Tommy Lasorda: My Way

Dreams are often thought impossible to reach. When my wife, Silvie, married me, she fulfilled one of my dreams. When she gave birth to our son, Vincent, she fulfilled another one of my dreams. Because of her patience, belief, support, and love throughout the process of writing this book, she has fulfilled another one of my dreams. Thank you, Mahal. To you, I dedicate this book.

Contents

Foreword by Joe Torre

Introduction

1. Self-Confidence

2. Hard Work

3. Competitiveness

4. Determination

5. Winning

6. Family

7. Laughter

8. Patriotism

9. Love for the Dodgers

10. Dodger Royalty

11. Dodger Realeza

12. Loyalty

13. My Favorite Tommy Stories

Acknowledgments

Sources

Foreword by Joe Torre

In June of 1995, the St. Louis Cardinals—the team I played for from 1969 to 1974 and a club I had managed since 1990—told me that they were bringing another manager on board. From a professional standpoint, it was a tough time. I loved the city of St. Louis and the fans. I also wondered whether I’d ever get another chance to manage in the major leagues. It felt like I was at a crossroads in my career.

One of the first people to call me up was Tommy Lasorda. Don’t worry about it, he bellowed. This is a blessing in disguise. I’m not sure that I believed him, but I appreciated the encouragement. He also told me something that his father had told him many years ago: If you’re so concerned with the door that just closed behind you, you’ll never see the door that will open in front of you.

Months later, I got the surprise of a lifetime when the New York Yankees called in pursuit of a general manager. Soon enough, their focus shifted, and George Steinbrenner made me his manager. Tommy’s words from his father proved prophetic—a new door opened, and it presented the best opportunity of my career. At the age of 55, I had a chance to implement my philosophy with a team capable of winning the World Series.

My first year with the Yankees turned out to be the final season in the dugout for Tommy Lasorda, who had an incredible 21-year run as the manager of the Dodgers. I’d always respected Tommy as a fellow National League manager, especially because we believed in many of the same attributes that managing required: communication, trust, teaching, and motivation. But his phone call—at a time in my career when I needed a jolt of energy—was very meaningful to me, and it was an act that further heightened my regard for him.

Our paths continued to cross over the years. Before Game 3 of the 2000 World Series, Tommy and his Olympic gold medal–winning Team USA had the ceremonial first pitch honors. Before the start of the game against the crosstown-rival Mets, Tommy said hello—and pointed out that Bobby Valentine and Mike Piazza, both of whom were in the opposite dugout, were two of his favorite people. Tommy’s reminder—prior to such a big game for us—made me laugh, but I admired his loyalty to his dear friends.

Tommy and I have much in common. We both appreciate fine Italian food, and we share many favorite restaurants. We have both been honored at the Ellis Island Family Heritage Awards. Many years ago in my native Brooklyn, there was a field dedicated in my honor. During the ceremony, I looked up and saw Tommy out in the crowd. He was in town for a Dodgers series against the Mets. I was touched that he took the time to be there. I can relate to the many people who have experienced Tommy’s kindness.

When I became the Dodgers manager before the 2008 season, it was an honor to fill the chair once held by Tommy and his predecessor, fellow Hall of Famer Walter Alston. I was fortunate to follow in their footsteps in the summer of 2014, when I joined that great tandem as a member of the National Baseball Hall of Fame. After the ceremony, Tommy gave me the patented Lasorda hug and told me that my life would never be the same. Standing among the ranks of Tommy and all the Hall of Famers in Cooperstown was an extraordinary experience.

I was a rare Giants fan in Brooklyn as a kid, but Tommy Lasorda played a huge part in helping me understand why Dodger blue is so special. After reading this book, I believe you will understand why Tommy has been such a tremendous goodwill ambassador for Major League Baseball, throughout a lifetime of service to his beloved Dodgers and our national pastime as a whole.

—Joe Torre

Introduction

It was my first year working as Tommy Lasorda’s assistant. We were sitting in Booth 6 in the Vin Scully Press Box at beautiful Dodger Stadium, the House That Walter Built and Tommy nicknamed. As we peered down at some of the greenest grass known to man, Tommy told me something fans have heard him say millions of times over the years: Dodger Stadium is Blue Heaven on Earth. If you want to get to heaven, you have to go through Dodger Stadium first.

