Theo's Privacy (ep)

The not-so-private life of Theo Epstein

By Rob Bradford Staff Writer "I didn't actually expect (to get a lot of privacy). But it's something that's hard to adjust to when it actually happens." — Theo Epstein, March 2003 All he wanted was a cup of coffee and some conversation. It was a ritual San Diego Padres general manager Kevin Towers and his former assistant, Theo Epstein, had executed on countless occasions within the confines of their Southern California surroundings. This time, however, the duo's foray into early morning familiarity was in for a rude awakening. As the minutes crept out of the 7 o'clock hour, it became clear to Towers that lot had changed for his breakfast companion. Understanding that Epstein was just a few postseason wins away from guiding the Boston Red Sox to their first world championship since the Woodrow Wilson administration was easy. Theo's wardrobe choices, on the other hand, provided the San Diego visitor with an unnerving concoction, consisting of three parts confusion and one part discomfort. "What is that?" asked the Padres GM upon glancing over at his crack-of-dawn cohort. What Epstein's former boss witnessed was what had become an all-too-familiar metamorphosis for the Boston Red Sox chief decision-maker — hat pulled on tight, hood pulled past forehead, with sunglasses affixed for good measure. "You don't understand," lamented Epstein. Few did, and that's why the impetus for the empty general manager's chair within the catacombs of 4 Yawkey Way remains at least a partial mystery to most. Among the explanatory puzzle pieces Epstein attempted to deliver the masses gathered for Wednesday's farewell press conference was the mention of his fight for a somewhat normal life. His battle for privacy was being lost, a fact he punctuated by exiting the Fenway Park offices Monday night inside a gorilla suit, allowing for a smooth transition past the waiting media horde and into his Volvo. In the end, the Halloween decor might have saved Epstein from recognition for another night, but by then the damage had been done. Costume or not, the lifestyle of a World Series-winning general manager in Boston had become his 800-pound gorilla. "(Privacy) was definitely an important issue," admitted Red Sox farm director Ben Cherington. "It has always been a problem for him, but winning the World Series really seemed to be what tipped it over the top. It was a lot worse after that." While the suit of fur was a passing fancy, the other elements of the escape provided not-so-subtle reminders for Epstein. Inside one pocket was the cell phone he religiously used to ward off oncoming well-wishers, often holding the piece to his ear with nobody on the other line to create somewhat of an obligatory barrier. There was also the car, one that had suffered innumerable dents and scrapes from crowd-filled exit routes. And within his wallet was a picture of the girlfriend he so desperately attempted to keep safe from the gossip columnists throughout the past three years. The job had its perks, starting with opening an impromptu Pearl Jam-attended Fenway batting practice, and ending with an offer for $4.5 million over three more years. But privacy potholes were getting larger by the day, to the point where walking away — gorilla suit or not — seemed to be the right thing to do. The beginning of the end When Epstein moved into the condominiums immediately in back of Fenway watering hole The Baseball Tavern, it seemed like a perfect fit. The assistant general manager's day began and ended with breezy walks across Brookline Avenue, an unrecognizable trip considering the Brookline native's relative anonymous lot in life. As Josh Byrnes — the man who worked under Epstein for the past three years before being hired last month to run the Arizona Diamondbacks — attests, there are perks to being the No. 2 man in Boston. "There was the one time my accountant recognized the name on my tax form," joked Byrnes. "Maybe I might get recognized once a year, but that's it." But then came Epstein's promotion, and those walks, among other things, became increasingly difficult. Along with inevitable media attention derived from his ascension to GM at the age of 28 (raids on Leslie and Ilene Epstein's family photo album were halted by their son), Theo's lifestyle continued to include subtle changes. He was forced to buy one of the complex's condos with its own gymnasium because the building's community facility had become a fan forum. And going out to places, such as nearby Theodore's, had often resulted in strangers approaching with an introductory "Theo, I'm not a lunatic," then followed up with 10 minutes of trade proposals. Perhaps part of the problem was that the kid raised 11/2 miles from Fenway appeared so approachable, especially in the wake of a Dan Duquette era, which didn't seem to lend itself to beers with the general manager. It is a perception that is refuted by Duquette, who still doesn't understand Epstein's dilemma. "(The attention), to me, is one of the charms of the area," said Duquette, who