George Steinbrenner’s infamous temper collided with Billy Martin’s volatility in 1978, culminating in Martin’s drunken taunt that the owner was “convicted”—a direct jab at Steinbrenner’s illegal campaign contributions. The incident nearly fired Martin but instead deepen a dysfunctional partnership that powered three Yankees championships, illustrating how personal clashes fueled baseball’s most polarizing dynasty.
The upcoming book “The Bosses of the Bronx” by Mike Vaccaro, releasing March 24 from Harper Books, promises an unprecedented look at the Steinbrenner era. Its first excerpt, detailed in NY Post Sports, thrusts us back to July 23, 1978—a night when a simple phone call unraveled the Yankees’ fragile peace.
By summer 1978, the defending champion Yankees were reeling, two weeks behind the Red Sox. Franchise cornerstone Reggie Jackson and beloved manager Billy Martin were locked in a public stalemate, a soap opera stretching back two years. Tensions peaked after Martin ordered Jackson to bunt in extra innings against Kansas City; Jackson complied poorly, popping out, and Martin’s infamous neck veins bulged in fury. Martin suspended Jackson for a week, and owner George Steinbrenner backed the penalty.
Days later, with Jackson returning from his suspension, TV reporter Dick Schaap asked him what occupied his thoughts. Jackson’s smile delivered the era’s epitaph: “The magnitude,” he said, “of me.” That evening at O’Hare Airport, beat writers cornered Martin—well into his fourth gin and tonic—and delivered Jackson’s refusal to apologize. Martin’s face darkened. “Shut up, Reggie Jackson,” he slurred. “We’re winning without you.” When pressed if he wanted it on the record, Martin barked, “Print it!”
As the team boarded, Martin intercepted reporters Murray Chass of the Times and Henry Hecht of the Post, confirming his comments were published. He seemed sober enough, Hecht later noted, but anger still simmered. Then came the nuclear option: “The two of them deserve each other,” Martin said, referring to Jackson and Steinbrenner. “One’s a born liar, the other’s convicted.”
Hecht reached Steinbrenner first; the Boss’s voice quivered with rage. Steinbrenner’s 18-month suspension from 1974-75 for illegal contributions to Nixon’s re-election campaign—a felony Reagan would pardon a decade later—was a permanent scar. “It’s hard to believe he said those things,” Steinbrenner hissed. “Was he drinking?” Hecht confirmed Martin was lucid despite the drinks. Steinbrenner dispatched GM Al Rosen to accept Martin’s resignation, but seeing Martin break down publicly softened his edge. Martin’s subsequent apology helped, yet the damage was done.
That same day, the Post polled readers: who should go, Billy or George? An overwhelming 99% voted Steinbrenner out. Sports editor Jerry Lisker demanded a recount. “It’s more like 99.3,” he was told—a testament to the public’s disdain for the Boss’s meddling [NY Post].
staggeringly, three days later, the Yankees brought Martin back for Old-Timers’ Day to a thunderous ovation, announcing his return as manager for 1980. Jackson, devastated, asked Steinbrenner, “How could you do this to me?” Writers demanded a meeting with Martin; Steinbrenner relented only after PR chief Mickey Morabito guaranteed “it’s your ass” if anything went wrong. At a Bronx restaurant, Martin—two beers deep—rambled: “I probably made the comment about George… I was mad at [Reggie]. He set me off.”
“When Reggie got his money I read the comments, ‘I got no problem, George and I are eye-to-eye.’ But he forgot one man. Billy Martin. If Reggie is here in 1980, he can expect to be treated like one of 25 players.” Morabito, fearing for his job, ended the lunch. Back at the office, he warned Steinbrenner: “Not good.” The Boss threatened to fire him if the rant hit papers. That night, a writer called Morabito: “See you when I see you. We just went on strike.” By guild intervention, Morabito kept his job, and the back pages stayed bloodless until October.
This volatile dance defined Steinbrenner’s tenure. Three years later, after a 2-1 ALDS loss to Milwaukee, Steinbrenner erupted in the corridor, targeting catcher Rick Cerone for a pickoff and strikeout. “There are guys here who are on trial, and Rick Cerone is one of them,” he fumed. “Stupid baserunning. Now we’ll see who some of these guys are and who deserves to be in the playoffs.” In the locker room, he berated the team: “Tomorrow we will find out what kind of men you are.”
Cerone, already criticized by Steinbrenner for having “a big head” and heading to disco joints, snapped. “F— you, George, you fat SOB,” he shot back. “You never played the game. You don’t know what the f— you’re talking about.” Silence fell. “Most of us wanted to give Rick a standing ovation,” a player later recalled. Steinbrenner retaliated: “And you won’t be playing this game as a Yankee next year, either!” Yet the next day, Cerone clinched the series with a home run, and Steinbrenner was first to congratulate him. “When people put fear in you,” Cerone said, “sometimes you play beyond yourself.” Eight years later, wearing a “BOSS” T-shirt on Steinbrenner’s final day before his second suspension, Cerone mourned: “That man has been very good to me.”
These episodes crystallize the Steinbrenner paradox: a tyrant whose relentless pressure forged champions, yet whose personal vendettas threatened to implode the franchise. Martin’s “convicted” barb wasn’t just a drunken slur—it was a weaponized truth that exposed Steinbrenner’s vulnerability, forcing a public reckoning with his past. Their cyclical firings and rehires, from 1978 to 1983, created a theater of chaos that oddly stabilized the Yankees, as players rallied against the Boss’s unpredictability.
Fan lore often asks: what if Martin stayed? What if Steinbrenner never interfered? But the evidence suggests their toxic symbiosis was essential. Without Steinbrenner’s financial might and Martin’s tactical fire, the late-’70s dynasty might never have gelled. The 1978 poll showing 99.3% against Steinbrenner reflects a public weary of his drama, yet his subsequent moves—rehiring Martin, tolerating Cerone’s defiance—hinted at a strange respect for those who pushed back.
As Vaccaro’s book arrives, this excerpt reminds us that Yankees history is written in such moments: not just in World Series wins, but in O’Hare bars and Bronx clubhouses where egos clashed. Steinbrenner’s legacy is a dual narrative—of relentless winning and relentless turmoil—and Martin’s “convicted” taunt remains its most raw, revealing flashpoint. It was a insult that cut to the core of power, legality, and love in the Bronx, proving that sometimes, the most defining plays happen off the field.
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