I spent a wonderful summer in 1995 following around Davey Johnson. This was when he managed the last relevant Cincinnati Reds team … and he was not easy to figure out. He never seemed to DO anything. He never seemed to SAY anything. There was no telling if his players liked him or loathed him, respected him or discounted him.
All they did was win for him.
This was exactly the way Davey wanted it.
“Do you think your players like you?” I asked him once.
“Don’t care,” he said. “They’ve just got to play for me.”
They did play for him. Win for him. That was true throughout his career. Then he would be gone, on to the next team, shipped off by another grumpy owner or executive he had irritated. Davey never did know how to manage up; people were always getting rid of him. When he was a fresh young player in Baltimore in the 1970s, armed with his Trinity University math degree, he used CEO Jerry Hoffberger’s National Brewing Company computer to calculate ideal Orioles lineups (with the most ideal one having Johnson batting second).
He would then put those lineups on manager Earl Weaver’s desk.
The lineups would end up in Weaver’s trash bin.
And Johnson would end up in Atlanta.
He couldn’t help that he was ahead of his time. “Davey Johnson was the smartest guy in the room, and he knew he was the smartest guy in the room,” Ken Rosenthal said. That’s about right. He led the 1986 Mets to their last championship, and a couple of years later took them back to the National League Championship Series. When the team began their inevitable fade, the Mets did not hesitate to can him. Johnson was not surprised.
The players didn’t seem too torn up about it.
“He communicated through his lineup card,” the Mets’ Tim Teufel said.
Then came Cincinnati, where he had managed inside Marge Schott’s three-ring circus. She would send him notes signed by her dog, “Schottzie.” He guided what looked like a World Series contender in ‘94, then took the 1995 team to the National League Championship Series the next year, where they lost to that incredible Braves team.
Schott fired him anyway. She didn’t like him. Johnson was not surprised.
He Went to Baltimore to manage for the cranky Peter Angelos, who hated his guts from the start. Led the team to a 98-win season … got let go on the day he was named American League manager of the year. Maybe that should have surprised him. It didn’t.
Went to Los Angeles to manage the most underachieving team in baseball. Took them to an 86-win season. Became the fastest manager in baseball history to 1,000 wins. Got fired. Saw it coming.
Went to Washington. Led the team to its first-ever division title and playoff appearance. Was named manager of the year. But he couldn’t repeat the magic a year later, and he was forced into retirement. And one last time, he was not surprised.
Davey died Saturday at the age of 82. He lived a remarkable baseball life. He won two World Series as a player and one as a manager. He won three Gold Gloves, two manager of the year awards, banged 43 homers one year, played in four All-Star Games, and had a million hilarious stories that he would share when he was in the mood. I liked him a lot.
I’ve thought quite a bit about what made him such a good manager becasue it wasn’t anything obvious. They say there are two kinds of managers — the disciplinarian and the player’s manager — and teams tend to alternate from one to the other. But Davey wasn’t either. He wasn’t one to motivate by fear or love. He wasn’t really regarded as an innovator. So why did his teams always win?
I asked him that question once.
“Players win games,” he said.
📓 This is Joe’s Notebook.
Half-formed thoughts, instant reactions, and nonsense (usually baseball) in real time.
→ Like this? Sign up for the JoeBlogs newsletter — it’s totally free.
→ Already subscribed? Share this post with a friend.
