Playboy Interview: Earl Weaver

Baseball will miss Earl Weaver. When Baltimore's fiery skipper retired at the end of last season, all he'd done in 14 and a half years was guide the Orioles to more victories than any other major-league team had compiled during that period. In baseball's long history, in fact, only two men have ever topped Weaver's .596 win-loss percentage: Frank Selee, who managed the Boston Braves and the Chicago Cubs from 1890 to 1905, and Joe McCarthy, who handled the Chicago Cubs, Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees from 1926 to 1950.

Despite his winning ways, Weaver probably will be best remembered for his histrionic rhubarbs with umpires, who tossed him out of more ball games (89) than any other manager—or player—in baseball history. His style was unique: He was once thrown out of a game after protesting a call on a ball hit down the third base line; when the umpire ruled against him, he picked up third base and walked off with it, telling the ump, "You're not using this, anyway."

Another time, when he disagreed with an umpire's ruling on an interference call, Weaver walked up to the offending ump, holding an American League rule book, which he then tore into little pieces.

If his antics amused fans, they drew mixed reviews from the men in blue. Former American League umpire Ron Luciano once said, "Weaver gives me the impression that he wants everything—that he wants you to cheat for him. He wants an unfair advantage."

The late Nestor Chylak, another A.L. ump, disagreed. "Earl always used to have me thinking, What's he gonna do next? It made me a better umpire," Chylak said.

Weaver was no more diplomatic with the Orioles themselves. He and his ballplayers often cursed one another royally, and on one occasion, after he had upbraided infielder Doug DeCinces for sloppy play, the 6'2" third baseman went after him. The two men failed to come to blows only because they were separated by outfielder Pat Kelly—himself a frequent participant in shouting matches with his boss. Unlike most other managers, Weaver never held grudges or penalized players for blowing off steam at him. Shortstop Mark Belanger, a 15-year performer for the Orioles, once told writer Berry Stainback, "Earl does not have a shithouse, like some managers. You can argue with Earl for six hours and call him every name in the book. But if he thinks you're going to help him win, you'll play the next day."

As a tactician, Weaver was in a class by himself. Managers traditionally stock their rosters with the 25 best athletes in training camp, but his approach was somewhat different: He assembled teams able to respond to any game situation. The Orioles thus became a ball club of specialists—starters, pinch hitters, pinch runners, pinch fielders, bunters, starting pitchers, spot starters, short relievers, long relievers and so on down the line. Baseball insiders believe Weaver utilized his 25 players more than any other manager, and the Orioles will vouch for that. Said John Lowenstein, a journeyman outfielder for eight years before going to Baltimore in 1979, "The man's a genius at finding situations where an average player—like me—can look like a star because of subtle factors working in your favor. He has a passion for finding the perfect player for the perfect spot."

Programing, not passion, however, was at the heart of Weaver's strategic brilliance. Before computers came into vogue, he was the first manager to keep track of how his hitters fared against opposing pitchers. The results of his statistical approach often astounded the sport's veteran observers. In a close 1979 game against the Texas Rangers, for example, Weaver sent up Belanger, who was then batting .170, to pinch-hit against flame-throwing right-hander Jim Kern. (Even Weaver's pinochle buddies—his coaches—were shocked by the move and thought that their boss was playing with less than a full deck.) Belanger, of course, singled home the winning run. After the game, admiring sportwriters told Weaver that he was a hunch-playing genius. He immediately cut them off by stating that he had only played the percentages: His charts showed that Belanger's lifetime record against Kern had been ten hits in 14 times at bat.

A man for all emergencies, Weaver received only one real shock in baseball: his own inability to make it to the major leagues as a player. Born in St. Louis on August 14, 1930, Earl Sidney Weaver was a certifiable baseball addict by the time he was six years old. Between his father, who dry-cleaned uniforms for the Cardinals and the Browns, and a rich uncle who had season tickets to both teams' home games, Weaver was taken to see more than 100 major-league contests per season. At Beaumont High School, he was a star second baseman who hit well over .400, and upon his graduation, he received contract offers from seven major-league clubs, including the Yankees. He signed with his hometown favorites, the Cardinals, and then spent nine disappointing years in the minors. In 1957, he was about to quit baseball in favor of a job with a loan company, when he was hired by the Orioles to manage their class-D team in Fitzgerald, Georgia. Rather than cut himself off entirely from baseball, Weaver remained in the minors for 11 more years before being brought up to the Orioles in 1968. The rest, as they say, is baseball history.

To interview the 52-year-old manager turned broadcaster, Playboy sentLawrence Linderman,something of an interview veteran himself, to meet with Weaver at his home in Hialeah, Florida. Linderman reports:

"The first thing that strikes you about Weaver is his energy: He might as well be a 5'6" nuclear reactor. (He claims he's 5'7"; he's not.) He is forceful, blunt and outspoken, and during our first couple of meetings, he was often brusque, defensive and sarcastic. Those last qualities are baggage items most big-league managers seem to pick up in their travels, and it's easy to see why: As a breed, managers spend each working day endlessly being analyzed, criticized and scrutinized by television, radio, newspaper and magazine reporters. Therefore, it didn't surprise me that Weaver was as prickly as a porcupine when we first met. When he finally put down his dukes, however, he revealed himself to be a man of great loyalty, humor and charm. I realize that that is hardly the picture he has projected of himself over the years, and I don't mean to scandalize him here, but the simple truth is that Weaver seems to be a hell of a fine guy. Having said all that, it's time to get down to cases. When he and I finally began our taped conversations, his retirement was still a subject for reporters, and it provided the opening question for our interview."

[Q] Playboy: Two years ago, you said you'd retire after the 1982 season, and apparently, you have—but Baltimore Orioles general manager Hank Peters believes you stepped down only because your "batteries need to be recharged" and that you'll be back after a sabbatical. Are we dealing with another case of coaching burn-out?

