California’s association with opportunity, an idea first set down in its constitution and then woven into its social fabric, in fact drew all manner of wild dreamers, risk takers, and adventurers to the state throughout the twentieth century. In addition to Kroc and Disney, Jack LaLanne was born to an immigrant family in San Francisco at the dawn of World War I. Though a temperamental, nervous child, LaLanne later became famous in California, and across the country, as the national “godfather of fitness.” Richard Nixon, meanwhile, was born in 1913, just a year before LaLanne, to a family of poor Quaker ranchers in Yorba Linda. After attending Duke Law School on scholarship, Nixon practiced law in California and became a politician of some note (and notoriety). And César Estrada Chávez was born in 1927 and raised by an itinerant farm family in California’s Central Valley. As an adult Chavez would become an internationally renowned grassroots organizer, leader, negotiator, and icon to agricultural workers.
The Californian self-made man would increasingly fascinate Tom Fallon in the years after 1955. Over time Tom Fallon would get to know a number of them—including Frisbee inventor Fred Morrison,14 whom Tom had met while he was working as a carpenter; craftsman Sam Maloof, who had developed his own signature style out of his garage in the years after the war; and an inventor who had innovated the ball-bearing release system on the Craftsman socket wrench. Tom Fallon worshipped these self-made men, identified with them, and dreamed of being one himself.
Another prominent figure at the time who fitted Tom Fallon’s criteria of the self-made man—that is, a person from modest circumstances who came to Southern California and rose to the top of his field—was the mayor of Los Angeles in 1977, Tom Bradley. Born in 1917 in Calvert, Texas, Bradley was the son of cotton-field sharecroppers and the grandson of a slave. In 1924 Bradley’s parents, seeking to get away from the “oppressive social conditions and out of the no-win economic conditions” of Calvert, moved Tom and his four siblings to Los Angeles.15 Here Bradley’s father worked a number of jobs: waiter, cook, railroad porter, whatever it took to earn a living for the family. Through it all Bradley’s parents—neither of whom had completed grade school—emphasized the importance of a good education, and Bradley took the advice to heart and excelled in school. In high school Bradley realized two things. First, he noted that a severe racial problem existed in Southern California, even despite the region’s reputation for opportunity and openness. Second, Bradley learned he had a talent for connecting with people despite their differences. Whenever an issue developed between students of different races, for example, the school’s principal asked Bradley to help find a resolution.
Despite various obstacles Bradley set his sights on a college education, eventually becoming the first African American in his school to be named to an honor society. In 1937 Bradley entered the University of California at Los Angeles on a track scholarship.16 After studying and running track at UCLA for a few years, on a whim Bradley took the police officer exam. He scored well enough to be selected for the police force, so he left school after his junior year and served twenty-one years with the Los Angeles Police Department.
During his years on the force Bradley often played a key role in addressing racial issues, just as he did in high school. For instance, Bradley proposed an idea that would eventually end a long-standing racist policy that forbade black and white officers from riding in the same car. He also, while still on the force, continued his education, eventually earning a law degree from Southwestern University Law School. After his retirement from the police department Bradley set his sights on a higher goal: to become the first African American elected to serve on the Los Angeles City Council. The election in 1963 was bitterly contested, with predictably ugly race-baiting by an unpopular and controversial incumbent candidate, but Bradley took the high road, campaigning solely on the issues of the day. He won the seat by a two-to-one margin.
On the Los Angeles City Council Tom Bradley became known for tackling tough issues and for his ability to bring together disparate groups of people. He was also, perhaps most notably, a strong and important voice of criticism regarding the conduct of both the rioters and the local police during the unrest that broke out in the city of Watts in the summer of 1965. Bradley was widely criticized for his views, but he held fast, pushing the city to focus on investigating the root causes of the Watts riots rather than punishing its participants. He was most concerned, he said, in preventing such a tragedy from occurring in the future. When the state governor’s commission investigating the Watts riots essentially agreed with Bradley, he was somewhat vindicated; at the same time, though, the majority of the city council, as well as Los Angeles’s mayor at the time, Sam Yorty, remained in disagreement with Bradley and did little to change the city government’s policies.