It was his booth, just a few boxes over from where Vin Scully—baseball’s poet laureate, the Voice of Summer—has enlightened and entertained fans for decades and next to Jaime Jarrin’s perch, who did the same en Español. To the left of his booth was the owner’s box, where Walter O’Malley and his son, Peter, would host the Dodger Nation, entertaining guests and fans alike with the utmost respect and consideration.

Tommy and I would sit there to watch his beloved Dodgers play. He would survey the field and its players like Grant surveyed Richmond and Gettysburg. I would look at his face and see the memories roaring past his eyes, a lifetime serving the game he loved, the fans who loved his team, and his players whom he loved like sons. I would imagine him remembering sitting in the top deck as a scout in the 1963 World Series against the Yankees, telling his wife that one day he would be managing the Dodgers in the World Series. She thought I was crazy, but 14 years later I was sitting in that dugout managing the Dodgers in the 1977 World Series against the Yankees, he would say, echoing the same determination that helped him accomplish that feat.

I would imagine him remembering his paisan, Frank Sinatra, singing The Star Spangled Banner on Opening Day in ’77, Tommy’s first as manager. He promised me that when I became manager he would sing the anthem, and by golly he did, Tommy would say, his prideful eyes mirroring the blue of Sinatra’s.

I would imagine him remembering Dusty Baker hitting a home run in the final game of the ’77 regular season, his 30th, putting the Dodgers in the history books. If you think back through the history of baseball about all those great Yankee teams and sluggers, that we were the first team to have four players hit 30 or more in one season… Tommy would say, trailing off with the same amazement he had watching Baker’s ball sail over the wall.

I would imagine him remembering Bob Welch face Reggie Jackson in the ’78 World Series in a nine-pitch at-bat that ended when Welch, the rookie, struck out Reggie, the slugger. That was by far the greatest duel I’ve ever witnessed.

I would imagine him remembering being a coach in the 1980 Midsummer Classic, the only All-Star Game ever held at Dodger Stadium. The National League had an eight-game winning streak going and there was no way I was going to let that go under our watch, he would say with the same aggression he carried into every game he managed.

Giving the ball to an unknown pitcher from Mexico on Opening Day in ’81 and sparking Fernandomania. "The first word he learned in English was million," Tommy would say of Valenzuela, with a hearty chuckle.

Jerry Reuss outdueling Nolan Ryan in the ’81 division series. Jerry pitched an outstanding game. It was a tremendous game.

Steve Garvey playing his 1,000th consecutive game. I don’t commend hard work. I expect it.

Beating the Yankees in the 1981 World Series after losing to them in ’77 and ’78. For three years I would lay my head on the pillow and pray to God and say, ‘Dear Lord, if you see it clear to let the Dodgers play in another World Series, please, let it be against the Yankees.’

The Bulldog, Orel Hershiser, beating the Mets in the only Game 7 in Dodger Stadium history to punch their ticket to the ’88 Fall Classic. I put the whole ball of wax on the Bulldog, he would say, bragging like a proud father does of his son’s accomplishments.

Hershiser’s scoreless inning streak surpassing Tommy’s old roommate’s, Don Drsydale. Hershiser didn’t want to break the record but Donnie wanted him to. That record may never be broken.

And of course that magical swing from Gibby’s bat in Game 1 of the ’88 Series, a moment that has gone down in history as the greatest World Series home run, one that propelled the Dodgers past the A’s for the championship. Nobody thought we could beat the Mighty Mets. Nobody thought we could beat the team that won 104 games, but we believed, he would say, getting his players or anyone else listening to believe what he believed all along.

I asked him if he missed managing. He looked at me with that weathered face and said, I miss it every single day.

• • •

I worked for the Dodgers as Tommy’s assistant and press coordinator for 12 years. As I would learn during those remarkable years, yes, he missed the glory of victory and even the agony of defeat, though he hated to lose. What he really missed was the sum of those parts, the camaraderie he had with his players. He loved his players like sons and relied on them. Like any father does, he taught them. He taught them not just lessons about the game of baseball but about life itself. His knowledge was gained through a lifetime of experience, turned into sage advice. His impact on his players was profound on and off the field.

The interconnectedness of Tommy’s lessons are like pitching and hitting. Self-confidence fuels a major league work ethic, a ferocious competitiveness, and unwavering determination. All of those are characteristics of winners. All of those are necessary to win in baseball.