[A] Weaver: Absolutely not. I began planning my retirement the day the Orioles hired me as a first-base coach in 1968. For the first time in my life—and after 20 years as a player and a manager in the minor leagues—I was on a pension plan. I thought, Boy, if I can just stay up here as a coach for 12 years or so, I won't have to worry about retirement. I figured the pension wouldn't really allow me to live the way I wanted to and that I'd have to take part-time jobs, but my retirement would be taken care of. Then and there, I started shooting for retirement in 1980 or 1982.

[Q] Playboy: How do you assess your career as a manager?

[A] Weaver: All you have to do is look in the book, and there it is: not as good as Joe McCarthy, better than almost everybody else. I won 100 games or more five times, one less than McCarthy, and I did it in 14 and a half years; it took him 24 years, but he had a better winning percentage. It's all there in black and white. Some people are going to say, "Jeez, Weaver did good with what he had," and others are going to say, "Christ, with some of them ballplayers he had, I can't see why he didn't do better."

[Q] Playboy: What do you say?

[A] Weaver: I did a lot of things right, and I also did some things wrong. But one thing I know: I did more things right than wrong. I won 96.5 games a year. I would've liked to win 109 every year, the way we did in '69—that would've made the job so much simpler and more enjoyable. We won 108 games and were world champions in 1970, and I wish we could have done that every year. I kept my job with the Baltimore organization for 25 years, 15 of them in the big leagues. That's what I set out to accomplish, and I accomplished it. The people of Baltimore gave me a day and showed me they appreciated what I did, so I'm sitting here satisfied. Maybe I'll do it again for them, maybe I'll do it for somebody else, but that's only if I have to go back to work. If I have to, I have to—but I did it, and I don't want to go through it again.

[Q] Playboy: Maybe one reason you sound tired of the work is that you were worn down by all the arguing and yelling you did through the years. Besides those you've mentioned, you hold another all-time baseball record—for being thrown out of 89 games. How do you feel about that?

[A] Weaver: I'm not proud of it, but we don't really know that it is a record. I'm one of the first guys they ever kept track of. John McGraw managed for more than 30 years, and I guarantee you can't go back and check how many times he was thrown out of games. You can't even check how many times Leo Durocher was thrown out of games. But even if I do hold the record, it boils down to only six times a season, or once a month. I think that's very insignificant. Hell, I think fans are getting cheated if you don't get thrown out at least twice a month!

[Q] Playboy: What percentage of your shouting matches with umpires were spontaneous as opposed to strategic?

[A] Weaver:None of'em were strategic. I'd get so mad I couldn't see straight! I mean, just a wrong ball or strike call can cost you a game. Well, that can cost me my job! Now I can't send my kids through college! Some stupid son of a bitch who won't correct his mistakes is gonna have me back in the minor leagues, that's what that amounts to! I set my goal to retire in '82, and there wasn't no dumb son of a bitch who was going to ruin that! If an umpire misses a called third strike and the other team ends up scoring because of it, I'm not going to forget it. If there are runners on second and third and two out, and if the umpire has just given the hitter an extra strike and the next pitch goes into the hole and both runs score, I've got to say something to the guy. With that one call, he's keeping my kid from going to school!

[Q] Playboy: Don't get worked up, Earl. Umpiring is a tough job, isn't it?

[A] Weaver: It is, and after a game, I'd realize that there might have been a total of 270 pitches thrown and there was no way an umpire was going to get them all right. But at the same time, he was keeping me from accomplishing what I needed to accomplish so that I could keep my job. I expect perfection. I know I'm not going to get it—not from myself, not from my players and not from an umpire—but I still expect it.

[Q] Playboy: Did you expect to incite umpires to perfection by arguing with them so often?

[A] Weaver: No, but it was one way of calming my ball club down. If my club is hollering at an umpire and the umpire starts jerking off his mask, lookin' to see who's hollering, I'm gonna lose a ballplayer. I can't tell the ballplayers to shut up, 'cause they're hollering for us—I can't tell them to shut up. So I've gotta become the spokesman for 25 individuals. Each time an individual gets mad, I've got to say his words. Four or five of my players would get thrown out every year, but I tried to save them, and you don't have to be a genius to figure out why: I ain't gonna go to bat in the ninth inning. See, one thing about a manager: He's not going to argue with an umpire unless somebody else on the team does. I don't argue with a first-base umpire unless a ballplayer or our first-base coach goes after him. If one of my players is called out on a steal, I don't argue unless the guy jumps up and starts getting all excited. Otherwise, I stay right in the dugout.

[Q] Playboy: What if your ballplayer were arguing with an umpire and were dead wrong—would you still rush out and give the umpire hell?

[A] Weaver: If I thought the umpire got the play right, I'd go out there, but my heart wouldn't be in it. I'd just say a few token words, because that's part of my job. My coaches had signals they'd give me if they thought the umpire was right, and when that happened, I'd slow down, say a few things and get the ballplayer to walk away. After my guy got out of there, I'd tell the umpire, "Look, I thought you were wrong, but my first-base coach just told me you got the play right."

[Q] Playboy: Over the years, you had run-ins with virtually every umpire in the American League. Did any of them ever retaliate by purposely giving your ball club the short end of his decisions?

[A] Weaver: No, and as far as I'm concerned, the umpiring profession is fantastic. Last year, the day after Terry Cooney and I had our incident and contact was made, he gave us as good a series behind the plate and on the bases as anybody in the world.

[Q] Playboy: That's when you accidentally smacked him in the face?

[A] Weaver: I made contact with Cooney, yes, but it was accidental. I've made contact with umpires before and they've all been accidents—but I've done 'em. I haven't uttered a profanity to an umpire since 1954, and I don't want anyone to think I've got a foul mouth, but when the thing happened with Cooney, I know what I thought: Oh, fuck! Terry's reaction was about the same as mine. He just stood back and said, "What the fuck are you doing? What are you doing, Earl? We've never had any trouble before."

