So at last, after a long lull, baseball at the dawn of 1978 was finally starting to evolve with the times, growing in its marketing savvy and learning to leverage its inherent charms against its competition. As baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn suggested, people in the late 1970s, stressed as they were and overcome by the struggles of the time, were realizing the charms of a more leisurely, fun, and family-friendly game. “I have pretty consistently maintained that this kind of feeling was going to work to baseball’s benefit,” Kuhn said. “I’ve been saying that for probably five years. We as people live in a fairly frenetic society and we are looking for something that takes us away from some of the more extreme pressures. Baseball has a charm that seems to fit that need. . . . More people hunger for a more leisurely pace and baseball matches this mood perhaps better than more explosive sports.” And it wasn’t just karma. Kuhn also cited, in addition to the perceived rediscovery of the “game’s gentle charms,” that the league was simply working better. There was more balanced competition in baseball, an appealing increase in offensive firepower among the game’s stars, as well as more aggressive and coordinated marketing strategies, direct-mailing efforts, and reasonably priced tickets at “pretty, clean, nice ballparks”—all contributing to the sense that baseball was a fun family game. “Clubs are doing a much better job of marketing than ever before,” Kuhn said.7
In light of baseball’s improving prospects after the close of the 1977 season, and in view of the looming 1978 campaign, Tom Lasorda reasserted his enthusiasm for the game. “He told the team,” said one of Lasorda’s players, “that the best possible thing that could have happened to us this season was winning the World Series. The second best possible thing was to lose the World Series.”8 The rest of the Dodgers, and all the team’s fans and supporters, seemed to follow Lasorda’s lead. In time the winter that came after Jackson’s three death blows was not a time for bitterness and disgruntlement. Instead, it was a time for self-reflection and preparation. Meaning, the team, its fans, and owners looked back to consider exactly what the team had accomplished in 1977 and forward to ask if it was possible for them to do even more in 1978.
For Dodger third baseman Ron Cey, the answer was an unequivocal yes. “We—the Dodgers—have a winning attitude,” Cey told an interviewer in January, just before the team was to begin winter workouts at Dodger Stadium. “Every year we start out with the same primary goal—the world championship. When you have that kind of attitude, a winning one, everyone tries that much harder.” Tom Lasorda had often gone so far as to say the key to the Dodgers’ success in 1977 was “love,” but people were learning to take much of what Lasorda said with a grain of salt. Cey, for his part, acknowledged his manager’s tendency for hyperbole, but he didn’t completely dismiss Lasorda’s assessment. “True,” he said, “the whole thing has been exaggerated, but it does run true quite a bit, and it hasn’t been altogether overdone. You can sense it. You can see it. You can feel it. Anyone who’d been around the clubhouse could feel it, too.”9
The key to the Dodgers’ winning attitude, in other words, according to Cey, was a sense of unity—a unity that observers half marveled at, half belittled. The Dodgers were certainly not for everyone. While Gordon Verrell had pointed out that the Dodgers so-called “‘one-for-all, all-for-one’ reputation was widely heralded in poetry and song through the 1977 season, hitting a peak in the World Series,”10 Howard Cosell had taken umbrage at the team’s particular character in the second game of the World Series. “I’d like the viewers to note before you close out, Keith,” Cosell had said to his cohost, Keith Jackson, “these Dodgers are not full of jubilation, jumping over one another. They’re a kind of passionless team. They don’t have the outward fire of the Yankees.” Tom Lasorda, of course, would likely have taken sharp exception to Cosell’s words. “The most exciting thing to me,” said the manager in January 1978,
is how the fans have identified with the team. What we saw in our attendance I’ve seen again in the reception when I’m out speaking. We got more than a thousand letters between the time the World Series ended and every one, in some form or another, was an expression of support for our philosophy and approach. Frank Sinatra told me he had never seen a team capture the heart of a city in the short time that the Dodger blue did. I even got letters from writers all over the country saying how much they respected the way we handled ourselves.11
