Smoky hotel rooms, 10-minute tirades and fatherly advice: Jim Leyland’s managerial multitudes
December 3, 2023
Smoky hotel rooms, 10-minute tirades and fatherly advice: Jim Leyland’s managerial multitudes
4 comments
In the summer of 1978, the Detroit Tigers used their first-round draft pick on Kirk Gibson. The hometown two-sport star signed with the Tigers for $200,000 under the condition that he be allowed to return to Michigan State that fall for his final football season. Then he flew to Florida.
The man who met Gibson at the airport was the mustachioed 33-year-old manager of the Class A Lakeland Tigers. Almost as soon as Gibson settled into the passenger seat, the manager about half his size started tearing into him. “Gibson, you’re not s—!” the skipper said, and he was just getting going. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care how much they’re f—— paying you. You’re gonna be at the park at 8 every morning. You’re gonna get to work.”
That was how Gibson met Jim Leyland.
Gibson’s summer break from football would be spent under the tutelage of a guy whose resume at the time included seven years as a light-hitting minor-league catcher, seven more as a manager in the low minors, and offseasons spent driving mail trucks, working construction and cutting out car windshields at a glass factory while living at his parents’ home in Perrysburg, Ohio.
In the car, Leyland said his job was to make Gibson a big leaguer. A damn good one. And that would start at 8 a.m. the next day, and the next, and the next.
When Gibson arrived at the Tigers’ facility each morning, Leyland was already there. They ran together and worked together. Leyland hit Gibson fly balls in the outfield, hammered his fundamentals, then threw batting practice for almost an hour. “Boy, did I respect that,” Gibson said later. “He taught me the game.”
—
On Sunday in Nashville, Leyland’s baseball resume, now bolstered by 1,769 wins as a major league manager, three Manager of the Year awards, three pennants and the 1997 World Series title, will be considered for the Hall of Fame. Leyland and seven others — Lou Piniella, Davey Johnson, Cito Gaston, Joe West, Ed Montague, Bill White and the late Hank Peters — comprise the Contemporary Baseball Era Committee’s ballot of managers, executives and umpires whose primary contribution to the game came since 1980.
What better reason for another round of Leyland stories?
Not that his friends and former players need a reason. They all have favorites they’re quick to share. About Leyland golfing with the president. About him sneaking a smoke in the dugout or at the team hotel. About clubhouse tirades that went on and on but somehow ended with everyone in stitches.
Writers have been collecting and printing stories about Leyland, now 78, for decades. In the spring of 1997, Miami Sun Sentinel writer David O’Brien (now The Athletic’s Braves writer) phoned a few Pirates players to ask about the new Florida Marlins manager. The guy to call, outfielder Andy Van Slyke told O’Brien, was bench player Gary Varsho. “That was Jim’s voodoo doll,” Van Slyke said. Varsho had stories, all right. The first one he told was of the day he was traded to the Pirates in 1991. He was sitting at his new locker in the clubhouse when Leyland ran out of the manager’s office in his underwear. The coaching staff’s March Madness pool had been decided.
“He’s got $20 and $50 bills hanging on his jockstrap,” Varsho told O’Brien. “He’s bouncing around, saying, ‘Who won the basketball pool? Who won the pool, Varsh?’ I said, ‘Oh my god, this is our manager.’”
Twenty-six years later, Varsho is still taking calls and telling Leyland stories. He’s constantly remembering more. Earlier this season, Varsho’s son, Daulton, a Toronto Blue Jays outfielder, was hit by a pitch. That took Varsho back. Three decades ago, he took a fastball to the back of the knee in a game against the Houston Astros. As Varsho writhed in the dirt of the left-handed batter’s box, Leyland walked over slowly, one hand in his jacket pocket, and stood over Varsho.
“This mean you’re done for the day?” Leyland asked.
Here’s how Leyland tells the story of the day the Tigers signed him in 1964. Their scout came to the door in Perrysburg. Leyland’s father answered.
“Mr. Leyland, we would like to sign your son for $1,000,” the scout said.
“Sir,” Leyland’s father replied, “we don’t have that kind of money.”
—
The reputation Leyland earned across 22 seasons managing the Pirates, Marlins, Rockies and Tigers was as a no-nonsense manager. But he was savvier than almost anyone outside the game realized. What others saw as a gruff, chain-smoking caricature of an old-school manager, those in baseball considered brilliant for how he connected with everyone from the superstar to the last man on the roster to the least-tenured coach on his staff. Leyland could be rough around the edges, as one friend put it, but he was soft where it counted.
“He always had the innate ability to earn people’s trust a little sooner than they thought they’d give it to him,” former Pirates and Rockies manager Clint Hurdle said.