[Q] Playboy: What triggered the incident?

[A] Weaver: A play at first that Cooney admitted he missed. Eddie Murray had grounded into a force-out at second, but Cooney turned it into a double play by calling Eddie out at first. No question about it, Cooney was wrong, so I ran out to argue with him. Whatever it meant or however it happened, I'm definitely ashamed of striking him. But it was done without intent.

[Q] Playboy: American League umpires have called you everything from a "militant midget" to "baseball's Son of Sam." Was it always total combat between you and the men in blue?

[A] Weaver: Oh, no, there were plenty of laughs. Ron Luciano had had the reputation of being the biggest comedian, but I think Marty Springstead always came up with the best one-liners. Those two had something else in common: They shared the league lead in throwing me out of games, with nine apiece. Springstead was the guy who said the way to test a Timex is to strap it to Earl's tongue. Our team was on him one night when he was having a terrible game calling balls and strikes, so he turned around and yelled, "Hang with me—I'll get some right sooner or later." Another time, I complained to him, "For Christ's sake, Marty, miss some for both sides." He said, "I am, Earl, I am."

[A] I won't mention this umpire's name, but I once tried to get him to call a balk, and he took me aside. "Earl, I've called one balk in my life," he said. "The only balk I ever called was when the pitcher dropped the ball—and I didn't call it until the ball bounced twice." How can you argue with a guy like that?

[Q] Playboy: Look at the bright side, Earl: If you had argued with him, you might have been thrown out of 90 games instead of 89.

[A] Weaver: I didn't earn all 89, believe me. I was once suspended for three games because the bill of my baseball cap made contact with an umpire's face while we were jawing at each other. That used to happen a lot, mostly because umpires lean over when they yell at me: I'm 5'7" and a lot of those guys are over six feet. To make sure I wasn't suspended for that again, from then on, I always turned my cap backward before arguing with an umpire. But even that didn't do me any good. One time, I came running out of the dugout to protest a call that Jerry Neudecker made, and on the way, I put my cap on backward. When I reached him, Neudecker yelled, "You're not gonna turn your hat around on me, Weaver! You're out of here!"

[A] Neudecker threw me out one other time when I didn't deserve it. During games, when the other team was at bat, I'd stand in the runway of our dugout and smoke cigarettes. If the pitch looked like a strike that the ump had missed—Neudecker was behind home plate this particular game— I'd yell over to our catcher, "Etchebarren, where's the pitch?" Our catchers were instructed to tell us the truth, and if Andy gave me the strike sign, I'd shout, "Goddamn it, Jerry, get a couple right." Our pitching coach, George Bamberger, would lean out of the dugout for a closer look. Well, Jerry missed a couple more strikes, so Bamberger got up on the top step of the dugout and hollered, "Neudecker, you cocksucker!" And off comes Neudecker's mask and I'm gone! Bamberger got me at least four or five times that way.

[Q] Playboy: George Steinbrenner says that your "intimidation" of umpires was worth eight to ten Baltimore victories a year. Do you agree?

[A] Weaver: I don't know whether umpires helped me or hurt me. There were certain nights I went home knowing an umpire had cost me a game, but I knew in my heart he hadn't meant to. There were other nights I went home knowing an umpire had won me a game. With two out in the ninth inning against the Washington Senators, Frank Robinson once hit a ball in the stands a good 20 feet foul, but it was ruled a home run. Ted Williams was managing the Senators, and he and the whole Washington team came screaming out on the field, and even our guys couldn't believe Frank's foul had been called a homer. I had to practically beg them to get out of the dugout before the umps changed their minds. Well, I went home that night knowing an umpire had helped me, and I knew in my heart he didn't mean to, either. Brooks Robinson made an error that cost us a game; he didn't mean to do that. I took out a pitcher who had something left and brought in a pitcher who had nothing ready—and I didn't mean to do that, either. Umpires are part of the game; they're like players and managers. I think we're all a good group of people doing our jobs as hard as we can. Umpires get some right and get some wrong. We're all the same. We're all part of baseball.

[Q] Playboy: Do you think you're more demanding than your colleagues?

[A] Weaver: I try not to be. I think I accept umpires' incapabilities more than anybody, and if you talk to umpires like Neudecker and Dave Phillips, they may tell you the same thing. After a game, I've said that this or that umpire is incompetent, but those were words said after a game. And if I can say that, then an umpire like Jimmy Evans can come back and call me baseball's Son of Sam. I'm that way with players, too: I accept their limitations, more so than any manager in the big leagues. That's certainly a main reason my teams finished first or second in 21 of the 25 years I was a manager.

[Q] Playboy: The Orioles have been the American League's best defensive team for seven of the past 11 years. How would your acceptance of a player's limitations make him a better fielder?

[A] Weaver: From day one in spring training, you start preaching: Don't try to do anything you're not capable of doing. Take your time; take the extra step when you throw the ball. Make the solid plays and get the sure out. And don't get fancy. I had a young shortstop who almost cost us a ball game because he tried for a fancy double play. The kid charged a ground ball, picked it up on a short hop, threw to second while he was in the air—and the ball sailed into right field. After the game, I tried to explain that he'd be able to make that play only five out of ten times. But if he stayed back and caught the ball on a big hop, he'd make the force play ten out of ten times. The kid wouldn't accept that, and now he's a utility infielder for another team. I failed with that player.

[Q] Playboy: With whom have you succeeded?

[A] Weaver: Practically all of our guys—how else could we have led the league in defense so many times? John Lowenstein, for example, is a left fielder who doesn't have a real strong arm, but he's a good thinker and knows his capabilities. Let's say there's a man on second; John will know what kind of speed the guy has. Unless the runner is very slow, John's not going to charge a ground single between short and third. The reason he won't is that no matter how fast he gets to the ball, he's not going to throw that runner out at home plate. Why overcharge the ball and take a chance on having it go by him for extra bases? Instead, he'll take his time, play it safe—and he'll keep that hitter at first base. Again, it's common sense: Don't try to do anything you're not capable of doing.

