Bill James Guide to Baseball Managers, The (34 page)
Read Bill James Guide to Baseball Managers, The Online
Authors: Bill James
Tags: #SPORTS &, #RECREATION/Baseball/History
With the Tigers, and with Roger Craig as his pitching coach, he had more luck at keeping the rotation together, and his overall results continued to be good through the mid-1980s.
Toward the end of his career, and with Billy Muffett as his pitching coach, Sparky seemed to give up on the idea of fixing his defense or his pitching staff. No Sparky Anderson team ever led the league in hits allowed or walks allowed until the 1990s. In 1990 they led in walks allowed; in ’91, ’92, and ’95, in hits allowed. In part this was the fault of the defense, which was composed of thirty-two-year-old castoffs from other teams, and in part it may be attributed to a shortage of talent coming from the farm system—but Sparky dealt with those conditions magnificently as far as the offense was concerned. The Tigers had John Smoltz; they traded him. They had a young pitcher named John DeSilva, but they just wouldn’t let him pitch. His teams continued to score runs in bunches, even though he didn’t have a lot of talent coming along. But his pitching and defense were falling apart, and he didn’t seem to have any idea how to fix them.
What Was His Strongest Point As a Manager?
Loyalty and caring.
Leo Durocher, Billy Martin, Earl Weaver, and Sparky Anderson were all scrappy middle infielders. All were intense managers, not easygoing.
Durocher was intense, and Durocher had remarkable ability to get the most out of his players, but Durocher’s problem was that most people thought he was a scoundrel. Those that didn’t, you had to wonder about their judgment. Durocher used people. His success was in that he was good at it.
Billy Martin was a little different; he was more of a jerk, as opposed to a creep. Billy was more direct than Leo, less devious in his manipulation, and for this reason, he could wear out his welcome even more rapidly. Both men were clever, charming, and almost entirely amoral.
Earl Weaver was as intense as either of them, but Weaver was cold, distant. Weaver did not believe in making an emotional commitment to his players. Dick Williams could be put in the group, although Williams wasn’t a major league middle infielder. Williams was intense, and Williams was a strong disciplinarian, but Williams would get grouchy.
One thing I think most people don’t know about Dick Williams was that about half of Williams’s players were quite fond of him, thought he treated them well. He wasn’t a bad person; he wasn’t obscenely self-centered, like Durocher and Martin, and he knew the meaning of the term “loyalty.” But his attitude turned sour under stress, and he didn’t know how to get beyond it.
Sparky was as intense as any of these men, and he was as much a disciplinarian as Williams. But he had something else: He cared about the people who played for him.
Obviously, Sparky was blessed with more talent than were most other managers. He took over a team with two all-time greats (Rose and Bench), and two other players who were among the twenty-five best ever at their positions (Perez and Concepcion). Within two years, the Reds had traded for Joe Morgan and George Foster. He had almost as much talent in Detroit.
But you know, sometimes teams have talent and
don’t
win. Look at the Twins in the 1960s—Harmon Killebrew, Bob Allison, Zoilo Versalles, Rod Carew, Tony Oliva, Camilo Pascual, Mudcat Grant, Jim Kaat, two more outstanding rookies in 1962 (Bernie Allen and Rich Rollins), and one more in 1963 (Jimmie Hall). That team had talent, too, but what did they do with it? Not much.
“Baseball is a simple game,” Sparky once said. “If you have good players, and if you keep them in the right frame of mind, then the manager is a success. The players make the manager; it’s never the other way.” Sparky’s combination of intensity and loyalty kept his team “in the right frame of mind” throughout a turbulent era. Many of his players got better in his hands. Dave Concepcion, when he came up, looked like any other twenty-two-year-old shortstop. George Foster didn’t look like a player his first couple of years. Sparky believed in them, communicated to them that he expected them to work hard, and he expected them to get better.
Don’t get me wrong; Sparky had a doghouse, too. Sparky was often accused of playing favorites. If he decided a young player couldn’t play, it could be nearly impossible for that player to change Sparky’s mind.
But when a player started going bad, Leo Durocher thought it was time to try somebody else. When one of his regulars started to struggle, Sparky thought it was his responsibility to figure out why and to figure out what could be done about it.
If There Was No Professional Baseball, What Would He Have Done with His Life?
According to his own description, he’d have been a house painter.
