Ruly Carpenter ran Phillies when they won 1980 World Series

"When you are the general, you have to take the heat," says Ruly. "And I would take every call. I would tell the stadium operator to put them through. And the letters! Well, a lot of them were vulgar but if someone wrote a rational letter and left their phone number, I would always call them back. When I got them on the phone, I would say, 'This is Ruly Carpenter.' And they would say, 'Ruly Carpenter, my ass!' But once I got them to believe me and we had a chance to talk, some of them would even later write to apologize to me."

Carpenter even got calls at home. "Can you believe that?" he asks. "Usually, they would call to second-guess the manager. And it always seemed they were calling from a bar. You could hear the noise in the background. They would holler, 'Well, I told Carpenter how to straighten this mess out.' I finally got an unlisted number."

But that was a far different time, and it was not long after the champagne dried that Ruly sold the team. Free agency had changed the economics of baseball, and Ruly soon realized that he would have to take on partners if he was going to be able to continue to operate. Players now had agents and owners had agreed to resolve contract disputes through arbitration, which Ruly contends is "the dumbest thing owners had ever done." Salaries for even average players were escalating to irrational levels. So Carpenter sold the team in 1981 to a group led by Giles, which has included "silent partners" who are not only unlisted in the phone book but probably undetectable by CAT scan.

"I just never liked the idea of having to contact three or four other partners if there was a big financial decision that had to be reached," says Ruly. "And in 1981 I just looked at where baseball was and said, 'Boys, this is never going to change. This is just going to go on and on and on.' "

Ruly sold the team for $32.5 million. He suspects that it is now worth $800 million to $900 million.

So, does he harbor any regrets?

"Financially, I suppose you would have to say that what I should have done was get some partners, hang in there and keep battling," he says. "But it is like that corner lot that in 1950 was worth $5,000 and is now worth $3 million. But no, I am just hardheaded enough to say I would do the same thing over again. Hindsight is always 20/20."

Does he miss it?

No.

And yes.

No, because "the business aspect" of baseball indeed became the headache he envisioned. Heck, Alex Rodriguez earns in a single year close to what he sold the Phillies for. And there is always the threat of labor unrest and assorted other problems that detract from the essential joy of the game.

And that is what still tugs at him.

"The field end of things," he says with a smile. "What happens between the white lines is the part I will always miss." *