[Q] Playboy: Is that something you think you've lived by yourself?

[A] Weaver: Having a sense of my own limitations? Sure. When I started out, I never wanted to be a manager.

[Q] Playboy: You were a coach for only four months in 1968 when the Orioles suddenly named you their manager. Why did they promote you so quickly?

[A] Weaver: Probably because I was there when they decided to change managers. inherited a great ball club, yet it had finished sixth the year before, and when the '68 All-Star Game was played, the Orioles were 14 games out of first place. That's when they let Hank Bauer go and hired me. At that particular time, Hank didn't know what he had to do to win. He felt obligated to play the guys who'd won the world series for him in '66, but the team had gone downhill after that. We couldn't stand pat and win, so I went in and made a few little moves. The team's run production had really dropped off; I put Don Buford in every day and he became the best leadoff man in the American League. We needed a catcher who could hit, so I platooned Elrod Hendricks with Etchebarren behind home plate. Thank goodness Buford and Hendricks were on the team. We had a good second half of the season and finished second.

[Q] Playboy: Did the Orioles bring you up from the minors with the intention of having you replace Bauer?

[A] Weaver: If they did, I didn't know about it. And until the opportunity was actually there, I didn't want to be the manager. I just wanted to get my five years in the big leagues, because at that time, you needed five years to be vested in the pension plan. I didn't want the pressure, I didn't want to make decisions—I didn't want any of that. All I wanted was my share of any pennant or world-series money and to keep on coaching at first base and say, "Don't get picked off." Coaching first base is the greatest job in baseball.

[Q] Playboy: Managing isn't?

[A] Weaver: No, it isn't. All managers say the same thing: Sooner or later, you're gonna get fired. I guess you get fired in other professions, but for major-league managers, the average tenure with one team is less than two and a half years. If you're successful, though, major-league managing pays good money. In my first year, 1969, we won the pennant and I threw an extra 18 grand into the bank. In the years I was there, I collected more than $100,000 in bonus money—for world series, pennants and second-place money—and I never touched it; it all went into the bank. I'd been going to Miami since 1959, hitting fungoes for the Baltimore organization in spring training, and it was the place I wanted to retire to. Well, we won the pennant my first three years as manager, and because the Orioles believed in one-year contracts, I could ask for what I wanted. I never stuck a gun in their belly, but my salary escalated in a hurry. After the 1970 season, I set a goal of retiring in 1980 or 1982—if I could survive as manager that long. Since we won the pennant in '69, '70 and '71, I figured I always had a year of grace. We finished third in '72, and it wasn't good—there were a lot of "Fire Weaver" stories in the Baltimore newspapers. But then we won our division in '73 and '74, finished second in '75 and '76, and I knew I had a realistic chance of reaching my goal.

[Q] Playboy: What about your feeling for the sport itself? It sounds as if baseball were just a means to an end for you.

[A] Weaver: I hate to admit it, but, yes, that's what it was. It was my chosen profession, and it allowed me to do some things I truly loved and enjoyed. There was nothing better than watching Brooks Robinson play third base or seeing Paulie Blair go back and catch fly balls. That was enjoyable to me! Now the bad situations are when Paulie hits .209 and I can't play him and he's bitching and griping at me. Those are situations I don't want to face anymore. Last fall, I picked up a newspaper and Terry Crowley was quoted as saying the Orioles would be a better team now that I was gone. I didn't use Terry a lot last year, because the situations for him didn't come up very often. Crowley's like every other player: He knows that when contract time comes, management will look at his at-bats and what he contributed, and that's why he wants to play—plus, it's a lot more fun to play than to sit. [In April 1983, the Orioles dropped Crowley from the roster.—Ed.] It's no fun to read what Crowley said, but every profession has its drawbacks. One of the occupational hazards of being a manager is that you wind up shittin' on your players. Players resent the manager, because one way or another, you're always shittin' on them.

[Q] Playboy: You don't think it's possible for a manager to be close to his players?

[A] Weaver: It wasn't for me. I just didn't think I could be friends with the players, and I didn't want to be, because I knew that tomorrow, I'd do something detrimental to their careers. Whether I'd trade them or send them back to the minors or take them out of the line-up or release them—eventually, that day was coming. Every spring, I'd be leaving people I loved: Lee May, Pat Kelly, Elrod Hendricks, Frank Robinson, Brooks Robinson—wasn't it nice to tell Brooks he was through?

[Q] Playboy: How do you tell a Hall of Famer that he's had it?

[A] Weaver: I sat him down in New York and told him that Doug DeCinces had been hitting well and was going to play third base for us and that Bobby Grich would be at second. I said, "Brooks, you're going to be on the bench for a while, how long I don't know, but this could be it—and this could not be it. We'll have to see how things develop." The way things developed, that was it for Brooks. I hated having to go through that with him.

[Q] Playboy: How did Robinson take it?

[A] Weaver: Like the gentleman he is. Brooksy had to be mature when he was 15, and he's just one of the greatest people you'll ever meet. I don't think he's ever hurt anyone's feelings in his whole life. Before ball games, I'd see him rushing from breakfast with one group of people to lunch with another, and he'd do it just because he didn't want to disappoint anyone. I'd tell him, "Brooksy, you've got to learn to say no to somebody. There's just so much of you—you can't spread yourself so thin." But he did, and he did it well, and everybody in Baltimore loves him. Wherever this guy goes, people love him. And he did learn how to say no: Brooksy didn't want any part of managing, 'cause he knew he'd have to hurt people he liked.

[Q] Playboy: Which you apparently learned to do.

