But long before Beane tooted his own horn to folks, most of whom had never heard of him (he was once an eminently forgettable big-league ballplayer), I shared his exalted opinion of his executive prowess. Beane is baseball’s master of doing more with less. He is the anti-Yankee, the man who has guided the budget-constrained A’s to more wins over the last three years than even those fat cats in the Bronx.

Oakland has accomplished this in high style. The A’s have developed a pattern of always running from the back of the pack, kind of like the famed racehorse Silky Sullivan. They are very slow out of the gate, then plod along off the lead for the first several months of the season. It takes Beane that long to assess his team and identify exactly what is required to fix it. Then he works his phone magic, prying key ingredients-a leadoff hitter here, a lefty reliever there-away from other teams whose execs are less enlightened about what’s required to produce a winner. Buoyed by his acquisitions, the team turns torrid down the stretch and claims that coveted playoff perch.

Beane’s ballclub has been running true to form this season, lagging behind the Seattle Mariners for the American League West division title and behind the Red Sox for the wild-card spot. And coming off the All-Star break, the A’s got whipped four straight by the underachieving Twins. That is not supposed to happen to a team whose starting rotation boasts the best 1-2-3 punch-Zito, Hudson and Mulder-in the majors. Oakland needs to invigorate what, to date, has been one of the league’s most anemic offenses if it hopes to keep its playoff streak alive.

Cue the music. Time for Billy Beane to get to work, to assure that help will arrive, like the Mounties of my TV-addled youth, just in the nick of time. Last year Beane went out and procured a stellar on-base guy in Ray Durham to bolster the offense (though he couldn’t afford his price in free agency and this season lost him across the bay to the Giants). And he picked up a valuable lefty setup man, Ricardo Rincon, to solidify his bullpen. Several years ago, when he needed another solid bat in the middle of the lineup, he came up with Jermaine Dye (and now needs another Dye-like bat to replace Dye, whose season has evaporated with injuries).

But Beane’s opportunity to perform salvage work this season is dwindling down to a precious few hours. While those final hours are often bargain-basement time in baseball’s trade market, one wonders if Beane might be stymied by an obstacle that he never before has confronted: his own inflammatory words. What G.M. is in a rush to deal with Beane–charming though he is with all their secretaries–after Lewis’s book portrayed his delight in outmaneuvering his counterparts with the Giants, White Sox, Indians and Mets? (Well, he can be forgiven Steve Phillips, whom the Mets have already fired; a look at Phillips’s tenure suggests that a 12-year-old with a pack of baseball cards could have gotten the better of him.) Might not other G.M.s seek a little payback, which could be delivered quite simply by ignoring his phone messages?

That today’s baseball fans are privy to Beane’s activities reveals a fundamental–and not entirely welcome–shift in our focus. When I first fell in love with baseball, the players were pretty much the entire face of the game. Then somewhere along the way, managers began to take center stage. Was it Tony LaRussa, with his endless parade of lefty-lefty, righty-righty matchups and his computer stats, who first convinced us that the field generals might qualify as geniuses? And that who was in charge in the dugout might be more important than who actually ventured onto the field.

Then in the ’90s, the managers began to take a back seat to their bosses. Free agency coupled with the ever-widening rich-team/poor-team gap drew attention away from the ballgame and thrust it onto the front offices. Wheeler-dealers like John Hart, then with Cleveland, became stars, far more interesting (and articulate) than their players. And just maybe more responsible for the team’s success or failure. Who would deserve the lion’s share of the credit if the Red Sox defy the ghosts of seasons past and win it all this year? Sure there would be kudos for Pedro, Nomar and Manny et al. But an argument could be made that it’s Theo Epstein who would rate the statue on Boston Common. Boston’s rookie G.M. has been the architect of a massive reconstruction of the famed franchise; 13 players, more than half the current roster, weren’t with the team last year.

Beane, with one of the smallest payrolls in baseball, doesn’t have the luxury of such expansive ambitions. He can’t afford mistakes and often must settle for incremental, short-term improvements. His continued success against all odds is a thorn in the side of Bud Selig, which alone is reason enough to root for him. Selig wants us to believe that it’s impossible for small-market teams to compete against the big boys, thus explaining the never-ending pathos of his own Milwaukee Brewers. The A’s are proof that it’s not impossible, though it remains a neat trick. Which is why I’m anxious to hear of Beane’s next sleight-of-phone. That is, if anyone is still willing to pick up when he calls.