There’s More to McKeon Than Smoke and Mirrors

The star of this World Series is standing in a Yankee Stadium tunnel, fiddling with his cap.

On the inside of the bill is a name, Perez.

The star of this World Series is not named Perez.

“Funny, ain’t it?” says Jack McKeon, shrugging. “I thought it was my cap. I found it by my locker. What do I know?”

The star of this World Series is walking down the tunnel. And walking. And walking.

“Where’s the field?” he suddenly shouts. “Where are we going? Where am I?”

Behind the batting cage, the star of this World Series is engulfed by reporters for the entire duration of batting practice. He realizes it has ended only when his players file past him into the dugout.

“Oh, that must mean we’re finished,” he says. “Looks like they all had a good workout. Hope nobody stole my cigar.”

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Not all of baseball’s old-fashioned charm walked out of this postseason with Boston and Chicago.

A 72-year-old chunk of it is still here, as worn as a fungo bat, as resilient as a resin bag, wearing deep wrinkles and tobacco-stained fingers and a grin like a catcher’s mitt.

He is Jack McKeon, gentleman farmer, grandfather, cigar smoker and occasional manager who stumbled upon the Florida Marlins like Jed Clampett stumbled upon oil.

Back in May, the aging baseball lifer was watching games from his rural North Carolina home when the Marlins called on a whim. Would he consider taking over their struggling, bargain-basement team for the rest of the season? Slow the bleeding? Finish the year?

McKeon thought it sounded like fun. Carol, his wife of 48 years, thought it sounded even better.

“Good,” she said. “I get the television back.”

So McKeon showed up, took over a team that was 16-22, managed it to a 75-49 record, guided it through two playoff upsets and into tonight’s World Series opener against the New York Yankees.

A team with all the tradition of fish sticks winning a world title from the greatest franchise in sports, now wouldn’t that be a stogie?

But first things first.

Somebody give McKeon the location of the Marlins’ Yankee Stadium bullpen. A couple of times this year, on the road, he walked to the mound and pointed to the wrong pen, as if summoning a reliever from the opposing team.

And somebody turn off his cell phone during news conferences. While explaining to the cameras how the Marlins defeated the Cubs on Wednesday night, his pocket rang. He pulled out the phone. It was one of his nine grandchildren.

And, please, somebody make sure he has a roster ... of his own players.

He has referred to Michael Tejera as “Tuxedo.” He has botched Miguel Cabrera’s name so many times, he simply calls him “the kid.” For the longest time, he referred to Mike Mordecai as Mickey Morandini.

Then there was the time McKeon went to the mound to remove Chad Fox, apparently thinking Fox was Nate Bump, patted him on the back and said, “Way to go, Bumper.”

Even when he gets the name right ... well, on Friday, he said he thought catcher Ivan Rodriguez was a future “hall of flamer.” Yeah, if McKeon doesn’t stop smoking those cigars in Cooperstown.

Finally, for the Marlins to win this championship, somebody also has to get McKeon to the church on time.

He is one of the few people in sports who claims to attend daily Mass, and actually does.

On his office wall is a picture of St. Theresa of Lisieux. He prays in the car, prays in the dugout, praying for hits and runs and lost souls.

As a baseball writer covering McKeon’s wild San Diego Padres two decades ago, I remember strolling into the team hotel around dawn, just as McKeon was leaving for morning Mass.

“You really do go to church every day,” I said.

“Somebody’s got to pray for you guys,” he said.

When we later engaged in a theological discussion based on my discovery of his devotion, he said he felt there was only one true religious mystery.

“I’ve been reading all these letters from Paul to the Corinthians,” he said. “Don’t the Corinthians ever write back?”

It was the most fun I’ve ever had in this business, covering his Padre team, which he also ran with his infamous “Trader Jack” persona as general manager.

Once in uniform, McKeon let players bargain with each other for spots in the batting order. He would spit tobacco juice on them when he was making a point, and spit it on himself if it got too serious. He spun so many yarns before games, he was sometimes in his office when the national anthem could be heard through the walls.

“I gotta get out there!” he would cry, leaping to his feet and running to the dugout.

Once, when fragile pitcher Dennis Rasmussen was hit by a line drive in his right hand, McKeon made a rare trip from the dugout with the trainer.

He reached the mound, grabbed Rasmussen’s left hand and began shaking it.

“I’m Jack McKeon,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

Rasmussen laughed so hard he forgot his bump.

It is precisely that relaxed attitude that helped change the Marlins, the 16th professional team (fifth in the majors) managed by McKeon.

“He lets you play. He lets you be yourself,” Luis Castillo said. “He really makes it fun.”

Although this attitude is refreshing, eventually players take advantage of it, which is why McKeon has made so many stops and had not managed in two years when he was called by the Marlins.

But as a quick fix, it works, the players responding to that rare baseball boss who has nothing to lose.

“Jack doesn’t need the job, doesn’t need the money, so he can manage the old way, where he lets everyone be themselves,” said Greg Booker, McKeon’s son-in-law and a former Padre player and coach. “Today, young managers are always fearing for their jobs, for their lives, so they have to be generals. Not Jack.”

McKeon, who as a minor league manager once “shot” a player with a starter pistol because he kept running through McKeon’s stop signs at third base, is keeping that same attitude about the pressure of his own situation.

Can you imagine the national second-guessing that awaits him as he tries to out-manage Joe Torre on a national stage?

McKeon says he’s ready.

After all, in San Diego, he once phoned a writer in the press box before he made a pitching change, asking for a first guess.

“I don’t feel any pressure at all,” he said Friday. “I’m gonna make the decisions that, in my mind, are correct. They don’t work out, too bad.”

After all these years, he’s used to some things not working out. Like the time, in the minor leagues, when he arranged for a child to be brought to the field dressed in a black cape. Then he ordered his slumping team to chase the kid around the diamond before the game, in hopes of removing “the jinx.”

His distracted group lost again that night. But nearly 50 years later, McKeon is the third-oldest manager ever, and on the verge of becoming only the second manager in history to win a World Series championship after replacing a fired manager in the middle of the season.

Said Mordecai, “He’s so sharp, it’s taken us time to catch up with him.”

Said Padre announcer Jerry Coleman, “Don’t be fooled. He’s one of the shrewdest guys I know.”

A regular hall-of-flamer.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.