ALPH
H
OUK
,
B
ILLY
M
ARTIN
, and a Tiger
1) God, I wish I was back with the Yankees…
2) God, I wish I was back with the Yankees…
3) I wonder what they’d do to me if I just took one little nibble…
S
PARKY
A
NDERSON’S
All-Star Team
| PHOENIX In the early 1980s, just after Pete Vuckovich had won the American League Cy Young Award for Milwaukee, somebody said something to him about Paul Richards’s wizardry with pitchers. “Yeah,” said Vuckovich. “He’s the guy who made a reliever out of me, and a starter out of Goose Gossage.” Richards, out of the managerial racket for years, had come back to manage the Chicago White Sox in 1976. Richards by then was a sour sixty-seven-year-old, out of tune with the players. He didn’t understand how anything he did would be perceived. One time, during a rain delay, he went up to the chow line in the press box to have something to eat—an ordinary enough thing to do, but the press jumped all over him about it, for the simple reason that the other managers at that time wouldn’t have done it. Among the innovations which ruined his season was, as Vuckovich remembered, moving Goose Gossage to a starting role. Gossage had 26 saves and a 1.84 ERA in 1975, striking out 130 batters in 143 innings of relief. He was a big, strong guy, with the best fastball in the American League. In Paul Richards’s time, relievers were veteran junk-ballers and pitchers with second-line stuff. Richards thought, naturally enough for a man of his generation, that a pitcher with Gossage’s stuff would be more valuable in the starting rotation than he would in relief. Incidentally, this forced Pete Vuckovich, a rookie who had been a starter in the minors, to the bullpen. Gossage, in the middle of a string of eye-popping seasons as a reliever, went 9–17. |
Year of Birth:
1930
Years Managed:
1968–1982, 1985–1986
Record As a Manager:
1,480–1,060, .583
Managers for Whom He Played:
Weaver never played in the major leagues. Minor league managers for whom he played included Hal Contini, George Kissell, and Dick Bartell.
Others by Whom He Was Influenced:
As a youth, he was influenced by Leo Durocher and Billy Southworth. As a young manager, he sought advice from Barney Lutz and George Staller, who were other managers in the Baltimore system.
Characteristics As a Player:
A hustling second baseman, usually hit around .260 with no power and not much speed, good defense. He walked 100 times a year, and would have been a major league shortstop if he had an arm.
WHAT HE BROUGHT TO A BALL CLUB
Was He an Intense Manager or More of an Easy-to-Get-Along-With Type?
Very intense.
Was He More of an Emotional Leader or a Decision Maker?
A decision maker.
Was He More of an Optimist or More of a Problem Solver?
Neither, exactly, but Weaver would give his established players every possible opportunity to work their way through a slump.
HOW HE USED HIS PERSONNEL
Did He Favor a Set Lineup or a Rotation System?
His first team, the 1969–1971 Orioles, had essentially a settled lineup. In later years he used a bewildering rotation system which involved not only platooning at four or more positions, but also three-man and four-man platoons, offensive and defensive specialists, and curveball/fastball platoons.
Did He Like to Platoon?
Boy, did he.
Did He Try to Solve His Problems with Proven Players or with Youngsters Who Still May Have Had Something to Learn?
What he liked to do was take two or three veteran minor leaguers, each of whom was one tool or two tools short of a whole package, and try to find some way to use them that would hide their weaknesses and make maximum use of what they did well. He had great success with guys like Pat Kelly, Larry Harlow, Andres Mora, Terry Crowley, John Lowenstein, and Benny Ayala, who for the most part would never have gotten more than a cup of coffee with other teams.
He also did a good job of developing some young players, and he did look several years down the road, but only when he had a player with ability. He brought along Bobby Grich, Doug DeCinces, Don Baylor, and Eddie Murray. In 1982 he was the only man in the world who thought that Cal Ripken could be a major league shortstop.
How Many Players Did He Make Regulars Who Had Not Been Regulars Before, and Who Were They?
The five best were the five I mentioned before—Grich, DeCinces, Baylor, Murray, and Ripken. He broke in many other rookies or first-time regulars, including Al Bumbry, Rich Dauer, Rick Dempsey, Elrod Hendricks, and Merv Rettenmund.
In the mid-1970s, at the beginning of the free agent era, the Orioles refused or were unable to pay top-flight salaries, for which reason the Orioles from 1975 to 1978 were hemorrhaging talent, losing many big-name free agents. Earl Weaver just kept reloading, filling in the blanks with the best available talent. His team, rather than fading, kept winning 90 to 100 games every year. Although that team wasn’t as good as the 1969–1971 Orioles, this is the most impressive part of his record, when he kept the team in contention for several years with constantly changing and often unproven players.