now runs the Duquette Sports Academy in western Massachusetts. "You can go to some of these other markets where nobody cares. It comes with the territory and is part of the responsibility of job." Another reason for Epstein's apparent disdain for too much of a public persona is that his background already included lifestyles with the relatively famous. His grandfather and great-uncle co-wrote the classic movie "Casablanca," his father was the author of nine books, his sister, Anya, was a writer for the television show "Homicide," and her husband, Dan Futterman, is an actor who was best known as Robin Williams' son in "The Birdcage." Add in the unavoidable trappings of the job — especially in the shadows of Fenway — and the warning signs weren't hard to find. "No matter where you go, the general manager is known," said Blue Jays GM J.P. Ricciardi. "It's something I'm really uncomfortable with in Toronto. You are doing something you like to do, but then you go to a restaurant or something and you are immediately recognized. I'm just not built that way. And I can imagine that in Boston and New York it's two-fold. It's not a comfortable situation." Only getting worse Rudi Wirth saw the relief in Epstein's eyes every time the Boston general manager showed up to jam. The band, Trauser, was formed just months before Theo's November 2002 introductory press conference. The plan was to get together just enough to make the cover songs on the play list stretch past the level of karaoke and into the realm of something an audience might actually enjoy. "Initially, I always thought it was a great outlet for him," remembered Wirth, who like Epstein, played guitar for the band. "There he didn't have to be the general manager of the band, he was just another guy. "The only annoying thing was when it got closer to the trade deadline, we would be at rehearsal and he would have to take more and more phone calls." The band reaped the benefits of Epstein's positions as time went on, scheduling performances for the annual charity event Hot Stove, Cool Music. But even then it became evident that the job was going to win out over whatever musical dreams were brought to the surface by actual paying customers. "For us, it was a great time. But before one of the Hot Stove, Cool Music events, it was really crazy with photographers everywhere and everything," said Wirth. "You could tell everybody wanted a piece of him." Time went by and the rehearsals became further and further apart. Epstein's job-induced isolation left him relying on the company of his co-workers, many of whom shared the same demographic as himself. Whether it was a touch football game down at Clemente Park, a Sunday morning pick-up basketball contest, or the bravest of endeavors — a meal out in public — guys like Jed Hoyer, Peter Woodfork, Brian O'Halloran, Galen Carr or Jason McLeold provided the buffer. "We would go out to dinner and everybody would want to come up and talk to him," said McLeod, who grew up professionally in the Padres organization with Epstein before being hired by his friend prior to the 2004 season. "Being from the West Coast, there was nothing like the passion I saw when I came here. It was a huge eye-opening experience. Everywhere he went he was recognized." Then Epstein's dream was realized, becoming the first Boston general manager since Ed Barrow to bring the town a world championship. That's when the real nightmare began. Josh Cummings, a Boston policeman who grew up playing with Epstein and his twin brother, Paul, viewed the increased chaos first hand. He had arranged it so that his detail for the Red Sox's championship parade included walking alongside the Duck Boat which carried his general manager buddy. It was at that moment, as the procession weaved its way down the streets and waterways of the city, that Cummings realized that the definition of Epstein's public life had undergone a drastic transformation. "In terms of the attention from the young ladies, it was on par with (Patriots quarterback) Tom Brady," observed Cummings. "There were tons of signs saying, 'Theo, will you marry me?' There were much more of those than there was anybody else in any of the parades, including Brady. I think a lot of those people were more interested in him than the Red Sox actually winning the World Series." And, ultimately, that became the deal breaker for Epstein. Now, for $20 you can log on to eBay and purchase a T-shirt reading, "It's a Theo Epstein thing, you wouldn't understand." It has been a hot seller on the Web site for more than year, but is a message the now former Boston Red Sox general manager has been trying to portray since moving into the baseball operations big office. Unfortunately, those hoping for three more years of Epstein, it took much more than a T-shirt to get the message across this time. "Everything in Boston is ratcheted up higher than other places," said Ricciardi. "My kids take enough stuff with me being in Toronto, I can't imagine what it would be like if I was in Boston. But I guess it just goes with the territory."