A Dodger Gets His Due
"Dodger Stadium Was His Address,
But Every Ballpark Was His Home"
CNN/SI presents selections from Sports Illustrated highlighting Tom Lasorda's journey from Norristown, Pa., to the Baseball Hall of Fame
An Infusion of Fresh Dodger-Blue Blood
Being his team's first new manager in almost a quarter century has put Walter Alston's replacement, Tom Lasorda, in seventh heaven. And he prays he can guide L.A. to first place.
by Larry Keith
Issue date: March 14, 1977
Tom Lasorda, the noted evangelist, has a message for anyone who will listen, for little children who seek his autograph, for adults who invite him to speak at their civic clubs, for girls in the office, the man on the street and the stars at Hollywood and Vine. The gospel truth according to Lasorda: there is no organization in baseball equal to the Los Angeles Dodgers. And there is no greater honor in baseball than to be a part of the Dodgers, to wear Dodger blue, to bleed Dodger blue, to revere the Great Dodger in the Sky.
This is not just team spirit, brethren. This goes beyond mere loyalty to a cause, a country or a laundry detergent. We are talking about something that really matters. For, as the Billy Sunday of the Dodgers was telling an audience last month, "When you say you're a Padre, people ask when did you become a parent. When you say you're a Cardinal, they tell you to work hard because the next step is Pope. But when you say you're a Dodger, everybody knows you're in the major leagues." Hallelujah!
Lasorda is a Dodger and, as we shall see, has a tombstone to prove it. He is, in fact, the manager of the Dodgers, something for the last 23 years could be said only of Walter Alston. But Alston retired last Sept. 27, and two days later Los Angeles selected its gregarious, persuasive, combative 49-year-old third base coach to be his successor. As a result, when the Dodgers opened spring training last week, the scene at Vero Beach, Fla. was quite different from what it had been for more than two decades. The man in charge was moving here, hurrying there, giving directions, laughing, talking a mile a minute, hugging, cajoling and praising.
Although as a young pitcher out of Norristown (Pa.) High School in 1944 he was signed by the Philadelphia Phillies, Lasorda was soon purchased by the Dodgers, with whom he has spent most of his 27 years as a player, scout, minor league manager and major league coach. Lasorda's feelings for the Dodgers inspired him in 1961 to write a treatise called An Organization with a Heart. He also started repeating corny little sayings such as "Cut me and I'll bleed Dodger blue" and "When I die I want my tombstone to say, 'Dodger Stadium was his address, but every ball park was his home.'"
During spring training in 1968, Lasorda lived to see his death wish come true and he didn't even have to die for it to happen. He was preparing to start his third season as the manager of the organization's rookie team in Ogden, Utah, when owner Walter O'Malley called him into the Dodgertown press room and presented him with a marble tombstone. And sure enough, it had a heart dripping blue blood on it, and an epitaph that read: DODGER STADIUM WAS HIS ADDRESS, BUT EVERY BALL PARK WAS HIS HOME.
"I'm so grateful to you, Mr. O'Malley," Lasorda said, "that I want to continue working for the Dodgers even when I'm dead and gone."
"And just how do you plan to do that?" the startled owner asked.
"Just put the Dodgers schedule on there each year," Lasorda said, pointing at the tombstone. "When people are visiting their loved ones at the cemetery, they can come by my grave and see if the Dodgers are at home or away."