[A] Weaver: Yeah, but on certain days, I dreaded going to the ball park. I'd know our opponents' pitching rotation, and I'd have to tell a player I liked—and who was chompin' at the bit to get into a game— that he'd have to stay on the bench for at least four or five more days. Sooner or later, I'd have to tell him, "Look, you're playing horseshit baseball; you're lousy." You've got to come out with the words— not necessarily those—and you're going to hurt the guy's feelings. But if you don't do it, you're not doing your job right.

[Q] Playboy: Do all major-league managers operate the same way?

[A] Weaver: No, I think there are many, many managers who turn their heads to those situations, and they do it for only one reason: to avoid a confrontation. So they don't pinch-hit when they're supposed to, or they don't take a pitcher out when they should, and that just hurts the team. That's why I was always as honest as I could be with my players, whether it upset them or not. I'm not saying I didn't have players who wanted to be traded; that happens to everybody. If that's what they wanted, I'd tell 'em, "Listen, if I can't find anybody better than you, you're not going to be traded. You're going to sit on that bench and play when I ask you to play. If you don't want to do that, then, please, don't show up at the ball park—just stay home; we'll pay you. But don't disturb what we've got going here."

[Q] Playboy: Would that lead to discord?

[A] Weaver: Only with the individual, not with the team. You have to remember that when one player is mad at you for being on the bench, you've got another one who's happy as hell: the guy who takes his place. Those are nasty situations, but pleasant, unpleasant or anything else, a manager's got to face up to 'em. It gets down to this: You're running the club, and if you don't win, you're fired.

[Q] Playboy: What happens if you're hired to manage a lousy team? If you're a terrific manager, can you somehow win with crummy ballplayers?

[A] Weaver: No, you can't. The first thing I learned in the minors is that you can't out-manage everybody, 'cause all the strategies are the same: Comes time to put in a relief pitcher or send up a pinch hitter, you do it. To win, you've got to get players who can do the job—that's all managing is. My last four years or so at Baltimore were kind of embarrassing for me, in a way, because people didn't understand that. Wherever the Orioles played, people came up to me and said, "Earl, how do you do it?" All they had to do was look out on the field: We had the best team. People were giving me credit I didn't deserve.

[Q] Playboy: For what do you deserve credit?

[A] Weaver: Helping the general manager put together a good ball club and then taking the players and letting them play. Player evaluation is the name of the game, and I think I'm good at that. Consider that team of crummy ballplayers you mentioned: The owner of that ball club's going to say, "I need a man who can get me some good players." That's the manager's job: to tell the general manager what he needs to win. What do we need to win? OK, we need some speed in the outfield, more power in the infield and a catcher who's going to drive in 40 to 60 runs—you tell those things to the general manager. You've got to know that you need a Lowenstein, who you pick up for $20,000; last year, John hit .320 for the Orioles with 24 home runs. You need a Crowley, who'd been traded by Cincinnati and released by Atlanta; when the time comes to win a ball game in the seventh, eighth or ninth inning, or when the player you counted on is hitting .214 in June, now you've got a move you can make. That's managing.

[Q] Playboy: Finding diamonds at a flea market is no small accomplishment, but what if you need a great relief pitcher and your owner refuses to shell out the fortune it would cost to acquire—let alone sign—a Bruce Sutter or a Rollie Fingers?

[A] Weaver: Most owners will, and most times, you won't have to pay all that much money. And a lot of times, you can trade for what you need. That's what Whitey Herzog did with the St. Louis Cardinals—they won the world series because of what he did. As far as player evaluation goes, what better experience can you get than being in charge of player personnel for an expansion club? I don't know how many hits and misses Whitey had during his years at Kansas City, but while he was hitting and missing, he was also learning what he needed to win as a manager. Two years ago, Whitey traded for Sutter and Fingers, and then he traded Fingers to Milwaukee—and the Brewers won the American League pennant because of the deal they made with St. Louis. If Fingers had been healthy, Milwaukee might have won the series. That's what you call a trade!

[Q] Playboy: To acquire the services of a free agent, however, teams have to engage in bidding wars. What's to prevent such big spenders as the Yankees' Steinbrenner and the Angels' Gene Autry from nailing down a monopoly on the sport's best players?

[A] Weaver: Who were the American League champions?

[Q] Playboy: The Milwaukee Brewers.

[A] Weaver: Who were the world champions?

[Q] Playboy: The Cardinals.

[A] Weaver: All right, that ends that: If Steinbrenner and Autry had the best players, one of their teams would've been world champions. It's going to be even competition from now on, and one reason is the major-league draft of high school and college players, which gives the weakest teams first pick of the best young prospects. That alone means that the Yankees aren't going to the world series nine out of ten years, which happened starting in the late Forties. You want to know how they did it? The Yankees used to be the only people in baseball with enough money to buy free agents out of high schools and colleges, and they obligated those kids to spend seven or eight years in the minors, where no other team could touch them. How were the St. Louis Browns going to get strong? Or the Philadelphia Athletics?

[Q] Playboy: Before those teams folded, didn't they usually ship their star players to New York?

[A] Weaver: That's right. They'd get two good players for one who was better, and as a result, the Browns or the Athletics would move from sixth place to fourth, or maybe from fifth to third—but the Yankees kept getting prime players and kept getting stronger and stronger. The draft has leveled things off, and the Brewers are proof of that: Robin Yount, Jim Gantner and Paul Molitor were all obtained through the draft. Nowadays, most teams are only a few players short of maybe winning a division, and you can go get 'em if you decide to. That's what Milwaukee did. The Brewers were a 1969 expansion team that had some free agents like Sal Bando and traded for players like Don Money, but they didn't go anywhere until about five years ago. Bud Selig, the Brewers' owner, told me, "It was either go bankrupt with what we had or spend some money and try to make something happen." So Selig went out and spent the money to become a competitor, and—bang—he started breaking attendance records in Milwaukee. Greatest thing ever to happen to baseball.

[Q] Playboy: Draft choices such as Yount may, indeed, blossom into all-stars who win most-valuable-player awards, but what's to prevent them from becoming free agents and departing for greener—and richer— pastures in Anaheim or the Bronx?

