A full life lived, a legend never forgotten
He lived the majority of his life bleeding Dodger Blue … and now he is with the Big Dodger in the Sky.
The news that Norristown native Tommy Lasorda died late Thursday night after a heart attack at his home in Southern California at age 93 started two personal tidal waves.
The first was a tidal wave of emotions; from genuine happiness, that he had lived such a great life as one of the most amazing American success stories … to sincere sadness that the world no longer would be entertained by one of the most colorful sports figures in history.
The second was a tidal wave of memories, as vivid today as they were during those historic, jubilant and often hilarious moments that the longtime Dodgers manager created.
For me, those memories go back a long way … to September of 1977.
I was finishing my second month as assistant sports editor at The Times Herald in Norristown. Legendary sports editor/columnist Red McCarthy looked up from his desk and said, “I’ve got credentials for the game tonight but I can’t make it. Why don’t you go and write a column?”
“The game” happened to be the opening game of the 1977 World Series – New York Yankees vs. the Los Angeles Dodgers in Yankee Stadium. It was his first year of managing the team that he loved and Lasorda had made it to baseball’s summit. He and all of his emotions and actions were to be the focus of the column.
To say I was a bit in over my head would be an understatement. But Lasorda saved the day.
Growing up in the Norristown area, I had met the larger-than-life hometown hero a number of times. He knew me, as McCarthy’s understudy. But I had never covered one of his games.
The interview action before the game at Yankee Stadium was a circus on steroids. A media mob of more than 100 waited on the field during batting practice. When Lasorda finally emerged, he went right into his schtick, talking about how lucky he was, the son of two poor Italian immigrants from Norristown now managing “the greatest franchise in baseball” in the “greatest country on the face of the earth.”
He answered questions from legendary sports writers … like Red Smith, Dick Young and Jim Murray. His fiery style had them scribbling on their notepads as fast as possible.
Then, suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence as he looked through the throng. All eyes turned, as he yelled, “Hey, Tony.”
Then he explained, almost in amazement: “That’s Tony Leodora. He’s from my hometown newspaper. He came all the up here from Norristown, Pennsylvania – Garden Spot of America.”
That’s the way Lasorda always introduced his hometown, with an amazing amount of pride. He never said that he was from Philadelphia. If they didn’t know where Norristown was, he would be happy to illuminate them.
And that’s the way he always introduced me … to anyone he wanted me to meet. Those introductions often were made to some of the most famous people in the world.
He introduced me to legendary Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully by saying, prophetically, “You should pay attention to him. Maybe someday you will make it to television.”
He introduced me to famous song-and-dance man Danny Kaye, one of the original owners of the Seattle Mariners.
He introduced me to Burt Reynolds, in an infamous and ribald postgame locker room session after the Dodgers played the Phillies.
And, during a spring training visit to Vero Beach in 1980, he introduced me to Ronald Reagan during a campaign stop before he won his first presidential election.
Each time the introduction was done with typical Lasorda bombast, as if to say that the celebrity should be impressed to meet this kid sportswriter. But it gave me just enough confidence to eke out a semi-intelligent sentence or two.
The memories continue to cascade through the mind, wondering if all of the post-mortems will do justice to the fiery subject. Fiery, he was.
I learned quickly to allow him time to blow off some steam after a tough loss. Those reporters who didn’t were in for a fireworks show. That sparks another memory.
A small entourage that included his sidekick and friend, Vince Piazza, at least two of his four brothers, plus longtime Dodger scout Eddie Liberatore, were in a limousine en route to Phoenixville High School.
Lasorda was scheduled to address the assembled students, including Mike Piazza, Vince’s son … long before he became a Hall of Fame catcher.
During the ride, one member of the entourage produced a tape of an infamous post-game interview with Lasorda. It was after a game with the hated San Francisco Giants – one in which slugger Dave Kingman had hit three home runs against the Dodgers.
After a few uneasy moments of foot-shuffling, a radio reporter stuck his microphone in Lasorda’s face and asked, “So what did you think of Dave Kingman’s performance today?”
Lasorda’s face immediately turned red and his tone quickly escalated from wonder at the stupidity of the question, to anger, to volcanic. The expletive-laced tirade quickly had become a bit of American sports folklore … and copies were circulating across the country.
The tape was inserted in the car’s tape player (remember them?) and played at an appropriately loud level.
Lasorda sat stern-faced and listened intently. The tension began to build inside the limo … and grew worse in the silent moments after the tirade concluded.
Then, suddenly, Lasorda exclaimed, “Wasn’t that great!”
The passengers in the car erupted into raucous laughter and the kid reporter made a note to self: “This is a story that has to be told and re-told.”
There are so many other stories that involve his onfield successes, the two World Series titles, the vast number of players that he sent to the Hall of Fame.
But it is his own selection to the Hall of Fame in 1997 that sparks one of the most personally heartwarming memories.
It began with the notice in January that he had
been elected to the Hall of Fame. I immediately called his home in California to do an interview. When he answered, he said that he had a television crew there and could he call me back in about an hour. I explained that I was going to my parents’ house for dinner and gave him that number.
When he returned the call I started to ask a question and he stopped me in my tracks.
“First, let me talk to your dad,” was the order from the skipper.
He knew that my father was quite ill and he couldn’t think about talking about the Hall of Fame before asking a lifetime avid baseball fan how he was doing.
My dad forgot a lot of
things throughout his struggle with Alzheimer’s disease, a struggle that ended at the end of that year. But he never forgot his last conversation with Lasorda. And neither did I.
Tommy Lasorda was so full of life that it is almost impossible to picture him at this moment … without any life. Was he the greatest baseball manager of all-time? That would be a difficult point to argue – though he certainly was one of the greatest.
But was he the most famous baseball manager of all-time? No doubt. No argument. And he wore that fame as well as he wore his beloved Dodger Blue.