Did He Prefer to Go with Good Offensive Players or Did He Like the Glove Men?
Most of his players were clearly one or the other. There were many defensive specialists who played regularly for him for years, including Dempsey, Belanger, Larry Harlow, Etchebarren, Hendricks, Dauer, Paul Blair, and the aging Brooks Robinson. His teams always played outstanding defense. He also found room for some players who were slow and
didn’t
play great defense, including Boog Powell, Ken Singleton, and a boatload of pinch-hitting outfielders.
What Weaver
never
used were the guys who didn’t do anything specific, but looked good in the uniform, the .260 hitters with 10 to 15 homers, a little speed and and so-so defense.
Did He Like an Offense Based on Power, Speed, or High Averages?
Power. Oddly enough, only one Earl Weaver team led the league in home runs—but most of his teams were near the league home run lead.
Did He Use the Entire Roster or Did He Keep People Sitting on the Bench?
He used everybody. Probably more than any other manager in history, Weaver had carefully defined roles for every player on his roster—not because he cared about the players, but because he cared about the games. It was important to Weaver to have a player matched up in his mind with every possible game situation. If I’m two runs down in the eighth inning and the other guy switches from a left-handed starter to a right-handed middle reliever and back to a left-hander, will I have a pinch hitter to hit for my second baseman? If the pinch hitter hits a three-run homer, will I have somebody who can go in at second base?
To Weaver, it was all but impossible to get every situation covered with just 25 men on the roster. It wasn’t a question of having 25 players and only 18 of them playing; if he’d had 30 men, he’d have started pinch-hitting in the fourth inning, and he’d have used all 30.
Did He Build His Bench Around Young Players Who Could Step into the Breach If Need Be, or Around Veteran Role-Players Who Had Their Own Functions Within a Game?
Veteran role players.
GAME MANAGING AND USE OF STRATEGIES
Did He Go for the Big-Inning Offense, or Did He Like to Use the One-Run Strategies?
He is the most outspoken advocate of the big inning in baseball history.
Did He Pinch-Hit Much, and If So, When?
As you no doubt know, in baseball there is a considerable difference between what left fielders and first basemen hit, and what middle infielders hit. This difference is such that players who might not hit enough to be major league left fielders or first basemen, particularly if their defense is poor, will still hit more than some middle infielders.
Weaver exploited that differential by putting three or even four defensive specialists in the lineup, then pinch hitting for them with outfielders who were considered rejects by other teams. Of course, managers have done this for a hundred years, but Weaver did more of it than any other manager of his time, maybe more of it than any other manager of all time. Many managers simply put their eight best hitters in the field, or structure their roster in such a way that they have few opportunities to pinch-hit for the frontline players.
When the designated hitter rule was adopted in 1973, and Weaver no longer had to pinch-hit for his pitchers, he realized immediately that this in effect had expanded his roster, giving him more maneuverability with the bench. With the passage of time, the effect of the DH rule has been to allow managers to carry more pitchers, thus making more pitching changes. Weaver didn’t do that. Weaver used nine pitchers, which meant that he had room for eight starters and eight bench players, one of whom would be the DH. He needed to have two catchers, and he liked to have a third catcher who could actually hit. He needed a defensive backup for the outfield and a defensive backup for the infield. That left room for four extra outfielders and first basemen, all of whom could reach the seats. He used them to pinch-hit for the guys, like Mark Belanger, Rick Dempsey, Rich Dauer, and Larry Harlow, whose job it was to catch everything and keep the starting pitcher in the game for the first seven innings.
Was There Anything Unusual About His Lineup Selection?
His use of multiple defensive specialists was unusual.
Did He Use the Sac Bunt Often?
He hated the bunt. In his early years he bunted 60 to 85 times a season, normal totals. As he got more settled into the job he began to bunt less and less. By the end of his career he was down to about 30 bunts a season.
Did He Like to Use the Running Game?
He did not.
In What Circumstances Would He Issue an Intentional Walk?
Whenever there was a blizzard in hell. Weaver’s teams were usually last in the league in IBB, or very close to it. One of the most memorable games in Kansas City Royals history was a game in which George Brett came to the plate representing the winning run, runners on first and second, two out, Tim Stoddard on the mound. Weaver ordered Stoddard to walk Brett, unconventional strategy with the open base being third. It didn’t work; Amos Otis worked Stoddard for a game-winning walk.
Did He Hit and Run Very Often?
No.
How Did He Change the Game?
Weaver was an outspoken advocate of the big inning, and an outspoken opponent of the bunt. His willingness to challenge orthodoxy on this subject, combined with his success, helped push the sacrifice bunt toward extinction.
