Lions in the boardroom, lambs on the field

By Adam Cancryn

A new documentary series exposed the Marlins' brash, anything-goes business style. 

There's a scene in the first episode of Showtime's documentary series following the Miami Marlins where team president David Samson is describing the hassles involved in securing the Marlins' stadium deal.

After launching into the kind of ill-conceived metaphor involving salmon and sex that could only be delivered by a deluded narcissist like Samson, he finally reaches the bottom line:

"The payoff for all of the lawsuits and all of the fighting and all of the tension and stress and insanity," he says, gesturing to the camera as he hurtles down a Miami highway, "the payoff is to see people enjoy the ballpark and winning games."

All of it is worth it if the Marlins make money and win a championship. The ends justify the means. It's a sentiment that fits not just the arm-twisting organization's campaign for a stadium, but its entire approach to this season. The bold offseason moves, the hundreds of millions of dollars spent, the bridges burnt, it was all done in the name of a championship. And they'll continue to do what it takes to reach that goal, right up until they achieve it or go down in flames.

That attitude is nothing new, especially in the sports world. All successful franchises must be willing to spend money and make hard choices to win a title. But few have brought the kind of smarmy, top-down arrogance to the pursuit that the Marlins' executives have.

The moral bar for the entire organization is set by owner Jeffrey Loria, an individual who has proven as toxic as any in baseball. An art dealer with a knack for wearing out his welcome in record time, Loria flipped the Montreal Expos for a tidy profit and then purchased the Marlins in one smooth motion. Once in Florida, any goodwill he'd built up by winning two World Series was quickly exhausted by the subsequent fire sales that left the team depleted in order to keep his pockets fat. But Loria is willing to step on everyone and jump in bed with anyone to get what he wants, a strategy that has helped him retain and expand his power. First, he negotiated a stadium deal that stuck taxpayers with 80% of the $515 million price tag, resulting in the recall of Miami-Dade Mayor Carlos Alvarez and an SEC investigation into stadium-related bond sales and campaign contributions made by the franchise.

Then he set his sights on his own team, forcing star Hanley Ramirez to move to third base to make way for incoming shortstop Jose Reyes. Loria's attitude, as captured by the Showtime cameras, was that Ramirez would simply have to deal with it. Also joining the Marlins this offseason was pitcher Carlos Zambrano, a pariah known for his on-field meltdowns, off-field tantrums and divisive attitude. Loria, however, saw only a talented pitcher available for a low price. Managing that investment would be someone else's problem.

Sitting at Loria's right hand is Samson, a man whose temperament meshes well with Loria, and not just because he's his stepson. Samson is a lap dog masquerading as the Alpha dog, wrapped in a Napoleon complex and weighed down by the massive chip on his shoulder. He stalks the Marlins' hallways, always half-eyeing his Blackberry, doing all of Loria's dirty work. Whether it's pushing through the stadium deal or suspending manager Ozzie Guillen, Samson is the point man. (Loria is conspicuously absent during the meeting with Guillen, and is rarely shown outside his office, except when hamming it up with players, playing the role of benevolent boss.)

"Sampson is the villain in many people's eyes," Showtime's narrator says, and it's a role he embraces.

In March, he implied that Miamians were stupid ("I don't have to hold back now that the stadium is built. We're not the smartest people in Miami") and that Reyes was greedy ("[Reyes] said 'I really want to play in Miami as long as you pay me $1 more than anyone else ... I really want to make the most money I can").

But being the blackhearted bulldog has gotten Samson where he is today, nepotism notwithstanding, and that appears to be all that matters. The ends justify the means.

The third member of the Marlins' trifecta is Guillen, and it's Guillen who puts the 'Fuck' in the organization's Go Fuck Yourself persona. A gifted manager with absolutely no filter, Guillen racks up 97 F-bombs in his opening speech to the team, a statistic Loria proudly presents to him afterward.

Unlike Loria and Samson, though, Guillen is hard to dislike from a distance. His honesty plays well on the diamond, and he is one of the only managers capable of juggling Miami's array of clubhouse personalities. Even after his controversial comments about Fidel Castro ("the only thing you can't say in this market"), there is never the sense that his job is in jeopardy. The fit is too perfect. Samson chastises Guillen, and then in the same breath tells him not to let the mistake change who he is. When the two hug and Samson says he loves him, it is perhaps Samson's most human moment on screen. Even if he says "I love you" in the way you'd say it to a car or a flat-screen TV, and with the implied understanding that his love is contingent on the Marlins winning.

Fifteen games in, the Marlins haven't been winning as much as expected. They've clawed their way to 7-8, but Reyes is still struggling and the bullpen is a mess. On April 21 against the Nationals, the team fought back to tie the game late, only to lose in extra innings because of a muffed double play attempt. It served to sum up the flashes of brilliance interrupted by long bouts of ineptitude that have been a hallmark of the season's early weeks. Worse yet, Miami ranks ninth out of 16 in attendance.

"We want people to fucking hate this ballclub," Guillen tells his team at one point. "Because when people hate somebody, it's because they're fucking good."

The Marlins don't have to worry about that first part, at least. Loria, Samson and even Guillen himself have made enough enemies to fill Marlins Park to capacity. And perhaps that's just the price of doing business. But on the field, it's become clear that winning will take more than loose morals and a sharp tongue.

Adam Cancryn is an editor and co-founder of Began in '96. The first part of a season-long series on the Marlins can be found here.