Little Can’t Pawn Off His Humility

He just doesn’t get it.

He’s the manager in the movie capital of the world, the guy who runs Hollywood’s baseball team, the Academy Award-worthy boss of the hottest show in town.

And where does Grady Little buy his DVDs?

At a pawnshop.

Crown City Loan and Jewelry, to be exact.

On those days when the Dodgers manager feels that Tinseltown urge, he strolls down his Pasadena street to a store where dusty fans whir above old guitars and used watches.

In a glass case below $29 printers and fax machines is a pile of used DVDs at seven bucks a pop.

“Somebody watches something once or twice, that don’t hurt the DVD, does it?” he asks. “And sometimes they got a special, eight for 25 bucks, you can’t beat it.”

His wife, Debi, sighs.

“Grady has his special places, and I have mine,” she says.

No, he just doesn’t get it.

He’s becoming one of the most famous men in a town of rich and famous, he could talk his way into freebies at the finest stores in the world, he could dine like a star.

And how does Grady Little do Beverly Hills?

With the windows rolled up.

The other day, he told his wife he was taking her shopping on Rodeo Drive.

They drove up, and down, and up, and down.

“Finally I said, ‘Grady, I thought we were going shopping!” recalls Debi. “And he says, ‘We are going shopping, window shopping.’ ”

He really has no idea, does he?

Five months into his first season here, Grady Little has no clue how to act like a first-place Dodgers manager.

Which is one of the biggest reasons they are in first place.

During an interview Thursday about his adjustment to life here, the former cotton farmer’s syrupy voice drips with laughter.

“I’d like to meet the man who didn’t like Los Angeles,” he says. “Everybody here is so different, but they’re all so nice about it.”

Like many new Angelenos, he says he doesn’t need to adjust to the city, because the city has adjusted to him.

“I can be myself here,” he says.

Being himself means being the guy who spent 16 years managing in places such as Bluefield and Pulaski, calling them the most important years of his life.

“Being there taught me respect for the game,” he says. “Lot of people higher up in this business were never exposed to that, and I feel sorry for them.”

Being himself means being the guy who suffered an unfairly brutal firing from his first major-league job in Boston, yet simply disappeared into the North Carolina woods without ever really firing back.

“What baseball has taught us is, if things go wrong here, we can always just go back to North Carolina and have a happy life,” Debi says. “So why try to be someone you’re not? Grady is Grady.”

So his expression rarely changes in the dugout, his temper rarely rises in the clubhouse, and he sometimes makes decisions on hints and hunches.

“I look at all that computer stuff,” he says. “But I will never discount the human element.”

Because that would mean discounting himself, a guy who celebrates victories by showing up at the ballpark the next day at noon, sometimes only to sit in the stands and phone his grandchildren.

Hardly a season passes in this town without news of an athlete throwing a lavish birthday party for himself. Yet when Grady and Debi Little celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary this week?

The game that night went 16 innings, Little didn’t get home until 2 a.m., so they partied the next afternoon -- at a Pasadena restaurant that served them chicken pot pie and meatloaf.

“Celebrating holidays a day late isn’t a big deal,” says Debi. “For years, we celebrated Valentine’s Day on Feb. 15, so Grady could get the candy 50% off.”

Has the new Dodgers manager been to the beach?

“I have swim trunks,” he says, “but they’re for the hot tub.”

Has the new Dodgers manager been to Hollywood?

“Been through there,” he says, “but I mostly like to sit back in my recliner and click the channels until it comes to a western.”

During an hourlong conversation with Little at the KFWB charity golf tournament Thursday, the manager shows his true personality with his golf cap.

At the beginning of the interview, he wears it straight and proper. A few jokes into the interview, he puts it on crooked.

By the end of the interview, when he’s talking about riding his Kawasaki and dipping his snuff and riding the minor-league buses, he has the cap on backward.

“Before making a move in a game, you can’t just look at one stat, you’ve got to look at the whole picture,” he says.

Sort of like life, which was taught to Little as a child in Houston by a father who drove a truck and a mother who stayed home to raise six kids.

“They taught me to accept people for who they are,” he says.

It is this quiet acceptance that shines through his dad-gums and his drawl. He never embarrasses his players. He is rarely impatient with the media. He showed up at the golf tournament Thursday just to shake hands with fans.

When asked what CD is currently playing in his SUV, he laughs and says, “Would you believe salsa rap?”

The CD was an item in a gift basket put together by Ramon Martinez. His wife bought the basket at a charity auction, and he was listening to the music in honor of Martinez’s recent game-winning homer.

“Pretty good stuff, this salsa,” says the cotton farmer with a grin. “You just have to take the time to listen.”

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.