The age-old question is whether chemistry helps you win, or if winning builds chemistry. That might be a more enduring debate than the Ted Williams–Joe DiMaggio who is the greatest hitter? debate. However, Tommy’s teams won, and the Dodgers were a family. They won together and laughed together.

All of those characteristics are part of the Dodger Way, part of why we all love baseball.

The Italian word narratore means storyteller, which is something Tommy certainly is. He has been telling stories for decades about himself and his players, and now it is time to turn the tables. This book aims to pay tribute to Tommy Lasorda by getting some of his former players, and a few of his close friends, to tell their favorite Tommy stories, and to use those stories to highlight his life’s work and the lessons he taught.

He taught the Dodger Way, his way. As you will see in the following pages, that is exactly what Tommy did for his players, and for millions of friends and fans who have had the privilege and honor of interacting with Tommy and being influenced by his wisdom.

1. Self-Confidence

You gotta believe!

He said it. He said it time and again. He said it so much that people may have gotten worn out, either because they already believed him or because they would never believe him.

He said it even though it was never supposed to happen, but it did. His roster was not a championship one. Filled with aging stars, journeymen, and rookies, with a few athletes sprinkled amongst the group of ballplayers, it happened because he said it, and kept saying it, because his will was one to never admit defeat, to never surrender to doubters, to never accept anything but the best from himself and his players, even if they didn’t think they were of that caliber. That was his way, and it was the Dodger Way.

I said it because I believed it, and I wanted my players to believe it. You gotta believe!

He said it in May of ’88 when the Dodgers outlasted the Phillies in a game on the road. They scored a run in the first, but the Phillies tied it. They led 4–1 in the sixth, but Don Sutton gave up two runs. They tacked on a run for a 5–3 lead, but Tim Crews gave up three runs in the seventh. The Dodgers answered, but Jesse Orosco blew a 7–6 lead. Finally, they scored three runs in the top of the ninth and Jay Howell pitched two scoreless innings for a 10–8 victory. Steve Sax hit two home runs, doubled, and scored on a sacrifice fly to the shortstop. Yes, the shortstop.

You gotta believe!

He also said it when the Mets completed a three-game sweep at Dodger Stadium, amidst a bunch of bad blood. Fernando Valenzuela didn’t make it out of the second inning, giving up five runs. The night before, a Dwight Gooden fastball hit Alfredo Griffin in the hand and broke it, which kept Griffin out two months. The Mets led 5–0 in the sixth inning when David Cone just missed hitting Pedro Guerrero with a fastball. The next pitch was a slow curve that hit Guerrero on the shoulder. Enraged, Guerrero threw his bat at Cone and barely missed him. After games and series like that, Tommy would holler it loud enough for the entire locker room to hear.

You gotta believe, boys!

He said it that July when the Dodgers swept a doubleheader over the Giants at Candlestick Park. They won the first game 7–3. Between games, Giants manager Roger Craig told reporters it was the most important game of the season. Despite being in late July, the temperature was 49 degrees when the second game started at 9:08 pm. The game was tied 4–4 entering the ninth. Both teams scored a run, and entering the 10th it was tied 5–5. This was near the end of the road trip from hell—17 games in 14 days in four cities—and now extra innings. In the 11th, the Dodgers scored the go-ahead run on a balk.

You gotta believe!

He said it in August when Kirk Gibson looped a single into left field that tied a game against Montreal. On a 1-1 pitch, Gibson stole second base. On the next pitch, Expos reliever Joe Hesketh bounced a pitch in the dirt that got past the catcher. Gibson raced to third base, never slowed down, sprinted home, created a cloud of dust with his slide, and scored the game-winning run.

That-a-boy, Gibby! You gotta believe!

He also said it that September, as the Mets beat the Dodgers, yet again. The Mets won the night before, 8–0. In this game, Gibson stole second base but felt a burning sensation in the back of his leg. This was the start of the problems that would bother him into October. Gibson was tough, but he was buoyed by Tommy’s confidence.

You gotta believe, Gibby. You’ll be okay.

He said it even after Reds pitcher Tom Browning threw a perfect game to beat the Dodgers 1–0 that September. He said it when Orel Hershiser pitched his fifth consecutive shutout. And he said it when the Dodgers clinched the division in San Diego.