After 1965, then, Bradley grew increasingly disillusioned with Mayor Yorty. Although California, and Los Angeles, was at the apex of its reputation as America’s presumptive Shangri-la, the anxieties and tensions of 1965 and the tumultuous year of 1968 hit Los Angeles hard. In fact, the hard realities of the times were made clear just after midnight on June 5, 1968, on the night after the California primary election for the Democratic presidential nomination. Bradley had passed up the election-night festivities—scheduled to take place at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles—in order to join his wife, Ethel, a huge baseball fan, for a game at Dodger Stadium. Still, Bradley had announced his support for Robert Kennedy’s campaign because he believed, among other things, that the senator would bring a swift end to the war in Vietnam. The city councilman’s support worked: at 12:10 a.m. Kennedy gave a victory speech at the Ambassador to his cheering supporters, then ducked away from the crowd to meet with reporters. Kennedy took a shortcut through the hotel’s kitchen, where a twenty-four-year-old Palestinian refuge (and resident of suburban L.A.) named Sirhan Sirhan was hiding. As Kennedy passed, Sirhan stepped out from behind a stack of trays and fired a .22 caliber revolver, striking Kennedy in the head and killing him.
Even beyond the violence that increasingly seemed to rule his city, Tom Bradley was concerned in 1968 about the lack of direction and vision he saw coming from the current mayor of Los Angeles, Sam Yorty—a man widely ridiculed for his poor work ethic and for his penchant for using his office as an excuse to make official state visits to places like Europe, the Far East, and Mexico, earning himself the nickname “Travelin’ Sam.”17 As problems began to mount in Los Angeles, Yorty was—it became clearer and clearer to Bradley—a major cause. At first Bradley tried to solve the problem by proposing a council resolution to limit the mayor’s tenure to just two terms, but the resolution failed to pass. Bradley’s next solution, then, was to run for the mayor’s office in 1969 as one of thirteen Democratic Party primary candidates challenging the incumbent.
In the lead-up to Election Day, Bradley was, according to most estimates, well ahead of the unpopular incumbent. “Every poll that was run,” said Bradley some years later, “showed me running comfortably ahead of the incumbent mayor.” Unfortunately, this would change almost overnight. In the last two weeks of that campaign, Bradley explained, “the constant, vicious campaign of fear that was waged by the mayor and his supporters finally began to take hold.” Among other things, the desperate Yorty suggested a vote for Bradley would open the door to a city government occupation by black nationalists. “We simply didn’t believe that people would be gullible enough to buy that kind of strategy,” Bradley said, “but it caught on. By the time we realized it was being an effective approach, it was too late to do anything about it.”18
The loss was discouraging, but Bradley was undaunted, stating his determination to try to unseat Yorty in four years. “I pledged to myself,” Bradley said, “that I would do whatever I needed to, to ensure that the next time I ran, people would know me for my record, for what I could provide for the city.” In 1969 Bradley began what would become his regular pattern of work. “I determined that I would work twelve hours a day,” Bradley said, “in every se
ction of the city, so that when the next campaign came along, [Yorty] would, if he ran again, not be able to sell the same kind of political strategy. In other words, people were going to get to know me as a person, not as just some name on the ballot. They, therefore, were unlikely to become victims of that kind of campaign strategy again.”19