He Goes Where the In Crowd Goes
Buckle your seat belt, because you're about to experience life in the Hollywood fast lane with Tommy Lasorda and some of his closest friends
by Ron Fimrite
Issue date: January 30, 1984
Tommy Lasorda is driving to his dentist in Beverly Hills. The dentist, Dr. Roger Lewis, is like most of the millions of people Lasorda knows, "outstanding," which is fortunate because the Dodger manager will have a bridge replaced this day and will be in the chair for nearly two miserable hours. Lasorda is nonetheless chipper as he swings his Chrysler New Yorker through the Wilshire Boulevard traffic. He's wearing a checkered coat, blue slacks and a blue shirt mostly concealed by a sleeveless white pullover sweater, this last article being a Lasorda trademark. His jaunty demeanor masks a certain fatigue. He had been to a charity ball at the Beverly Wilshire the night before, Dec. 12, honoring, among others, that good friend of his, Frank Sinatra, and he and wife Jo hadn't made it home to suburban Fullerton until past three in the morning. Frank, Tommy and their whole crowd—Robert Wagner, Jill St. John, Milton Berle and his wife, Frank Jr., Dionne Warwick, Angie Dickinson, Ed McMahon and his wife, et al.—had gone for a late supper at Matteo's after the party, and those things will go on. "Frank never sang better than last night," says Lasorda. "I was a little worried because he's had a sore throat. Say, there's Frank now." Not in person, mind you, but Ol' Blue Eyes could be clearly heard on Lasorda car radio--tuned always to either KMPC or KPRZ, the big band stations—singing Witchcraft.
The Beverly Wilshire party—for the City of Hope—was the third major show-biz event Lasorda had attended in the past month. He had himself appeared on a nationally televised All Star Party for Frank Sinatra, and he had sat in on a White House reception for Kennedy Center honorees Sinatra, Jimmy Stewart, choreographer Katherine Dunham, director Elia Kazan and composer Virgil Thompson, given by another good friend of his, President Ronald Reagan. The Marine officer charged with announcing the guests had been startled when the President interrupted the Lasorda introduction to greet him personally, "Tommy, how are you?"
"This was the second time I've been to the Kennedy thing," Lasorda says. "the first one was for Cary Grant. He's a good friend of mine. I tell you, only in this great nation of ours could the third-string pitcher on the Norristown, Pennsylvania high school team, the son of an Italian immigrant, be friends with some of the greatest entertainers in the world."
Lasorda is, of course, a famous eater whose paunch has become a television celebrity in its own right. He gave up smoking years ago and stopped drinking hard liquor within the past few years because he feared it aggravated an arthritic condition in his fingers, but overeating he will not renounce.
"When I thought smoking was a weakness," he will say, "I took a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, stared at it and said, 'Who's stronger, you or me?' The answer was me. Then I took a glass of vodka and said to it, 'Who's stronger, you or me?' And again the answer was me. Then I took out a plate of linguine with clam sauce, looked it in the eye and said, 'Who's stronger, you or me?' And the answer came back, 'Linguine with clam sauce.' I cannot beat linguine."
Lasorda is driving back to Dodger Stadium on the Pomona Freeway, alternately talking about how much he enjoys meeting the public and joining Frank, the Francis Albert of many years ago, in All the Things You Are, when a California highway motorcycle patrolman draws alongside and beckons him to pull over. Lasorda bangs on the steering wheel with his fist and swears like a ballplayer. "I was speeding," he admits, braking. "And I don't even have my license with me. This looks bad." more profanity. He jumps out of the car smiling wanly.
"Tommy!" the patrolman shouts on recognizing him. "Hey, I wouldn't have pulled you over if I'd known it was you." Lasorda gratefully clasps the officer's hand and apologizes profusely for his malefaction. "Don't worry about it," says the patrolman. "Say, there's one thing you can do for me, though." Lasorda allows as to how he'd go to the ends of the earth to be of any aid whatsoever. "I got a kid who loves the Dodgers," says the patrolman. "He'd give anything to have your autograph." Lasorda accepts the officer's pad and writes a lengthy paean to Dodger blue for the patrolman's offspring.
Lasorda sighs with relief as he climbs back into the driver's seat, waving merrily at the departing patrolman, whose day he's made. A young voice on the radio is singing something about Venus. Frankie Avalon," says Lasorda. "Good friend of mine."
A sound argument could be made that in a city of stars, Tommy Lasorda, the manager of it's baseball team, is the biggest star of them all. He cannot drive on a freeway or a city street without being acknowledged by motorists and pedestrians. He's regularly stopped on sidewalks by well-wishers. He cannot enter a restaurant and escape recognition. He has no privacy whatsoever. And he loves it.
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