Weaver was somewhat out of step with the baseball of the 1970s, which featured new stolen base records every year, but might be considered one of the architects of the baseball of the 1990s, which involves a lot of crowding the plate and trying to line the outside pitch into the opposite-field seats.
| Frank Lucchesi Anger, said Albert Einstein, is man’s natural reaction to being lied to. Lenny Randle was making $80,000 a year, and on the verge of losing his job. In his third year as a regular Randle’s average skidded to .224. He wasn’t the kind of defensive player who could get by with that, and the Rangers had a hot prospect who was set to take his job. Randle was an intense, highly motivated player. He went to Venezuela that winter, worked hard on his defense. He reported early to spring training and asked for a meeting with the manager. “If I’m not going to play here,” he said, “trade me.” The manager was Frank Lucchesi. He was only fifty at the time this happened, but he looked sixty, and if you’d had to manage the kind of teams he had, you’d look old, too. Lucchesi assured Randle that the second base job was still up for grabs, notwithstanding what the newspapers had to say. Randle, according to Lucchesi, was by far the hardest worker in camp that spring. The rookie, Bump Wills, reported a week late—but when the spring schedule began, Wills was in the lineup almost every game. Randle was furious. He went back to the clubhouse one day, packed his bags, and said he was heading out. Gaylord Perry and Mike Hargrove talked him out of leaving, but Randle made no effort to hide his anger. “If I had wanted to be a reserve,” he said, “I would have joined the National Guard. I’ve been lied to and I’ve been misled. There was never an attempt made to let me win the second base job. It was decided last December, or earlier, who would play second base. Why couldn’t these people be truthful?” Lucchesi chose his words a little less carefully. “I wish they’d have let him go,” Lucchesi told the reporters. “If he thinks I’m going to beg him to stay on this team, he’s wrong. I’m sick and tired of punks making $80,000 a year moaning and groaning about their situation.” Surveys show that 99.6% of all employees resent being called “punks” in the newspaper, and in this respect, Randle was clearly in the majority. Lucchesi’s subsequent apology did something to reduce the tension. On March 26, 1977, Lucchesi was on the field in street clothes as the players began batting practice. Randle approached Lucchesi, and the men began a quiet conversation. There was no evidence of anger. Suddenly, Randle lashed out with his fists, striking Lucchesi in the face again, and again, and again, then kicking him as he went down. It wasn’t a fight; it was an assault. Lucchesi was rushed to the hospital. He had a concussion, a triple fracture of his cheekbone, a split lip, and a back injury. The cheekbone required surgery. Randle’s reputation, in many ways, survived the assault better than Lucchesi’s did. Randle was suspended and fined and faced civil action, but he hit .304 that summer, for the New York Mets. He played regularly for several more seasons, not bad for a marginal talent with a major scandal in midcareer. Lucchesi had pretty well proven that he couldn’t manage a major league team anyway, and this incident confirmed that impression. Each generation of sports-writers has its own list of examples of how far sports have fallen. For five years, this incident was part of the repertoire. The assault, unprecedented in sports history, was a shock to all who knew Lenny Randle. He was well liked. He was polite, articulate, approachable. He had tried his hand at standup comedy. His version of the incident was that he lost control when Lucchesi again called him a punk. Lucchesi denied this, and either way, there’s no justification for a twenty-eight-year-old athlete beating up an old man. |
HANDLING THE PITCHING STAFF
Did He Like Power Pitchers, or Did He Prefer to Go with the People Who Put the Ball in Play?
He liked veteran pitchers who threw strikes. None of his teams ever led the league in strikeouts or in walks allowed. Four of his teams led the league in fewest walks allowed.
Did He Stay with His Starters, or Go to the Bullpen Quickly?
He stayed with his starters. In 1979, for example, he used only 167 relievers in 159 games, the fewest of any team in baseball. The other American League teams averaged 219.
Did He Use a Four-Man Rotation?
He did, all his career. He was also an outspoken advocate of the four-man rotation, arguing that “it’s easier to find four guys who can pitch than it is five.” In this area, history ignored him.
Did He Use the Entire Staff, or Did He Try to Get Five or Six People to Do Most of the Work?
He always had a small staff and tried to get as many innings as he reasonably could out of his front four.
How Long Would He Stay with a Starting Pitcher Who Was Struggling?
A long time. In 1976 Mike Cuellar complained about not being given a chance to work through his troubles. Weaver said, “I gave Mike Cuellar more chances than I gave my first wife.”
