Lasorda: Big League Con Artist

In the summer of 1983, Dodger Manager Tom Lasorda could hardly bear to look as his kiddy-car infield made 95 errors, most of them by his star second baseman, Steve Sax. Sax was bouncing routine throws to first and Steve Garvey was no longer there to dig them out.

Lasorda finally couldn’t stand it anymore. He collared his errant-throwing second baseman and led him on a walk through the outfield.

“Saxie, you’re leading the club in runs scored, hits and stolen bases,” he said. “How many people walking the streets in this country today do you think could hit .280 in the big leagues and put up those numbers?”

“Not many,” Sax said.

“Now,” Lasorda went on, “how many do you think could steal 50 bases?”

“Very few,” Sax said.

Lasorda slammed his cap to the ground and stomped on it in rage.

“Now!” he shouted. “Lemme ask you how many people walking the streets today could throw a baseball 85 feet from second to first base? I’ll tell you! MILLIONS!

“There are 10 million women who can do it! Saxie, your grandmother could do it! That ball weighs only 5 ounces and is 9 inches around. There are guys who can throw an iron ball weighing 16 pounds 85 feet! What are you doing to yourself?”

Sax made only six errors the rest of the season.

When he was managing in Spokane earlier in his career, Lasorda had a big, strong, 6-foot-2, 210-pound outfield prospect named Joe Ferguson who had a solid bat but minor speed.

Lasorda thought Ferguson looked like a born catcher. He proposed a position change for Ferguson after consulting the general manager, Al Campanis. Ferguson was dead against it.

“No way I’m getting behind that plate and putting all that gear on,” he said.

“Wait a minute!” Lasorda said. “You ever heard of Gabby Hartnett?”

“Of course I have,” Ferguson answered.

“Hartnett became a hall of famer!” Lasorda roared. “One of the great stars of baseball history. But you might never have heard about him if he hadn’t changed from a slow outfielder to one of the great catchers of all time!”

Ferguson was impressed. He agreed to the change.

But Campanis, overhearing the exchange, was bewildered.

“Tommy,” he reproached. “Gabby Hartnett was never an outfielder.”

Lasorda looked at him. “Chief,” he said, “you know that, I know that, and Hartnett knows that. But Joe Ferguson doesn’t know that.”

Ferguson became a catcher.

In 1971, a Spokane team Tommy was managing got off to a poor start, losing eight games in a row. They were pressing, low in confidence. Lasorda called a meeting.

“You know,” he told his players, “the 1927 Yankees were the greatest team in baseball history. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Tony Lazzeri, Waite Hoyt. Gentlemen, the 1927 Yankees, that great team with all those great players, once lost nine games in a row!”

The team, impressed, went out and started to win. Tommy, proud, went home to his wife, Jo, and told her the story.

“Gee, did the 1927 Yankees lose all those games?” she asked.

“How should I know?” Lasorda retorted. “I was just a little kid. I’m not sure they lost nine games that whole year!”

Lasorda was a master motivator. He didn’t lie, exactly, he was just a kind of novelist. And all his stories had happy endings.

There were times when a slight fabrication, like a bunt at the right place or a hit-and-run play, resulted in a winning streak or even a pennant.

He had the pitcher, Orel Hershiser, who had all this glorious stuff on the mound. But Lasorda noticed he sometimes got down on himself when it didn’t work the way he wanted it to. So, Lasorda invented the nickname “Bulldog” for him, and Orel became as hard to discourage as an insurance salesman.

But, mostly, Tommy Lasorda put the fun in the game of baseball. When you thought of Lasorda, you smiled. The radio talk shows got colorful commentary, some of it X-rated, but all of it rooted in Tommy’s great love of the game.

When Lasorda met someone who didn’t care for baseball, it depressed him. As a reporter, you never went away with an empty notebook if you were writing about his game. And if a player didn’t give his best, no matter how talented he was, Tommy got rid of him. Lasorda could never understand a guy making millions but shortchanging the game that was giving it to him.

He would never admit it, but he was a run-of-the-mill left-handed pitcher himself. He never won a big league game, he only started six and appeared in 26. But some great managers never played in the big leagues at all.

Even as a player, though, Lasorda put the right optimistic spin on it. The Dodgers sent him down so they could find room on the roster for Sandy Koufax.

“It took Sandy Koufax to get me off a big league roster,” he boasted.

They put Lasorda in the Hall of Fame last week. He’ll shape up that venerable institution, probably juggle that lineup. He’ll certainly be its ambassador, the way he has been baseball’s ambassador for 25 years (even when he was a mere scout).

Tommy always wants the grand old game to shape up.

Many years ago when he was pitching in the minors, he faced a batter named Buster Maynard, an ex-big leaguer on his way down the ladder.

Lasorda threw a fastball at his ear. Maynard hit the deck. He got up. Same thing. He sprawled. Maynard took four pitches he had to contort to avoid. After the game, he approached Lasorda.

“Why me?” he asked. “You don’t even know me!”

“Know you!” Lasorda screamed. “When I was a kid in the eighth grade, you used to pitch for the New York Giants! I used to save up for a whole year to get enough money to go to a game. When I got there, I asked you for your autograph and you just pushed me aside and kept walking! I wish I had hit you, you busher!”

Lasorda was that worshipful kid all his life. He’ll represent all us worshipful kids in the Hall of Fame.

Editor’s note: In case Tom Lasorda ever gets tired of hobnobbing with baseball types in the Hall of Fame, he can stroll into the writers’ wing and fill another notebook for fellow member Jim Murray.