Gibson Rubbing Off on Dodgers

By THOMAS BOSWELL

May 13, 1988 12 AM PT

The Washington Post

PITTSBURGH — Two months ago, Tommy Lasorda was worried. Now, from the safety of first place in the National League West, he can admit it. In particular, he was worried about how Kirk Gibson and his new Los Angeles Dodgers teammates were going to get along. You know, the same Gibson who bolted the team for a day in a white-hot rage when Jesse Orosco put some eyeblack around his hatband as a clubhouse joke. Now, his mind at ease, the old, round manager can say, “I love the guy. He’s really changed us.”

Lasorda isn’t talking about the five home runs Gibson has hit in the last 11 games, or the way the $1.5-million free agent has his name among the NL leaders in runs (25), homers (six) and slugging percentage (.510). To Lasorda, muscle is always secondary to mind and morale.

No manager has ever believed more deeply in team chemistry, bon homme and a prankish fraternity-house atmosphere. Some call Lasorda a cruise director or a standup comedian posing as a baseball strategist. Others, who’ve noticed those five West Division titles and three National League pennants in 11 years, think maybe he’s got a pretty good handle on human nature.

“Getting seven new players this year was like adopting seven kids,” said Lasorda, who knew Gibson was the lead dog in the talent parade with the likes of Orosco, Mike Davis, Alfredo Griffin, Don Sutton, Jay Howell and Rick Dempsey fitting in behind him. “How are they going to fit into your family?”

The bubbly, blustering, constantly cussing Lasorda didn’t have a handle on Gibson. With his eye-black and torn uniform knees, his blood-and-dirt motif and his punkish, slightly orange hairdo, Gibson looked like that other Gibson -- Mel, The Road Warrior. Give him a battle axe and a spiked truncheon to whirl around his head and he’ll be all ready to go first-to-third on anyone.

The national pastime as hand-to-hand combat: that was the ex-football all-America’s contribution to baseball. When Gibson took a hike before an exhibition game against the Chunichi Dragons, Lasorda thought he had troubles with a capital T in his clubhouse.

He was wrong. That was the day the deadhead Dodgers, who lost 89 games in each of the past two years, started to become a team. And, it may have been the day Gibson started to mature.

First, the Dodgers had to come to terms with Gibson -- his intensity on the field, his emotional commitment and his aura of raw physical violence if you did not join him in his quest.

“That (Orosco) incident turned everything around here. Kirk certainly made his point. It was very interesting to watch,” said Dempsey, who wasn’t a Gibson fan when the two were AL East rivals. “Gibson’s a pretty inspirational guy. I’ve seen more talent, but not more enthusiasm. He’s a no-bull guy with a charged attitude.

“He takes infielders out. He stole second and third on consecutive pitches last homestand. The little (inside-strategy) things mean a lot to him. I used to get psyched up, yelling and screaming, but never like he gets. He’s not intimidated. He intimidates. You love that. He has limitations, like his arm, and he’s not the best hitter in the league. But he’s a no-excuses guy. His attitude makes up for a lot.”

Perhaps no team in baseball needed fire more than the Dodgers, who, except for the occasional full-moon punchout between Pedro Guerrero and Mike Marshall, were a pretty pacific pack.

Conversely, no player in baseball needed an injection of playfulness and joy more than Gibson, who usually misses 15 to 40 games a season after losing an argument with an outfield wall. Captain DL, could you loosen up a little before you snap another ligament?

Enter Lasorda, who nicknamed sour-puss Burt Hooton, “Happy.”

“Kirk’s very intense,” says Lasorda, “yet he’s always got a laugh in him. He’s a lot of fun.”

Most people don’t do an effective job of approaching Kirk Gibson. Neither do most squad cars full of state troopers. One look at him and you want to radio for backup. For Lasorda, the job was a snap. Who’d guess Gibson was really a nice guy, a family man with new baby, the sort of fellow who wants you to remember his mom and dad’s first names and pay attention to them, not him?

Lasorda, of course.

“Kirk, you don’t have to hit it over the pavillion. You don’t have to hit it to Pasadena. You can’t get any more bases than four,” Lasorda would preach. “Just hit it up the alleys, like Schmidt and Reggie.”

Then, after every Gibson homer, Lasorda would bounce up and say, “Gibby, jeez, I was back in the john and missed that one. Where’d you hit it? Right down the line, about 500 feet? Ooohh, up the alley to left-center.”

One night in San Diego, Lasorda almost made Gibson swallow his chaw. “Let’s go out for just one drink,” said the manager.

“I sipped two beers, Tommy nursed one vodka and we just talked -- not baseball, just as people. Next day, we came back and kicked their butts,” said Gibson, getting to the part of the story he likes best.

The whole Dodger scene has been a Gibson education. “My teammates are part of the reason I’m playing relaxed,” says the left fielder, who’s hitting his usual .280. “They’ve made it an easy transition. When people make you and your family feel good, it makes the situation totally different. When you’re out of your comfort zone, you do stupid things. It’s been proved. Like a guy who doesn’t think he’s a good public speaker, so when he gets up, he spills his water and gets a frog in his throat. You know, you can learn to change your comfort zone.”

Gibson is consciously learning to change his -- to include more laughter and less obsession. “After that (spring-training incident), I changed, too,” said Gibson. “I told ‘em, ‘Do whatever you got to do to get ready to play. Just don’t do it to me.’ I guess there are times to goof around. You don’t need to sit in here losing weight worrying. ...

“Tommy likes to have fun. But it also kills him when we lose. He’s been good at showing (me) how the two can go together. He and I have become closer daily. It would really be fun winning with him.”

There’s dirt all over Gibson’s uniform undershirt as he sits at his locker long after an extra-inning loss on the road. Every other Dodger has dressed, most are gone. But Gibson still must digest the defeat he hates.

“Tommy is a a very happy person,” says Gibson. It’s a thought that seems to give him pause as well as food for thought.