Sparky Anderson, 1934-2010

When I was a kid, back in the mid-1970s, I was a die-hard Dodgers fan. I mean die hard -- a cap-throwing, foot-stomping, pencil-breaking bundle of rage. From the beginning of the 1974 season to the 1981 strike, I thought about the Dodgers every single day during baseball season. I watched every Dodgers game I could see, I spent my time in grade school drawing little models of Dodger Stadium and writing out all the years in which the Dodgers won the World Series ("1955, 1959, 1963, 1965.")

The Dodgers were really, really good in the mid-1970s -- better, in retrospect, than I appreciated at the time. They won the NL pennant in 1974, 1977, and 1978. But during that time, they were constantly battling the "Big Red Machine." The Cincinnati Reds won the pennant in 1970, 1972, 1975, and 1976, and they won the World Series in 1975 and 1976.

For five years, therefore, from 1974 to 1978, either the Reds or the Dodgers won the National League every year. It is almost impossible to overstate the extent to which those two teams dominated the league. In the 1975 All-Star game, the National League starting lineup included four Reds (Bench, Morgan, Concepcion, and Rose), three Dodgers (Garvey, Cey, and Wynn), and one player from the other ten teams in the league (Lou Brock). The Dodgers and Reds played each other 18 times a year back then, and they were constantly showing up on the Game of the Week or Monday Night Baseball.

Under these circumstances, I was obsessed with the Reds. I hated them. In fact, looking back on it from the perspective of a grown man with kids of his own, it seems impossible than a nine-year-old boy could have that much hatred. When the Reds finally won the 1975 World Series, I literally collapsed on my bed in tears. When they swept the Yankees to win the 1976 World Series, I refused to watch the last two games -- just so I wouldn't have to hear about them. In a lifetime of sports rage, they were my first true hate.

And this meant, of course, that I hated Sparky Anderson. Walt Alston was a genteel aristocrat, and Tommy LaSorda was a happy-go-lucky teddy bear. But Anderson -- with his prematurely white hair and his penchant for changing pitchers -- seemed ruthless and mean. Besides, what did he have to be arrogant about -- anybody would win with a team that featured Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Pete Rose, and Tony Perez.

Over time, however, I learned a lot from Sparky Anderson and the Reds. I learned that relief pitching is really important. I learned that the good guys don't always win. I learned that when you're trying to do something great, you can't afford to make mistakes. I learned that we live in a big country with all sorts of exotic cities with beautiful names -- Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Cincinnati. Most importantly, I learned that simply wanting something wasn't enough. The world is remarkably indifferent, even to the pleas of a desperate 9-year-old. These were great and valuable lessons about grown-up life.

In a sense, the Dodgers did finally beat Sparky Anderson. The Reds fired him on November 27, 1978, after the Dodgers had won the National League for the second year in a row. The Dodgers went on to win the World Series in 1981 and 1988. The Reds have never been the same. In the nine seasons they were managed by Sparky Anderson, the Reds won four pennants. In the 32 seasons since, they have captured the pennant exactly once. New rivals -- the Astros, the Braves -- rose to challenge the Dodgers, and the rivalry with the Reds faded. I grew up, went to Cincinnati a bunch of times, and found that it was full of very nice -- but very serious -- people who really love baseball. These days, I find myself rooting for the Reds more often than not.

But Sparky did OK. He went on to win the 1984 World Series with Detroit -- making him the first man ever to manage World Champions in both leagues. (You see, he could win even without Rose, Bench, and Morgan). In a new, 24/7 sports world, Anderson's appearances on TV weren't limited to a few short remarks before or after his team beat the Dodgers -- and I learned that he was actually a pretty funny guy, with all sorts of interesting stories about life and baseball.

Today he died at the age of 76. That means that in 1975, when his team drove me to tears, he was only 41 years old -- three years younger than I am now. All of those games -- all of that anger that was so important at the time -- took place a long time ago in a very different land. But I can remember it all -- Rose's mop of hair, Anderson yelling at his pitchers, Morgan flapping his arm at the plate -- as if it were yesterday. And I'm very grateful for those memories.