When 21-year-old Barry Bonds debuted in 1986, he wasn’t prepared to trust Leyland, the first-year Pirates manager. Not yet. While their most publicized interaction was an all-time rant — Leyland unleashing 17 F-bombs after Bonds disrespected instructor Bill Virdon during a spring training workout in 1991 — their relationship, Bonds said years later, was “like father and son.” Bonds wholeheartedly trusted Leyland. He came to see that tough love was still love.
“Jim Leyland was the type of manager that didn’t care if he got fired,” Bonds said. “He didn’t care what anyone thought. He was there to manage his players and have the respect for his players, for his city, and do his job. And we respected that. He would protect you like a father, then he would discipline you like a father. He allowed you to be your own man.”
To this day, Bonds reaches out to Leyland on Father’s Day.
“Barry Bonds would do anything for Jim Leyland,” said Phillies president of baseball operations Dave Dombrowski, who hired Leyland as manager in Florida and Detroit. “He absolutely loves Jim. Same thing with Bobby Bo (Bonilla), Gary Sheffield. Those guys, they just loved Jim. And why is it? It sounds really simple. But it’s because he’s Jim Leyland. He cares.”
Later in the 1991 season, on a bus ride from San Francisco to San Diego, Leyland motioned for slugger Bobby Bonilla to join him in the front row. The Pirates were in first place. Bonilla, who’d finished second to Bonds in the NL MVP voting the prior year, had put together another All-Star first half. But Leyland could tell there was discontentment bubbling beneath the surface.
The Pirates that spring had given Van Slyke a three-year deal worth more than $12 million. Bonilla was in his walk year. He’d been one of the best hitters in the NL five years running, and yet it was becoming clear the Pirates weren’t planning to extend him. So, Leyland sat Bonilla down in the front seat and, for the next two hours, they heard each other out. Leyland wanted to keep Bonilla, but it wasn’t his money to spend. He told Bonilla his payday was coming soon, one way or another, but, for now, they couldn’t let this tear the team apart.
It didn’t.
The Pirates came within one win of the World Series that year. Then Bonilla got paid. His five-year, $29 million contract with the New York Mets made him the highest-paid player in team sports at the time, surpassing Patrick Ewing.
—
That’s just half the article, I don’t want to copy and paste all the stories
Two packs a day and zero fucks given, I’ll always love Leyland.
Anyone have an unlocked link? Those are fantastic stories
Love Jim Leyland. Will always make that known whenever he’s mentioned on here.
4 comments
In the summer of 1978, the Detroit Tigers used their first-round draft pick on Kirk Gibson. The hometown two-sport star signed with the Tigers for $200,000 under the condition that he be allowed to return to Michigan State that fall for his final football season. Then he flew to Florida.
The man who met Gibson at the airport was the mustachioed 33-year-old manager of the Class A Lakeland Tigers. Almost as soon as Gibson settled into the passenger seat, the manager about half his size started tearing into him. “Gibson, you’re not s—!” the skipper said, and he was just getting going. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care how much they’re f—— paying you. You’re gonna be at the park at 8 every morning. You’re gonna get to work.”
That was how Gibson met Jim Leyland.
Gibson’s summer break from football would be spent under the tutelage of a guy whose resume at the time included seven years as a light-hitting minor-league catcher, seven more as a manager in the low minors, and offseasons spent driving mail trucks, working construction and cutting out car windshields at a glass factory while living at his parents’ home in Perrysburg, Ohio.
In the car, Leyland said his job was to make Gibson a big leaguer. A damn good one. And that would start at 8 a.m. the next day, and the next, and the next.
When Gibson arrived at the Tigers’ facility each morning, Leyland was already there. They ran together and worked together. Leyland hit Gibson fly balls in the outfield, hammered his fundamentals, then threw batting practice for almost an hour. “Boy, did I respect that,” Gibson said later. “He taught me the game.”
—
On Sunday in Nashville, Leyland’s baseball resume, now bolstered by 1,769 wins as a major league manager, three Manager of the Year awards, three pennants and the 1997 World Series title, will be considered for the Hall of Fame. Leyland and seven others — Lou Piniella, Davey Johnson, Cito Gaston, Joe West, Ed Montague, Bill White and the late Hank Peters — comprise the Contemporary Baseball Era Committee’s ballot of managers, executives and umpires whose primary contribution to the game came since 1980.
What better reason for another round of Leyland stories?
Not that his friends and former players need a reason. They all have favorites they’re quick to share. About Leyland golfing with the president. About him sneaking a smoke in the dugout or at the team hotel. About clubhouse tirades that went on and on but somehow ended with everyone in stitches.