Fernando Valenzuela lasted only three innings. Brian Holton pitched the fourth. Holton, Ricky Horton, and Tim Crews each got an out in the fifth. Alejandro Pena pitched the next three innings. Down 2–0, John Shelby and Tracy Woodson homered to tie the game at 2–2. In the eighth, Alfredo Griffin reached on an error, Steve Sax bunted him over, and Mickey Hatcher singled home the winning run. Hatcher was only playing because Gibson was nursing his leg. Jay Howell pitched the ninth. Sax caught the final out to clinch the division and start the celebration.

And celebrate they did, because they believed it would happen, even though it wasn’t supposed to.

But Tommy said it long before that. He said it in his clubhouse meetings during spring training, when he would take his players to lunch, and in letters he wrote them during the off-season. He said it to himself at home getting ready for the day, in hotel rooms across the country before speeches; he said it to anyone in need of motivation. He said it before the season even started, on a promotional tour of Los Angeles, telling fans, Get your tickets now because we’ll be dancing in the streets of Los Angeles in October! You gotta believe that the Dodgers are the greatest team in Major League Baseball!

That is Tommy Lasorda’s mantra, his belief that winning isn’t about being the best, but believing you are the best.

It’s not always the strongest man who wins the fight, or the fastest man who wins the race; it’s the one who wants it more than the other guy.

Tommy would preach about the importance of desire, and that desire is only fulfilled when you believe in yourself. Self-confidence is the first step toward success. If you believe it, you can achieve it.

How bad do you want it? he would thunder. How much of a price are you willing to pay?

Success to him, his mission, was to win the World Series every year, and he never let his players forget that. It all started with them believing they would win the World Series.

If you believe you are championship team, you will practice like a championship team. If you practice like a championship team, you will play like a championship team. And if you play like a championship team, that’s exactly where you will finish.

That was the tone he set, the expectation he had for his team and its players. That was the expectation in 1988 in Vero Beach when the Dodgers reported for spring training. Nobody thought it would happen but him, and he refused to let anyone else who wore the Dodgers uniform think differently.

He said it so much that the players started to believe, too. It became the team’s mantra because it was Tommy’s first. It carried them through the season and into October when they were to play the Mighty Mets in the National League Championship Series. He said it even though the Dodgers had lost 10 of 11 against the Mets that year. He said it even though they were down 2–1, in New York, even though they were facing Doc Gooden in Game 4 with his blistering fastball, his 9–1 regular season record, his 1.31 ERA. He said it even though Gooden had handled them in Game 1.

Getting on the bus to go to the Shea Stadium, he knew things had to change. If we lose today we are in deep, deep trouble. Deep indeed. But he also knew that anyone on that team could be a hero on any given day. That was the character of the team, because each and every one of them believed. Who would it be today? Who would step up? Who would have the will to rise to the occasion? He believed that person would be a Dodger. It would be somebody whom he could affect, somebody that had been listening to him preach about belief all year long, or maybe just today.

Would it be Saxy? Would it be Hatch? Maybe T-Bone, hopefully Gibby, or maybe even Jeff Hamilton? Maybe.

The Dodgers jumped out to a 2–0 lead when John Shelby singled in Sax and Hatcher. The Mets countered with a two-run bomb by Darryl Strawberry, followed by a solo shot by Kevin McReynolds. The Mets scored again in the sixth and Gooden retired six of the next seven batters he faced, giving the Mets a two-run lead going into the top of the ninth.

But Tommy kept saying, You gotta believe! The Dodgers had just one win and 60 losses while trailing after seven innings in postseason games. You gotta believe. Pacing back and forth in the visitors’ dugout, clapping. You gotta believe. John Shelby waited in the on-deck circle as Gooden warmed up. You gotta believe, you gotta believe.

Unbelievably, Shelby walked. John was a Bible hitter: thou shalt not pass. One of baseball’s golden rules is to never let the leadoff hitter get on base, a rule Gooden broke. That was almost a miracle. Who ever would have thought this guy would walk him? He had him 0-2.

All the while Mike Scioscia, the Dodgers catcher, Tommy’s field general, his eyes and ears on the field, was in the on-deck circle. You gotta believe, Sciosc, Tommy hollered from the dugout. As Shelby ran to first base, Gooden shook his head in disbelief at the walk. Scioscia was not a power hitter. He had hit only 35 home runs in eight and a half big league seasons. Gooden knew that, and he also knew what Tommy knew—that Scioscia the catcher could think like a pitcher.