[A] Weaver: Nothing, but what makes you think a world-series team can't afford to pay its players what they're worth? Yount made the difference for Milwaukee last year; you might pay him $2,000,000 a year, and this season, he might hit .241 with 18 home runs. You don't know that from year to year.

[Q] Playboy: That would be a major surprise, wouldn't it?

[A] Weaver: No more so than Singleton was for us last year—that was a surprise. Kenny's been with the Orioles since '75, and he's always hit right around .300 or better. Last year, he hit .251. Al Bumbry has always done a good job of getting on base, but he was also a surprise last season. Do you understand? They're not going to have good years every year. So you try to put together a well-balanced team. You try to have good players on that bench so you can put in a Lowenstein or somebody else when the time comes. Same thing with your pitchers: You never know when one of your starters is going to have an arm problem, so you're always looking for some protection in that department. That's how come Steve Stone became the first expensive free agent the Orioles ever signed.

[Q] Playboy: Are backup pitchers that valuable?

[A] Weaver: Well, with Steve, it had to do with player evaluation again. Bamberger, Ray Miller, his successor, and I always thought that Steve could be a big winner, because he had the best curve ball in the American League. But he wasn't winning, and I thought I knew why. Number one, he'd been pitching for the Chicago White Sox, who weren't as good as the Orioles; and number two, I felt he should throw his curve ball for strikes and not nibble with it—he didn't really put it in over the plate, which had to do with not having confidence in himself. We signed him in 1979, and soon afterward, he began seeing a lady mystic in Oakland, who predicted good things for him. Steve believed what she told him, got confidence in himself and knew he was gonna win. He had an 11-7 record as a spot starter his first year, and then, in 1980, a few of our pitchers had arm problems. Well, Stone got on that mound and took over. He consistently threw his curve ball for a strike, he had confidence in it and won 25 games for us. Our free agent won us the pennant and became the only free agent to win the Cy Young Award as the league's best pitcher.

[A] A point I want to make here is that our coaching staff and our general manager got together and picked the free agent we wanted. Steinbrenner built his team the same way, in conjunction with Billy Martin, Bob Lemon and some other good baseball people. But last year, George did something by himself that really hurt the Yankees. I don't want to get him mad at me, but Dave Collins for Reggie Jackson was not a good move. George signed Collins as a free agent and let Reggie go, and I don't mean to be critical of Collins, but Yankee Stadium just isn't his ball park.

[Q] Playboy: Why isn't it?

[A] Weaver: Because it's Reggie's ball park. It's made to order for a left-handed power hitter the way Fenway Park is made for a right-handed hitter. Now, put Collins in Kansas City or St. Louis and that's a hell of a move, because he's fast and he's gonna get a lot of extra hits on artificial turf—ground balls through the infield and choppers, which aren't there in Yankee Stadium. So the Yankees lost some power and it hurt them. Meanwhile, Reggie was just enough to put the Angels over in the American League West. There's no doubt that with the year he had, he would've put a lot of clubs over, including us. As things turned out, last year, we won more games than any team in baseball but Milwaukee, and if we'd beat 'em that last Sunday, we would've been division champions.

[Q] Playboy: Since that loss came in what may be the last game you'll ever manage, was it an especially bitter pill for you to swallow?

[A] Weaver: Talking with you right now, I can say it really would have been sweet to win. But if it were 1976 and we lost—which we did—I'd be sitting here saying the same thing: Boy, it would have been sweet to win. I've thought a lot about how I felt, and I remember that in 1973, I wanted to win, and we won a division. In 1974, I wanted to win, and we won the division. Those two years were important to me, because I felt I had to win or else I might not be asked back again. So in being honest with you and myself, no, last year wasn't anything more than I ever felt about winning. It was the same as every year: When you've got the desire to win, it's there. My main worry about last season was that it wouldn't be there.

[Q] Playboy: What made you worry about that—the fact that you were retiring?

[A] Weaver: That's exactly what bothered me. Before I went down to spring training, I knew that for the first time in my life, I didn't have to think about going back the following year. I kept questioning myself: Will I work as hard? Will I want to win as much? Or will I want to get it over with? Well, when I got down to Florida and spring training started, I turned everything over to Cal Ripken and the rest of my coaching staff. Ripken had been my first lieutenant, and I began thinking that here was my possible successor and that the Baltimore organization was gonna be all right. Now, that had nothing to do with Joe Altobelli, who is my successor—his name came up much later. Anyway, I decided to stay away, but—son of a gun—I'd look over at the diamond where we worked on fundamentals and I'd wonder if everything was going all right. So I'd run down there to make sure, and then I'd start butting in, which I hadn't wanted to do but did. The minute I put on the uniform, three thoughts went through my mind: Win! Don't embarrass yourself! Make the people of Baltimore happy! So it all turned out the same, from the first year to the last.

[Q] Playboy: The Orioles got off to a rocky start last year. How did that affect you?

[A] Weaver: We lost nine in a row in April, and I tried telling myself that if we lost ten or 12 in a row and they fired me, it wouldn't be that bad—I'd get paid a whole year's salary without working for it. Let me tell you, that nine-game losing streak was hell! I kept thinking, Jesus, I don't want to be fired my last year. I want to win! That's what it's about—that's what it's always been about. It was 96.5 wins per year that kept me in that town.

[Q] Playboy: You said the Orioles would have won their division last year if Reggie Jackson had played for your team. Before he became a Yankee, Jackson played one season for the Orioles. Did you try to keep him in Baltimore?

[A] Weaver: Sure I did. Reggie can hit the ball in the seats, and he also has a great attitude—in the year he was with us, he did everything he could for the Orioles. We'd traded for him in 1976, but after that, he wasn't going to stay in Baltimore when the Big Apple was available.

[Q] Playboy: Reggie was a free agent again last year. Did you attempt to sign him?

