A Manager's Survival Guide

Imagine being the head counselor at a very exclusive summer camp for boys. You're the boss, in title at least, but the campers have all the rights, not to mention private agent-counselors to help ensure those privileges. If your campers, many of whom are spoiled rotten and possess delicate egos, misbehave or fail to meet your standards, your options are few. You can fine them, but since their personal wealth is maybe 30 times greater than yours, they will snicker, not cry. You can punish them if they break rules, but if the punishment is too harsh, they can run to the Campers' Association, the strongest union on earth.

Camp David McNally—named after a determined camper who once challenged the system—is located at a well-protected site on Cape Fehr, and every activity is closely scrutinized by diligent media: "Excuse me, counselor, you're starting which nine campers in the tug of war?" Your own boss, the camp's general manager, and his boss, the rich camp owner, sit perched in a tower, watching your every move. If you make too many mistakes, or if the boys fold up their tents and quit, it is only a matter of time before the G.M will put his arm around you and say, "Well, we can't fire 25 campers, so you're gone."

Welcome to the life of a major league manager, "the toughest job in sports," as Texas Rangers pitching coach Tom House puts it. Last season a record 13 managers were fired, and a 14th resigned. "If everyone in this country had to manage a major league team, there would be no need for Social Security—the job takes 10 to 15 years off your life," says Pittsburgh Pirate coach Rich Donnelly. "Those who say they enjoy it, that there's no pressure, they're liars. There's no job in the world like it. I've seen it do strange things to people. If you don't smoke, you will. If you don't drink, you will. And if you do drink, you'll stop."

So then, acting in baseball's best interests, we offer the 1992 Manager's Survival Guide, a set of a dozen simple guidelines to ensure job security...at least until October.

1. Get a nickname . This is a simple but useful tactic and will prove especially helpful in the case of new Boston Red Sox manager Butch Hobson, born Clell Lavern Hobson Jr. Many of the game's most enduring managers have had nicknames, including Sparky Anderson, Whitey Herzog, Casey Stengel and Yogi Berra. The great Connie Mack altered both his names; he was born Cornelius McGillicuddy. The goofier the nickname, the better the chances of keeping your job. Pants Rowland had a .578 winning percentage for the White Sox from 1915 to '18; he wouldn't have lasted one season had he gone by his real first name, Clarence. Are you listening, John Oates? (Oates was called Johnny as a player and as a coach, but he asked that it be shortened to John when he was named manager of the Orioles last May, saying that he thought it sounded more mature.) Dignified names will get you nowhere, Johnny.

The nickname rule, however, is not guaranteed for new Yankee manager Buck Showalter. The recent line of succession has seen Bucky Dent fired and replaced by Stump Merrill, who was fired and replaced by Showalter. But considering the natural progression—Bucky to Stump to Buck—if your nickname is Stumpy, you should most definitely apply for this job. (Send your application to the New York G.M., and former Yankee manager, Stick Michael.) "

2. Keep a comedian on your roster . "A manager's job is so demanding," says Donnelly, "you've got to laugh every day. Mickey Rivers was the funniest player ever. If I were a manager, I'd sign Mickey right now just to ride the buses and planes. He wouldn't even have to play." Second-year Cleveland manager Mike Hargrove wisely gave Junior Ortiz a shot at the Indians' backup catching job this spring. Ortiz, the current funniest man in the game, can keep a manager smiling. After one long stretch on the bench with the Pirates, Ortiz, instead of complaining, told manager Jim Leyland, "My only wish in life is that you have a son, that I'm his manager and I get to tell him, 'Sorry, Jim junior, you're not playing today.' "

3. Look the part, act the part . Just looking like a manager—overweight, bad hair, a cheek full of tobacco—will get you hired once, maybe twice. "Look like Zim," Donnelly says of Don Zimmer, who has managed 1,743 games with four teams. "If I had to draw a manager, I'd draw Zim." Says Zimmer, "I've gained weight this winter. So I guess I look more like a manager."

New Milwaukee manager Phil Garner, 43, will be lucky to last the season—he looks much too good, and he's in better shape than some of his players. "The younger managers are at a disadvantage because they look too much like the players," says Richard Griffin, director of media relations for the Montreal Expos, "and the fans are always mad at the players." At 35, Showalter is not only younger than some of his players but also looks about 14. What he needs is some stubble. Oates is extremely sharp, but he's too wholesome-looking to be a manager. He needs a scar on his face.

To act the part, a manager has to cuss a lot. To do so properly a manager would do well to take a Swearing Seminar from Phillie manager Jim Fregosi. Such instruction is strongly recommended for Oates and for the Mets' new manager, Jeff Torborg: Both need help in this area. (An added suggestion to Torborg: Don't compliment your wife so often. You're making other managers look bad.)