Sport: Nice Guys Always Finish . . . ?

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On top of the stadium, sitting in his large, blue-carpeted office overlooking the field, George Steinbrenner saw the American League championship as vindication of his aggressive approach. "I kept the heat on," he said, "and Billy's changed more than he realizes. He listens more; he comes to the meetings more." But even so Steinbrenner was going to hang tough about the contract. General Manager Gabe Paul was opposed to extending it beyond the two years it still had to run, and Steinbrenner would support him. They would probably give Martin a bonus but if the manager wanted to look elsewhere for a job, Paul and Steinbrenner would authorize it. "Billy's a self-destruct individual," he said of his manager. "I want to make a better man out of him, but he'll never see it that way."

In the end, the owner sounded just as dissatisfied as his manager. The boss and the street fighter were so much alike. Both were domineering men, and neither would accept any authority but his own. They were stuck with each other. At least until the World Series was won—or lost.

The Dodgers

The scene was a familiar one—ballplayers crushed in an exultant circle in front of the dugout, celebrating a pennant victory. But this team was Tommy Lasorda's Los Angeles Dodgers, and as the cold rain of a Philadelphia night swept down on the new National League champions, there was a different quality to the gestures of triumph. Shunning the usual back pounding and fanny slapping, the Dodgers hugged. One by one, they embraced—as much in affection as in jubilation. At the center of it all—hugging hardest, cheering loudest, the master of the revels—was rookie Manager Lasorda. Said he: "I have to be the luckiest guy in the world. I'm thankful and grateful. Every time I hugged one of them it was to show them that. I feel like the father sitting at the dinner table, feeling the pride and love of his family."

The role of paterfamilias was bred into Lasorda during 27 years in the Dodger organization. After a total of only 13 innings on the mound, when the team was still in Brooklyn, and after ten years as a minor league pitcher, he started the slow climb to the head of the table. With Patriarch Owner Walter O'Malley stage-managing his career, Lasorda prepped for his job. First as a scout, then as manager of Dodger farm teams and, finally, during four years as Walter Alston's third-base coach, Lasorda steeped himself in Dodger lore. In the process, the ebullient Italian became the most dedicated Dodger of them all, a man given to boundless enthusiasm—and horrible clichés—about his team. "Cut me, and I bleed Dodger Blue," Lasorda intones. The medical report continues: "The doctor X-rayed my lungs and found a spot on them. When he looked closer, though, he saw it was the Dodger emblem." Against the day when he meets "the Great Dodger in the Sky," Lasorda has his tombstone, a gift from O'Malley, ready. Its inscription: TOMMY LASORDA, A DODGER. With the retirement of Walter Alston after the 1976 season, the job at last was his. Said Lasorda: "It's like inheriting the Hope diamond."