Writers have been collecting and printing stories about Leyland, now 78, for decades. In the spring of 1997, Miami Sun Sentinel writer David O’Brien (now The Athletic’s Braves writer) phoned a few Pirates players to ask about the new Florida Marlins manager. The guy to call, outfielder Andy Van Slyke told O’Brien, was bench player Gary Varsho. “That was Jim’s voodoo doll,” Van Slyke said. Varsho had stories, all right. The first one he told was of the day he was traded to the Pirates in 1991. He was sitting at his new locker in the clubhouse when Leyland ran out of the manager’s office in his underwear. The coaching staff’s March Madness pool had been decided.
“He’s got $20 and $50 bills hanging on his jockstrap,” Varsho told O’Brien. “He’s bouncing around, saying, ‘Who won the basketball pool? Who won the pool, Varsh?’ I said, ‘Oh my god, this is our manager.’”
Twenty-six years later, Varsho is still taking calls and telling Leyland stories. He’s constantly remembering more. Earlier this season, Varsho’s son, Daulton, a Toronto Blue Jays outfielder, was hit by a pitch. That took Varsho back. Three decades ago, he took a fastball to the back of the knee in a game against the Houston Astros. As Varsho writhed in the dirt of the left-handed batter’s box, Leyland walked over slowly, one hand in his jacket pocket, and stood over Varsho.
“This mean you’re done for the day?” Leyland asked.
Here’s how Leyland tells the story of the day the Tigers signed him in 1964. Their scout came to the door in Perrysburg. Leyland’s father answered.
“Mr. Leyland, we would like to sign your son for $1,000,” the scout said.
“Sir,” Leyland’s father replied, “we don’t have that kind of money.”
—
The reputation Leyland earned across 22 seasons managing the Pirates, Marlins, Rockies and Tigers was as a no-nonsense manager. But he was savvier than almost anyone outside the game realized. What others saw as a gruff, chain-smoking caricature of an old-school manager, those in baseball considered brilliant for how he connected with everyone from the superstar to the last man on the roster to the least-tenured coach on his staff. Leyland could be rough around the edges, as one friend put it, but he was soft where it counted.
“He always had the innate ability to earn people’s trust a little sooner than they thought they’d give it to him,” former Pirates and Rockies manager Clint Hurdle said.
When 21-year-old Barry Bonds debuted in 1986, he wasn’t prepared to trust Leyland, the first-year Pirates manager. Not yet. While their most publicized interaction was an all-time rant — Leyland unleashing 17 F-bombs after Bonds disrespected instructor Bill Virdon during a spring training workout in 1991 — their relationship, Bonds said years later, was “like father and son.” Bonds wholeheartedly trusted Leyland. He came to see that tough love was still love.
“Jim Leyland was the type of manager that didn’t care if he got fired,” Bonds said. “He didn’t care what anyone thought. He was there to manage his players and have the respect for his players, for his city, and do his job. And we respected that. He would protect you like a father, then he would discipline you like a father. He allowed you to be your own man.”
To this day, Bonds reaches out to Leyland on Father’s Day.
“Barry Bonds would do anything for Jim Leyland,” said Phillies president of baseball operations Dave Dombrowski, who hired Leyland as manager in Florida and Detroit. “He absolutely loves Jim. Same thing with Bobby Bo (Bonilla), Gary Sheffield. Those guys, they just loved Jim. And why is it? It sounds really simple. But it’s because he’s Jim Leyland. He cares.”
Later in the 1991 season, on a bus ride from San Francisco to San Diego, Leyland motioned for slugger Bobby Bonilla to join him in the front row. The Pirates were in first place. Bonilla, who’d finished second to Bonds in the NL MVP voting the prior year, had put together another All-Star first half. But Leyland could tell there was discontentment bubbling beneath the surface.
The Pirates that spring had given Van Slyke a three-year deal worth more than $12 million. Bonilla was in his walk year. He’d been one of the best hitters in the NL five years running, and yet it was becoming clear the Pirates weren’t planning to extend him. So, Leyland sat Bonilla down in the front seat and, for the next two hours, they heard each other out. Leyland wanted to keep Bonilla, but it wasn’t his money to spend. He told Bonilla his payday was coming soon, one way or another, but, for now, they couldn’t let this tear the team apart.
It didn’t.
The Pirates came within one win of the World Series that year. Then Bonilla got paid. His five-year, $29 million contract with the New York Mets made him the highest-paid player in team sports at the time, surpassing Patrick Ewing.
—
That’s just half the article, I don’t want to copy and paste all the stories
Two packs a day and zero fucks given, I’ll always love Leyland.
Anyone have an unlocked link? Those are fantastic stories
Love Jim Leyland. Will always make that known whenever he’s mentioned on here.