Baseball’s Santa Claus is dead.
RIP, Thomas Charles Lasorda. Your belly entered a room 5 minutes before the rest of you. But when you caught up, what a party it was. You were loud, profane, big-hearted and funny.
Has Dodger Nation ever been this blue? It seemed everyone in Los Angeles met him at some point. And it you met him, you had a story to share.
You loved people, though I didn’t always like you and you didn’t always like me.
At spring training once, Lasorda chewed me out over something I’d written 6 months earlier. I flinched, then gave it right back to him. How else do you handle a legend?
I kinda loved the way he would step on your toes and get right in your face, an old-school paternal coach, the type they don’t seem to make anymore…the kind you had as a kid…the kind you never forget.
I admire Dave Roberts a ton, and Sean McVay as well, but they are never going to stand on your toes and spittle-spit their deepest feelings.
There was something authentic and honest in that. There was texture and conflict. He could be gritty as rawhide. Earl Weaver, Billy Martin, Tommy Lasorda. I’ll take them over analytics any day.
RIP, my cantankerous old pal.
With you, every day was Christmas.