a lot of Valentine. The energy, passion, dedication. The kindness with time and insight. He is a pinball in the clubhouse pre-workouts, moving from player to player trying to form connections, gather intelligence. He is uber-knowledgeable and dedicated to baseball, a lifer who shows up at 4:30 a.m. daily for many reasons, but mainly because there is no place else he would rather be.
“It’s a blast,” Collins said. “I’m having fun.”
You believe him. You know his baseball intellect is strong enough to understand what he is watching in Mets uniforms is lacking, especially in comparison to a bulked-up NL East. But this does not dim his enthusiasm or demands. He is ordering a no-excuse zone to his players, refusing to let outside expectations define what he expects. Professionalism is a requirement, not optional.
Which brings us to Showalter. I see parallels between where Showalter was in the early days of his Yankees administration and where Collins is now. His job was so much more about fumigating the looming stench and creating a winning culture than choreographing nine innings.
But, like Collins, his intensity, among other things, limited Showalter’s shelf life. He built something special in New York and Arizona, and watched Joe Torre and Bob Brenly win the championships. Collins finished second three straight years with the Astros and passed the baton to Larry Dierker, who won four of the next five NL Central titles.
Collins produced two more second-place finishes with the Angels before losing the clubhouse and his job in Year 3. Mike Scioscia followed the next season and the Angels were champs two years later.
The first call Collins received after resigning was from Showalter. The message: “What’s wrong with caring too much?” Showalter, like Collins, never rose above Triple-A as a player, and understands the Type-A managerial persona.
Now it feels as if this version of Collins, a bit more patient, but still Type-A, is on a familiar path. He was hired as the right man to clean up a mess. But he knows someone else may be the beneficiary once more. That being compared to Valentine and Showalter — high grades in my book — may say something about shelf life in this job, too.
“I realize the possibilities,” Collins said. “But this is what I do. I have no real hobbies. Baseball is my hobby, baseball is my mistress. I know [at 62] that this is probably my last shot. That is why I am going to enjoy it.”