Tom Lasorda had in fact taken to barn-storming for his beloved Dodgers during the off-season, spreading his Blue Gospel constantly, even after suffering dysentery while on a scouting trip in the Dominican Republic.12 And why not? The Dodger manager was in great demand. In short order Lasorda appeared on the TV game shows Tattle Tales and Hollywood Connection; hosted a thirty-minute Super Bowl preview; traveled to Spain, Florida, Pennsylvania, Canada, Mexico, and Arizona (in addition to the Dominican Republic); and attended events, often in his honor, hosted by the Variety Club, Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Lions Club, Elks, Moose, and baseball writers’ organizations in Philadelphia, Houston, St. Louis, and New York.13 While Lasorda’s breakneck pace raised a lot of eyebrows, and the pointed concern of Dodger president Peter O’Malley, Lasorda shrugged. “Look,” he said, “how can you get tired doing what I’m doing? I’m blessed. I have my health, a marvelous family, and the only job I’ve ever wanted. I work for the best organization in baseball, in a city with the best fans. My players took me to the World Series in my first year as their manager. In the last year I’ve been on the Tonight, Tomorrow and Today shows. I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated even before I managed my first major league game. Only in America could this happen to the son of an Italian immigrant. I’m only trying to put something back in. . . . That’s what life is all about, isn’t it?”14
Make no mistake, however; through the whirlwind schedule of fetes, charitable events, and chances to crow about his Dodgers, Lasorda never took his eye off the bigger prize: getting his team back to the World Series in 1978. As he did prior to his first season as manager, in his scant spare time Lasorda plotted and schemed about his lineup, his players, and how best to employ them in the coming year. He planned, he said, to hold individual meetings with his players, just as he did the previous year. “For one thing,” Lasorda told a reporter, “I want to convince Garvey, Smith, and Ron Cey that they can be even more effective with more rest.” And as he did prior to the previous Christmas, Lasorda wrote letters to each of his players, as well as his coaches, to relay how much he valued each of them. “[I] told them that I wanted to share any honors I had won because they were the people who had made it possible. I told them they were not only outstanding talents but outstanding human beings, that I would need their resources again in 1978 and I wanted them to go to spring training with the same enthusiasm and desire” as they had before the 1977 season.15
“This is a young team that has the ability to be better than it was last year,” Lasorda said firmly, “that can be more productive in each of the next several years. . . . The players know they can win. They know what it takes to reach the World Series and they want to do it again.” When someone asked again if he didn’t want to rest a bit before starting the difficult road to a world championship, Lasorda balked. “Rest? Hell,” he exclaimed, “I’m ready for spring training. I’m ready to go get ’em again.”16
As you might expect of any team that has lost the World Series, especially in as dramatic a way as L.A. did in 1977, the Dodgers did not spend the winter in static hibernation. Lasorda, ever in search of a competitive edge, knew he had several pressing concerns left unaddressed from the 1977 season. Foremost, Lasorda knew the bullpen had to be shored up, especially considering the several key injuries and the inconsistent performance of the team’s closer, Charlie Hough, who had recorded just three saves in the final two months of the season. The signing of free-agent reliever Terry Forster gave Lasorda an additional bullpen tool, but there were still some other very burning questions lingering as spring training approached. Would Rick Monday return
from his injury and be effective in the crucial center-fielder position? Could the team sharpen its already proficient starting pitching even while assuaging the unrest of several veteran starters? And what could give the Dodgers an edge over the ever-hungry Cincinnati Reds, who had improved their own pitching staff through the acquisition of former Oakland A’s star Vida Blue? As a result of these concerns, the Dodgers’ camp, led by general manager Al Campanis, was one of the more active during baseball’s winter meetings in Honolulu, and Dodger pitchers Don Sutton and Rick Rhoden were mentioned often in trade rumors. Sutton was reportedly offered to the Texas Rangers in exchange for their star pitcher Bert Blyleven, who had long made it known he wanted to play ball in his home state of California. And Rhoden, meanwhile, was one of four players being offered to the San Diego Padres in exchange for outfielder Dave Winfield.17 None of these deals came through, however, so Lasorda had to settle for former Dodger outfielder Willie Crawford, who had played with the team during its run to the 1974 World Series.18 While Crawford’s star was clearly descending in 1978, Lasorda hoped he could provide, off the bench, another solid left-handed bat.