In 1973 Bradley ran for mayor again, this time with a far different campaign strategy. “I came out swinging, so to speak,” said Bradley, “and it was a much sharper, attacking kind of campaign than in 1969. . . . We had decided that we were just going to take the gloves off.” Throughout the campaign Bradley kept on the offensive, attacking the incumbent mayor’s record, questioning his ethics and dedication to the city, portraying him as lazy and out of touch. Yorty, meanwhile, returned to the same methods as before, attacking Bradley with vague notions of his attachments to radical black elements. “They couldn’t get any dirtier. They were the same, but they didn’t work,” Bradley said, then laughed. “He was constantly on the defensive, largely because of our strategy of going out on the offensive. I think he never quite got on track in that campaign, and he was not able to generate the kind of credibility for the racial campaign that he attempted in 1973.”20
This time, on May 20, 1973, Bradley emerged from the Los Angeles mayoral election with 56 percent of the vote (against Yorty’s roughly 44 percent), becoming the first African American mayor of the city and the first African American mayor of an American city that was majority white. With his strategy of appealing to all voters across the city, Bradley gained the support of a widespread and diverse coalition of voters—African Americans and other minority groups (especially Hispanics), white liberals, Jews, and, partially as a result of an endorsement by the Los Angeles Times, just enough of the local business community. Bradley’s win in the election was a triumph at a time when people across the region were starting to give up hope for any semblance of racial harmony. In 1973 the election of Tom Bradley to serve as the mayor of California’s biggest city seemed to be not only the fulfillment of the dream of one young man from humble beginnings but also the first step toward realizing the promise of California.
Whatever the reasons that people came west, by the spring of 1977 Los Angeles was closing in on a population of 3 million. Soon it would become the second-largest city in America, knocking Chicago from a position it had held for more than ninety years. In the nearly seventy years since the 1910 census, thanks to all the good press and national interest, Los Angeles had experienced a tenfold increase in population. The same was true of the rest of California, which grew from a population of just under 2.4 million people in 1910 to a population of just under 24 million by 1980. This explosion of population in California gave it an energy and self-assured vibrancy that was unlike any other place in the country at the time.
Among the Dodger veterans there was a marked fondness for their hopeful and lively adopted home. Bill Buckner, after all, made a point of voicing his disappointment at being traded away from a “city that I love,” Los Angeles, to a “city that I dislike,” Chicago. Other Dodger regulars had settled with their families into nice houses in the region’s sunny hillside neighborhoods. In their sharp blue-accented uniforms, the Dodgers were like local nobility in the still new city of Los Angeles, garnering proud attention and adulation. They joined various civic and philanthropic groups and were often in demand. For many of the young Dodger stars, being in Los Angeles meant lucrative endorsement opportunities, appearance fees, and other chances to be entrepreneurs.
On a darker side, however, when family life grew tedious for these young men, the city’s proximity to Hollywood gave players an opportunity to occasionally hobnob with movie and television stars. Of course, for any Dodger who was particularly bored, there were the acclaimed “California girls” of song and film lore. That is, there were plenty of adoring and attractive young women willing to show these popular young men a good time. In sum, the virtues of the California way of life—especially in the rollicking, free-and-easy 1970s—was not a tough sell to anyone considering a career with the Dodgers. Any young hopeful rookie trying to break into the Dodgers’ lineup in the 1970s knew that if he made the team, he’d be free to pursue any number of personal fantasies. The very thought of L.A. gave hopefuls like Webb, Westmoreland, Rautzhan, and Burke the boost they needed to apply themselves to the drills, exercises, and long, dull practices of spring training in 1977.
6
We Were All Rookies Again
I can’t believe they’re paying me to do this.
