Let me take you into Tommy Lasorda’s office.
We’re at Dodger Stadium, it’s 1978, two hours before a game. The Dodgers are winning, Lasorda is the toast of the town.
Lasorda, who died Thursday at age 93, managed the Dodgers from 1976 to 1996. The obits say he was a celebrity, baseball’s biggest personality, the spiritual cheerleader of the Hollywood Dodgers.
He was all that, but man, you had to be there. So take a look inside, and listen to what you might hear from him on a typical day.
I’m a rookie beat writer covering the Dodgers. This is Lasorda’s office. No, we don’t need to knock. His office is huge, right? Managers’ offices are broom closets — a cheap desk and a couple chairs, space enough for a handful of reporters to crowd in for postgame interviews.
Lasorda took over an old equipment room. See? His office is the size of a big living room. Look, the entire wall to the right is covered with framed photos of Frank Sinatra, the wall straight ahead is dozens of Don Rickles photos. No, this isn’t a museum. Sinatra and Rickles are super tight with Lasorda. They probably have his photos on their walls.
Come on in, Scotty, I want you to meet someone!
Yeah, that’s Lasorda, sitting at his desk in his baseball underwear, tucking into a heap of pasta on a paper plate. Don’t mind the slurping.
Johnny, this is one of the great journalists of our time. Scotty, meet Johnny Mathis, he’s a singer.
This is typical. I’ve met a dozen famous people in here this year. In 1985, MLB will ban non-baseball visitors from clubhouses — The Lasorda Rule — but for now, Hollywood celebrities are lining up to hang with Lasorda.
Grab a plate, Scotty, you and your friend. You gotta try this linguine.
In this era, clubhouse cuisine is a step below truck stop-diner chow, but Tommy has friends. Three famous L.A. restaurants deliver loads of food before every game.
You guys want something to drink?
There are two refrigerators and a beer tap.
Lasorda has taken baseball by storm. After a lifetime in the minor leagues, he got his shot at managing full time in the bigs last year (1977), and he busted in like a gunslinger throwing open the saloon doors.
Tommy talks about how he bleeds Dodger Blue and prays to The Big Dodger in the Sky. He waddles out of the dugout to hug his hitters after home runs. He tells hilarious and outrageous stories. He rages at umpires, sneers at enemy fans, charms everyone else. The Dodgers win. The national media can’t get enough.
Lasorda’s big-league career was a sniff of coffee. He was a superstar pitcher in Triple-A over 11 seasons, but in the bigs, he got one start, a few relief appearances, an 0-4 record. Tommy believes he got a raw deal, but now he’s in the big leagues to stay, and he’s planting his flag.
Maybe he’ll tell us a story. Oh, can he spin a tale. The other day we were talking about his baseball fights. Lasorda wasn’t a pitcher who fought, he was a fighter who pitched. He told me about when he was in Cuba in 1954, and he drills a Cuban hitter named Chiquitin Cabrera, a local hero. Cabrera, built like a bull, charges the mound swinging his bat.
I don’t know how I did it ...
Lasorda was 5-foot-10 and 175 pounds when he played.
... but somehow I get the guy up over my head, I’m spinning him like a helicopter, I slam him down on the mound, and there’s a brawl.
The next day, Lasorda says, armed Cuban soldiers show up at the ballpark. They put Lasorda in a car and drive him into the countryside, to a grand estate. It is the home of Fulgencio Batista, the military dictator of Cuba, who would be overthrown by Castro a few years later.
Firing squad for Lasorda? No, Batista just wants to meet this scrappy kid.
Anyway, grab some food, so Tommy’s not offended — he’s Italian. He’s opening his fan mail, but I want to ask him about his lineup tonight.
“Hey, Tom ...”
Listen to this letter! This woman says she hates me, says I’m obnoxious and fat and full of s—. I’m going to call her up. ... Hello, is this Deborah Jones? Debbie, this is Tommy Lasorda. Listen, I got your letter. I don’t think you would hate me if you meet me. Can you come to the game tomorrow night? I’ll leave two tickets at will-call, and a clubhouse pass. You come to my office before the game, OK?
Is Lasorda always this charming? Ask Chiquitin Cabrera. After games, he can be grumpy. Why did I yank my starter? Because I didn’t have a f—ing phone to the press box so I could f—ing call and ask you what I should do!
The day I met Lasorda, earlier this year in the visitors’ clubhouse in St. Louis, he was eating, and within three minutes he was screaming at me, red-faced mad, nose-to-nose, cursing and sputtering about a story about him, written by another guy at my paper. I had to dodge bologna shrapnel.
Lasorda once snarled at me, “Everything you know about baseball would fit in a gnat’s ass.”
The day after one of his tirades, he phoned and apologized, said he needed to let his players know he had their backs.
Oh, he can be charming. I brought my grandmother-in-law to a game. After the game, Lasorda joined us and a couple other writers in the press box, drinking beer and eating hot dogs. He noticed I call my grandmother-in-law by her nickname, and the rest of the night it was, “Nanny, let me tell you something ...”
Do Lasorda’s players love him? Mixed bag. Some do. Others think he’s a novelty act. Some of the other writers see him as a hot-air balloon. But he’s here, and his team is winning, and the fans are packing the stadium.
Look, baseball can get dull and tedious. Look around this office. Is this dull?
Hey, where you guys going?
There’s a ballgame in 45 minutes, Tom.
Take a plate of linguine with you.
Scott Ostler is a San Francisco Chronicle columnist. Email: sostler@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @scottostler
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