[A] Weaver: We went all out to get him last year and almost matched California's offer, but Reggie's decision didn't have to do with money. He told me, "Earl, you're retiring and I'd like to finish my playing days close to home." Now, I don't know whether that's how he really felt, but those were his words to me. Moneywise, believe me, we were right there; we went high and long. We just didn't get him.

[Q] Playboy: When free agency started, you also lost your all-star second baseman, Grich, to Autry and the Angels.

[A] Weaver: Autry spent all that money and he still hasn't made it to the world series, right? And you can't buy too many players, anyway, because you can put only nine on the field at one time, and good players aren't going to be happy sitting on the bench. How many players do you need? If you're gonna go broke, then it's gonna be useless. I don't care if you're Autry, Steinbrenner or anybody else, there's only so much revenue that comes in. Certainly, the New York market calls for more local-TV, radio and, especially, cable-TV money; and that should probably be divided up equally among all the clubs, the way pro football does it. But even if he has more money, if Steinbrenner loses one year, he's going into the red. If Milwaukee wins, it goes into the black and now it has more money to pour into the team. If you've got a hole, every team in baseball can go out and fill it, and that's why I think free agency is the best thing in the world to equalize competition.

[Q] Playboy: A lot of baseball fans are still disturbed by the notion that players have become gypsies who go from city to city, selling their services to the highest bidders. Are they wrong to feel that way?

[A] Weaver: Listen, you're talking to a guy who played nine years in the minors and who couldn't get out of the St. Louis Cardinals' organization for five or six years. I was a second baseman, and the Cardinals had Red Schoendienst and Solly Hemus ahead of me, and I had no place to go. I'm 100 percent for free agency, and I think that if you don't pay players what they can earn playing somewhere else, you won't hold on to 'em. Now, whether players should be paid $1,000,000 a year, or not, I don't know. But if you're going to win, you're going to have to have a $1,000,000 player on your club, because that's what the wage scale calls for today. If you have that kind of player on your club and you're not paying him that kind of money this year, you're going to have to give it to him next year or the year after that. Or else you won't hold on to your personnel.

[Q] Playboy: You don't think baseball's salary scale is out of whack?

[A] Weaver: Look, I'm for the owners' making money, which they are, and for the players' making money, which they are. And I'm for the fans' getting dollar-for-dollar entertainment value, which they are: You pay a hell of a lot less to go to a goddamn baseball game than to see a football game or a movie. You can still go to a baseball game for three dollars and see about three hours of beautiful baseball. And you can sit there in the beautiful air with your son and your daughter and not be embarrassed. Of course, we have a lot of ball parks where you're not out in the beautiful air, but on a hot summer's night, at least you're in an air-conditioned place.

[Q] Playboy: Readers will note that the preceding message was brought to you on behalf of the beautiful American League. If we can return to the subject at hand, Earl, it's pretty obvious that most fans think baseball players are overpaid. Could that resentment threaten the sport's future?

[A] Weaver: No, I don't think so. I don't think the fans actually resent the players themselves, either. It's just the fact that the players are making a lot of money and you can live on a lot less. People resent anybody who makes a lot of money, whether it's Robert Redford or the president of General Motors. In the Sixties, when big money started coming into professional golf, I remember people bitching about golfers and saying, "Imagine making a putt for that kind of money!" I even remember my grandfather griping about how much money Fred Allen and Jack Benny made for their radio programs. I know there's not a person in Baltimore who resents what Eddie Murray makes. And I don't think a true Yankees fan is mad because Dave Winfield makes what he makes.

[Q] Playboy: If that's true, who's responsible for all the verbal abuse Winfield receives at Yankee Stadium? Oriole fans?

[A] Weaver: Oh, I think that any time you strike out, they're gonna yell that you're not worth the money. Leave a man on second base and you're not worth the money. And if you don't win, nobody on your team is worth the money, including the manager. But I have to tell you, with Winfield, you've got speed in the outfield, speed on the bases, a guy who can bunt and who can hit for an average and who can hit it out for you, too. You've got it all with him—but if you want him, then you pay him $1,000,000 a year. And all you have to do is watch Winfield play to know he's out to prove that he's worth the money. I've seen him take a chance on cutting his arm off by going three rows up to catch a ball, and I've seen him dive head first into third base, and that's because he wants to show he's worth every penny he earns. Singleton on our team was the first Oriole to get a $1,000,000 contract—it was spread over five years, but it was very big money when he signed it in 1977. Well, one night, we were ahead 9-1, and I sent a pinch runner in for Kenny. When he came into the dugout, he said, "Earl, what are you doing? If you pinch-run for me, how am I gonna lead this league in runs scored?" I told him that since he'd just signed a five-year contract, he couldn't make any more money no matter what he did. Kenny just looked at me and quietly said, "Pride, Earl, pride. I want to lead the league in runs scored." That's how the good ones play the game, and it's a lot truer now than it was before free agency.

[Q] Playboy: How has free agency changed that?

[A] Weaver: The attitudes in spring training are 1000 percent better than they used to be, especially on pennant-winning teams. When players had to sign for what the general manager and the owner wanted to pay them, they'd come into spring training and say things like, "Screw this; I worked my butt off last year and got nothing for it, so they'll accept what I give 'em this year." Players have more of an incentive to play. Still, there were dogs before free agency, and there are gonna be some now, though I think there are fewer.

[Q] Playboy: Dogs?

[A] Weaver: Players with unbelievable ability who just waste it. Fellas like Alex Johnson, who was with a number of teams in the Seventies. Managers never knew if he would play, so he was traded every year. Because of the money involved, free agency means that fewer clubs will take a chance on that type of player.

[Q] Playboy: If you get a ballplayer like that, what can you do to turn him around?