—Tommy Lasorda, spring training, 1977
By the start of the spring exhibition season in 1977, the atmosphere in the Dodgers’ clubhouse was uncharacteristically electric, and Tom Lasorda was at the center of the buzz. The pace of his commentary, the speed and relentlessness of his chatter, and the range of his subjects were noticed by all. “Thank you, Lord, thank you,” he would call out while pitching batting practice to his second baseman, “for blessing Davey Lopes with so much speed—a beautiful and deserving virtue surpassed only by his enthusiasm and love for baseball.” Or “Look at Reggie Smith,” Lasorda would shout, “he can’t wait to hit that ball. Reggie Smith’s name is in the book of a lot of great pitchers!” Or “If any of you guys can hit one out off Charlie Hough’s knuckleball, I’ll buy you a new car! Charlie Hough you’ve got the best knuckleball in baseball.”1 Lasorda was particularly adept at finding the most sparkling trait, talent, or key characteristic of each and every of his players and driving home awareness of that trait in open view of the team. Additionally, Lasorda made a science of employing player nicknames as shorthand for his hopes and aspirations for, or mischievous sense of irony about, each and every one of his squad. “Hey, Ace,” he called veteran pitcher Al Downing, “you’re looking good,” even though “Ace” Downing wasn’t actually looking all that good.2 “Hondo, take it easy,” Lasorda told utility player Lee Lacy, named after the Celtics’ highly regarded sixth man, John “Hondo” Havlicek. “You’re going to kill somebody. You’re hitting the ball too hard. My God, you’re hitting it hard.” “Harpo, you’re sensational,” he told backup corner infielder Ed Goodson, named for the silent, and frizzy-haired, Marx brother, “Listen to that wood sing. Look at that drive. Harpo, you are the best hitter in baseball, bar none.” Pitcher Burt Hooton was “Happy” Hooton, because of the habitual glumness of his countenance. Rick Rhoden was “Young” because of his age, and Mike Garman was “Pickles” because of his fondness for the food. Johnnie Baker was no longer “Dusty,” as most fans knew him, but Johnnie B., seemingly just because Lasorda said so. On and on it went. At one point, during a spring batting practice, Rick Monday got up to take some cuts. “Hey, Rick,” Lasorda shouted across the diamond, “we don’t have a name for you.” To which the outfielder quickly responded, much to Lasorda’s delight, “Just call me Betsy Ross.”3
Despite his back-slappy, loosey-goosey, seemingly boundless, and wholly contagious joviality, make no mistake, almost every word and act of Lasorda’s that spring were calculated, intended for the good of the team’s overall emotional well-being and balance. The yelling, the ribbing, the nicknames—all of it not only brought the team closer together but also reinforced the idea that the manager was aware of, and cared about, each and every one of his players. In fact, as spring training got fully under way for the Dodgers in 1977, it became increasingly clear to observers how extensive had been Lasorda’s efforts to connect members of the team. In addition to the Christmas cards that Lasorda sent to his players, before the start of spring training the manager had made a point of talking directly with each of his projected starting players. As would be revealed over the first weeks of spring camp, Lasorda told each how much he appreciated their talents, what he hoped for them, and, perhaps most important, what he expected them to do in the coming season. Lasorda told Dave Lopes, for example, that he was the team’s catalyst. “One of our real keys . . . I expect him to become the leader.” The quiet Bill Russell, meanwhile, was, a
ccording to Lasorda, underappreciated. He had plenty of speed, and his fielding statistics were as “good or better than any shortstop in the game.” Dusty Baker was the “big guy, the key guy,” and Lasorda believed in his ability to come back from injury. Reggie Smith had “superstar talent” that just needed to be demonstrated. Ron Cey had the potential, with a little work and extra plate discipline, to become one of the game’s “premier hitters.” Steve Garvey was capable of more power. Steve Yeager was the “best defensive catcher in baseball” and capable of hitting “50 points more.” He ended by telling his pitching staff they were the “best in the National League” and explaining to each exactly what he thought they could achieve.4
All through spring Lasorda strove to build up his players’ confidence. He told them, over and over and loud enough for anyone to hear, that they could do anything if only they believed hard enough. He told them that he knew, in his heart, that this was a World Series–bound team. When asked during spring training if he felt the Dodgers were hungering for communication and motivation, if he felt the club was handicapped for lack of it in the past, Lasorda brushed aside the question. “What happened in the past doesn’t matter,” Lasorda said.
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