Inevitably, as spring approached and the Dodgers sought left-handed hitters and better options in the outfield, observers increasingly speculated on the future of embattled veteran Rick Monday. Considered a major disappointment for the Dodgers in 1977—perhaps the only real disappointment in a season of great highs—Monday was philosophical about his tumble on the AstroTurf in Houston on May 31. “It led to my most frustrating season,” said Monday to an L.A. Times reporter before the 1978 season. “The pain and back spasms and the other problems lasted 3½ months.” Compounding the problem, and adding to Monday’s and his team’s frustration, was the fact that the source of the outfielder’s pain and inability to play was not truly understood. “It was like playing ball in chains,” said Monday with a shudder. “When you don’t really understand an injury, it really upsets you. I’ve had broken bones and things like that, but this was my first serious problem. With a fracture, you can see the cast. You understand what’s wrong. A back injury is like dealing with the unknown.”19 When Monday was finally well enough to play regularly in September, he took pains to explain, it was so late in the season, and he had missed so much time, that his timing at the bat was off-kilter. He went through the playoffs and World Series, he said, feeling “out of synch.” And while he had a decent playoff series against the Phillies, getting two hits, including a double, in seven at bats, Monday was completely ineffective against the Yankees. He batted .167 with three strikeouts in twelve at bats and was replaced in two games by the weak-hitting Glenn Burke. In 1977 Monday had collected the worst numbers of his Major League career: a meager .230 batting average, a weak .383 slugging percentage, and just 15 home runs and 109 strikeouts in 456 plate appearances.
To his credit, the ever-competitive Monday, who was of course fully aware of what was at stake for the World Series runner-up, had two messages to send to Lasorda and anyone else in the Dodger front office who might be reading. First, he wanted to let it be known how committed he was to this team—to the point of suggesting his own struggles didn’t matter. “If I could go back to May 31,” he said, “I’d still dive for that ball. If they hit one at me tomorrow and I can catch it by diving for it, I’ll do the same thing again. You can’t baby yourself and play this game.” When pressed further if he had strong feelings about playing for the Dodgers, Monday, who grew up in nearby Santa Monica, didn’t hesitate in his answer:
Do you remember the thrill you had the first time you were actually on the road to Disneyland? Going to the Dodgers was like going to Disneyland for me. I had never been at a training camp with more than one field. Everyone in the world wants to play for the Dodgers. . . . There’s an awareness here that we’re all in the same boat together: The secretaries, the O’Malleys, the batboys, the PR people, the players. Everything is “we.” This is a unique organization. If something’s bothering you, you know you can bring it up. The Dodgers don’t let things smolder within like they do on some clubs. And corrections are made in constructive ways. In short, I like the Dodgers.
Further, Monday wanted it to be known that the Dodgers didn’t need Winfield or anyone else—they already had their center fielder. Monday was ready to play and contribute to the team’s cause. “This winter,” he said, “I’ve come all the way back. My timing is OK again and I’m ready for the season. Make that: I’m looking forward to the season. . . . I expect to pick up my career where I left off last May.”20
As for any specific personal goals, Monday demurred. “In 11 years in the major leagues,” said Monday, “the only goal I’ve had is to get into the World Series. Now, having played in one, my goal this year is to win it.”21 The World Series would have to wait, of course, as there was, in fact, a long road for the team to travel before it could win a championship. Indeed, if the winter was any indication, that road might hold any number of bumps and disappointments. In mid-February the Dodgers returned from a team trip to Hawaii, where they had competed in the Superteams competition for ABC TV. While the Dodgers had done well in the competition in the past, emerging as victors in 1974, this year they were outclassed by the Dallas Cowboys and Kansas City Royals, who eventually won it all. A big factor in the Dodgers’ loss in the competition was their performance in the eight-man canoe race. Not only did the Dodgers lose the race, but their rudder man actually fell out of the boat. The name of that waterlogged crew member? The ever-disappointing Rick Monday.