Mike was an outstanding receiver, said Tommy. He could handle pitchers as good as any catcher who ever played for me. To Gooden, that meant Scioscia was going to take the first pitch, since the previous batter had just walked. That’s how pitchers think, so that’s how Scioscia should think, too.

Gooden leaned in, gripped the ball with his fingers across the seams, let a little spit out onto the mound, came set, and with the high leg kick fired his signature fastball. But Scioscia wasn’t thinking the way Gooden assumed he would. Scioscia was sitting on a first-pitch strike, a pitch he hit over the fence, one that yanked Gooden’s neck as he watched it fly, that evened the score, that changed the course of the NLCS, that validated Tommy.

You gotta believe!

As Scioscia rounded third, Joey Amalfitano gave him a slap on the backside. As Scioscia crossed home plate and came back to the dugout, Tommy gave him the Lasorda hug. As the scoreboard changed to reflect the new score, so did the attitude about the Dodgers’ chances; some people started to believe.

Back in the dugout, and in Tommy’s mind, this was no shock. They were supposed to win. They were supposed to believe. Somebody was going to be the hero, and it happened to be Mike Scioscia.

Mike wasn’t exactly a home run hitter, but when he did hit home runs, they were of great consequence. He hit home runs off great pitchers, and only players who know how to win do that. Only players who know how to be successful do that.

Tommy also knew what kind of player Scioscia was. He knew Scioscia was tough—just ask Jack Clark after he piled into him and nearly knocked him unconscious. He knew Scioscia was a winner.

He had known this about Scioscia for a long time. By 1988 Scioscia had been a Dodger for nine years, and had been a minor league Dodger for the previous four, learning the Dodger Way. Of course, it is the job of the minor league coaching staff to teach young players the game, to teach them the Dodger Way of playing baseball. Scioscia though, was indoctrinated even before he met any of the minor league coaches. Tommy knew this, because he was the one to welcome Scioscia into the Dodgers system, the Dodgers family. He was the one who believed Scioscia would be a major league catcher for the Dodgers before Scioscia even knew he would one day hoist the championship trophy with his Dodgers uniform soaked in champagne. Tommy believed this, and he made sure from their first meeting that Scioscia believed it, too.

Mike Scioscia was drafted by the Dodgers in the first round of the 1976 draft. However, he was planning on going to Clemson University to play baseball there, and to fulfill his mother’s dream. About one month later, Scioscia, who was still 17 years old, was at home after waking up late in Morton, Pennsylvania, a Philadelphia suburb not too far from Norristown, where Tommy grew up. It was July 6, 1976, and the Dodgers were in town to play the Phillies.

The phone rang.

Is Mike there?

Yeah, this is Mike.

This is Tom Lasorda with the Dodgers. I want to take you out to our early practice with the Dodgers at Veterans Stadium. We want to work you out.

Okay. Wait, how do you know where I live?

I know where you live. Are your mom and dad home?

No.

Well, leave them a note and tell them you are going to go work out with me and the Dodgers.

Scioscia left the note, hopped in the car with Tommy and Tommy’s brother Eddie, and started the journey that would change his life.

You know, I was 17, said Scioscia. I didn’t know if it was a joke or not.

When I got Mike in the car, I told him about what it meant to be a Dodger, said Tommy. I told him that this would be his only opportunity to be a Dodger, and that he had to sign. I told him that our scout saw something in him and talked highly about him, and that we believed in him enough to draft him with our first pick, that I believed in him, and that he needed to believe it, too.

We go down to Veterans Stadium, and he’s throwing BP to me, said Scioscia. He’s throwing me curveballs and cutters, and I’m looking like I can’t hit anything. After the workout I probably would have paid them to sign me! He gave me the whole full-court press about what it means to wear the uniform, and how much they thought of me to draft me so high.

In July of ’76 Tommy was still the third-base coach. Before that he was a minor league manager, so he was used to dealing with young players battling to make it to the big leagues, battling the doubt that comes along with what is deemed successful in baseball: hitting .300. Before that Tommy was a scout for the Dodgers, so he was used to telling youngsters about the