Managing Too Much Stress for Lasorda, 68

The center fielder went into the hospital to have his tonsils pulled out, but found out he had cancer.

The shortstop came out of a game with what looked like a plain old sprained ankle, but wound up sitting out more than 30 games.

The manager drove himself to the hospital with what felt like heartburn, but it turned out to be a heart attack.

Somebody’s got it in for the boys of summer.

I don’t know what’s going on with the Dodgers these days, but if I were them, I would step out of the shower very carefully, lock my doors at night, carry a lucky rabbit’s foot and not stand under a tree if there’s lightning.

Even one of their former teammates was recently killed in a car crash. Tom Lasorda is in a hurry to get back into the dugout, but Tommy, maybe you had just better pull up the hospital bedsheet and stay under the covers, until it’s safe.

We are coming up on the third anniversary of the week-apart deaths of two Dodger immortals, Roy Campanella and Don Drysdale, in the next few days. I thought that was a hard summer.

And last year there was Mike Piazza’s injury, Mike Busch’s controversy and a forfeit caused by the crowd. I thought that was a nutty summer.

But this summer should have come with a warning from the surgeon general.

The fact that the Dodgers will have to make their pennant run without their leadoff hitter and possibly without their manager makes me worry what might happen next. If you spot a Dodger with red spots on his face, it won’t be from bubble gum. Trust me. It’s measles.

With the team in first place, the biggest problem the Dodgers should be having right now is taking Chan Ho Park aside to explain to him why they cut up his suit into confetti.

Just when things were looking up--Brett Butler’s prognosis is good, Greg Gagne is back at short--the Dodgers came to work this week and discovered that somebody else was managing them.

They lost their on-the-field leader and off-the-field leader in a matter of weeks. Butler and Lasorda were two of the few guys on this very quiet team to make some noise in the dugout, show some life, start some chatter in the middle of a tight game. One player told me he has been inside museums louder than the Dodger dugout.

Lasorda went from an upset stomach to an ulcer to a heart condition in something like 36 hours.

The jokes were flying at first, with even Harry Lasorda saying that his brother couldn’t possibly have an ulcer, because everyone knows he’s a carrier.

But with the blocked artery and the angioplasty that became necessary, Lasorda’s stated aim to rush right back to work became a matter of more serious concern, as it should.

Tommy, it’s time you begin thinking about a timetable for retirement, for your own good.

We don’t want to lose you. We want you hanging around until you’re as old as George Burns, speaking at banquets and raising money for nuns.

I would never say you’re too old for the job, because at 68, you still have twice as much energy as I do and could probably beat me in a footrace. Senior citizens aren’t “productive.” (I hate that word.) Most of them can still kick younger people’s butts.

But not many jobs, Tommy, require someone of your age to fly back and forth, back and forth, week in, week out. Or to work seven days a week outdoors in the summer heat. Or to eat on the run, including buffet suppers in a locker room at 11 p.m.

The difference between a baseball manager and other jobs held by 68-year-old men is that for most of them, they can reduce their workload, take a few extra days off if they feel like it. Lasorda can’t manage the Chicago series, then skip the Colorado series. It’s a nonstop job.

Tommy, I know you like to say semi-seriously that you’ll die with your spikes on, that you would rather go out doing what you do best. But I don’t want to come to the park some night and find you like your old friend, Don McMahon. I don’t want to be on the road with the team the night we get that damned call, like the day Don Drysdale died.

You’ve got a lot of life left in you, so don’t let baseball sap your strength. Co-manage with Bill Russell when you get back. Announce that this is your farewell tour. Enjoy the applause. Tip your cap. Take a job as director of Dodger player personnel, associate general manager, goodwill ambassador, anything you like. Hang up the uniform.

Five years from now, I’ll come to Cooperstown for your ceremony and buy you the best spaghetti dinner in town. No, I mean the best salad. Let Russell have the ulcer.