Of course the Superteams defeat was mostly symbolic, and not to be fretted over too seriously, but more disturbing news reached the team on February 24. One day earlier the team’s retired owner, Walter O’Malley, had fallen ill while flying in his private plane to Florida. So severe was the illness that the plane was immediately rerouted to Rochester, Minnesota, where the seventy-four-year-old O’Malley was checked into the Mayo Clinic for tests and observation.
If fans of the team were looking beyond Walter O’Malley’s hospitalization for some positive news, it came to them at the very end of February. In the San Joaquin Valley, about 170 miles north of Dodger Stadium in a small town called Lindsay, a local junior high school held a ceremony. But it was no ordinary ceremony. In attendance, in addition to the expected coterie of teachers and students and their parents, was a new principal named Bob Edwards. Also, more surprisingly, there were four TV crews and perhaps a dozen reporters from nearby city papers. And there were two guests—Steve Garvey and his wife, Cyndy—on hand to celebrate the rededication of a school that had been so unruly and troubled just a year earlier that it was almost closed down.
It was a cool and overcast day. All that month of February 1978, an unusual amount of rain had fallen on Southern California. Whereas the average rainfall in Los Angeles in February was about 3.8 inches, over an eleven-day period 8.2 inches of rain fell. (March would see an additional 4.2 inches.) This might not sound like much precipitation compared to many parts of the country, but in Southern California this amounted to a major monsoon,22 and the dry, hard-packed ground in Los Angeles could not absorb the water. As a result across the Los Angeles basin residents had to cope with flash floods, mud slides, sinkholes, and the like. Out in Cucamonga, where the flooding and accumulation were particularly bad, empty lots filled with water and entire sections of certain roads completely disappeared overnight. The problem was so bad that, when parents found it increasingly treacherous to get children to schools, local school districts closed for the better part of a week in mid-February. And as water levels rose, Cucamonga Hardware saw a run on sandbag kits.
In Lindsay in late February the ceremony at the school was marked by a sense of relief and joy, as not only had the rains slowed, but there were various tangible signs of change around the school. Walls had been repainted from a dull yellow to Dodger blue. Graffiti had been cleaned and covered up by a mural of Peanuts characters playing baseball. And a new large picture of Steve Garvey was hung over the trophy case. Pr
incipal Edwards noted that the school had upgraded its curriculum and that fighting and gang activity had decreased, and then he spoke of the entire reason for the ceremony and the most dramatic sign that this was a wholly renewed place: the school’s new name. “It’s not just the name change which has turned the school so completely around,” Edwards told the gathered students, parents, teachers, and journalists. “It’s just that Steve Garvey gave us reason to do all this. Now people in the area are going to say, ‘Oh, yeah. Steve Garvey Junior High School, that action place where things are really popping.’” After Edwards finished Garvey stepped up to the mic and spoke seriously, telling the kids that he would keep working hard and they should too. The crowd of 370 kids burst into applause, stomped their feet, and cheered loudly. The first baseman who had starred in All-Star Games and in the World Series seemed genuinely affected by the adulation. “This,” said Garvey as students rushed to surround him, “is all a little scary.”23
Spring training for the Dodgers in 1978 began on March 1 with a markedly different atmosphere from a year earlier. Much of this was due to Tom Lasorda. Whereas he had been overly blustery and vocal in his uncertain first spring training as the Dodger manager, now, in his second, he was more circumspect. “I don’t know if we can get off to a 22-4 start again,” Lasorda told a reporter. “That’s asking a lot. We’ll get ready the same way we did last year and hope we can start just as fast . . . Our people are talented enough and young enough to be more productive than they were in ’77. They now know they belong, that they can win. They have character and respect. They know what the rewards are and they want it even more than before. They know everyone will be gunning for them, that they can’t live on their laurels.”24
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