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players onday games following night games— Stop babying these guys, you idiot —and they had endless laughs at his expense when he didn’t play Scott Rolen—on Scott Rolen Bobblehead Day.
    He didn’t mind telling Epstein and Byrnes that he had planned to give Rolen that day off long before he had been aware of the promotion. Rolen needed it, and the third baseman was appreciative when the manager didn’t change his mind just because humans and figurines were shaking their heads at him.
    The rap on him was that he was too nice, and he didn’t entirely disagree. He didn’t have the jackass gene and he didn’t pretend that he did. He admitted to Epstein that there were times when he had been too protective of his players, but he also didn’t believe in communicating with them through the media. He was similar to Epstein in that he’d wait a beat to make sure his emotions didn’t lead him to overreaction with a player or coach. Then, on a plane or bus ride or standing on the edge of the outfield grass the next day, he’d say what he needed to. If the choices were talking tough to impress reporters and fans or working privately to make sure players were accountable to both him and their teammates, he would always choose the latter.
    Of course, that philosophy leads to assumptions: if no one outside the clubhouse sees it happen or hears it happen, they assume that it doesn’t happen. The Red Sox, though, searched deeper. They already knew about a story from late in the 2000 season, Francona’s last in Philadelphia, when the manager tried to send outfielder Bobby Abreu home for the year. He liked Abreu, but he was frustrated with his play and attitude. He knew that if he saw the issues, everyone else on the team did as well. Francona explained to GM Ed Wade that not sending Abreu home would undermine the manager in the clubhouse. Wade nixed the plan anyway. Francona knew at that moment that he was going to be fired at the end of the season.
    He didn’t regret getting along exceptionally well with Curt Schilling, Doug Glanville, Rico Brogna, and Rolen. He played poker and golf with Giles and hung out with him in the Poconos. His family and Coppenbarger’s shared Thanksgiving dinner. In a nutshell, he was a hard worker who also enjoyed having fun and talking to everybody. That might be a good thing for managers in the American workforce, but in professional sports the freaks are the managers and coaches who dare to be well adjusted.
    Epstein was intrigued by the bald man in glasses. He wanted to have a baseball conversation with even more weight, so he handed Francona a pen and a multiple-choice test. All 16 questions were geared toward finding out how a manager ranked his priorities in several categories.
    “Take your time filling it out,” Epstein said as Francona went to work. “There’s no right answer.”
    No right answer . That was rich. It was a 20-minute head trip and Francona loved it. Okay, so they were trying to see where all the puzzle pieces—relationships with players, relationships with the media, handling the pitching staff—were slotted in his world. He didn’t mind. He even chuckled to himself when he glanced at one of the potential answers to the question, “What’s most important to you?” Potential answer: “(D) Making sure your uniform looks good in the dugout.” If they hired him, they would rarely see his uniform because it was usually covered with a fleece jacket. He didn’t care how he looked. He was just eager to share his thoughts and be in a position to get a second chance.
    He finished the test in front of Epstein and Byrnes, his two relaxed proctors. They had been telling the truth when they said there was no right answer, but they hadn’t been completely honest. What they left out was that all the answers could be right, but there was a wrong way to defend those answers when questionedabout them. They didn’t want anyone who would wilt from his opinions or have opinions