[A] Weaver: Nothing. That's why I never had many team rules; the motivation is money. Do businesses have curfews for their executives? Hell, no. They accept what executives do in their offices, and that's what we in baseball should do. If a player wants to make a living for his wife and his family and if he wants to go to bed at three in the morning, let him do it—I'm not going to force him to be in bed by one o'clock. Just be on time at the ball park and do your job on the field or you won't be on the team next year. You want to go drinking, that's your affair—but baseball is a funny game, and if you're going to drink before a game, you won't perform. Bob Welch of the Dodgers did, but it caught up to him; he was pitching bad and had to go get cured. If you use alcohol, you can't last in baseball, because there are too many facets to the game, starting with the fact that you're trying to hit a ball that's going 90 miles an hour. I've never covered for anybody, and the unbelievable thing is that in 25 years of managing, I never had anybody walk into my clubhouse drunk. Never.

[Q] Playboy: Judging by all the published reports, there's been heavy use of cocaine by pro football and pro basketball players. Do you think we're going to see a wave of similar revelations regarding baseball players?

[A] Weaver: I have no idea how many guys in baseball are doing anything like that, because I haven't run across it. I do know we had some amphetamines in the clubhouse at one time, but that was when they were known only as a recommended diet drug. As soon as the Food and Drug Administration came out with its study, man, they were out of that clubhouse in a second! Just like alcohol, though, drug use catches up to players. I remember one American League team had a fine third baseman, but he got involved in drugs and was out of baseball in two or three years. And although we didn't know what it was, we knew something was wrong with Darrell Porter. I loved him from the day he got to the big leagues, because you start building a pennant winner with the things he can do behind home plate. When he came up with Milwaukee, we sent two guys to see him, and for no real reason, he had four passed balls that day. He had such a bad year that he was traded to Kansas City, where he had spells of greatness but never reached his potential. When news about his drug use came out, I finally understood how he could have such ability and still look so bad on certain days. I'm glad he rehabilitated himself in St. Louis, and I wasn't really surprised that Darrell was the most valuable player in last year's world series. He's always had that kind of talent.

[Q] Playboy: We're not implying anything here, but honestly: Would you be surprised if some of the Orioles you managed had heavy drug habits?

[A] Weaver: I would be very surprised. Reports always filter back to a manager—and your own players will tell you—if a guy's got problems, financial, family or otherwise. At least once or twice a year, players would come up and say, "Earl, you know it might be possible that so-and-so isn't taking care of himself." When that would happen, and if I thought a player was hurting himself in any way, I'd call him in. I never heard nothin' about drugs.

[Q] Playboy: In deploying and dealing with all that high-priced talent, did you ever feel that you should earn at least as much as your better players?

[A] Weaver: No, because managers have always been expendable. But I will tell you that my salary was a lot closer to Dave Winfield's than Miller Huggins' was to Babe Ruth's. Huggins made $2500 a year when Ruth was getting $80,000, and when Ted Williams made $100,000, Joe McCarthy probably made $12,500. It's no different now than it always was.

[Q] Playboy: What's a good manager worth?

[A] Weaver: I'm not gonna say.

[Q] Playboy: Why aren't you worth what a good ballplayer's worth?

[A] Weaver: Isn't it obvious? I can't do the things a good ballplayer can do. Last year, Eddie Murray hit 30 home runs and was voted second most valuable player in the league, just behind Yount. I don't care what I did; the Orioles couldn't have come so close without players like Eddie and Jim Palmer and Lowenstein doing what they did, so they're worth more money. At the same time, when you look at my record, you find that not many guys produce 96.5 wins a year, so when we're talking salary, I should be up among the tops in managers. Not ballplayers.

[Q] Playboy:Were you?

[A] Weaver: I was the highest-paid manager in baseball three or four times. What would happen was that the next guy who signed would go ahead of me, and then I'd catch up. The figures on everybody's salaries are available, and Billy Martin got ahead of me when he first signed with the Yankees, and then I went ahead of him. Bamberger went ahead of all of us in 1978 when he left Baltimore to manage Milwaukee. Sparky Anderson then became number one when he went to Detroit, so when I got my next contract, I asked for more than Sparky got. But I was never out of line. Since I'd won more ball games than other managers, I wanted to be paid more than anybody else, even if it was only two cents. But find the right ballplayer, and I'd give him $25,000 of my salary.

[Q] Playboy: Why would you want to do that?

[A] Weaver: He would help me keep my job next year. That's really why a player's worth more than a manager.

[Q] Playboy: A few years back, Time magazine reported that you and your players "yell at each other so much that the dugout sounds like a session of primal-scream therapy, but the anger passes quickly.." Was that a fair description of life among the Orioles?

[A] Weaver: Yeah, and I probably did most of the screaming—and that's the truth. In the heat of a ball game, I'd lose my temper, like everybody else. Of course, we had guys whose tempers were even worse than mine—like Rick Dempsey, our catcher. At the beginning of one season, Rick got himself hung up on the bases two or three times within a couple of weeks. That is something everyone does, only Rick is vocal. Well, in a game against Milwaukee, Rick gets a base hit and does it again—he gets caught between first and second and is tagged out. Now I've got to holler at him, because that's the way I manage; and although none of my 25 players expects to be hollered at, they all expect me to yell at another guy who makes a mistake. Well, I've been on Rick for two weeks, and now I'm on him again: "Dempsey, all I can do is take you out! You can't play the game right!" If he pops up, Rick's the kind of guy who'll come back to the dugout and break his bat. And if he strikes out, he'll come back and break his batting helmet. He's one of those guys.

[Q] Playboy: Intense.

[A] Weaver: Right. So Rick starts hollering, "How come you're always pickin' on me?" and a few other choice things. Well, you can listen to a word or two in the dugout, but finally, you've got to stop it; and that's what I do. By now, he's got his catching equipment on again, and I tell him, "That's it, you're done for the day. Take the equipment off." At this point, Rick starts to break everything. He's taking his equipment off and firing it! He slams down the catcher's mask; I pick it up and throw it out of the dugout. His shin guards go sailing; I pick 'em up and throw them somewhere else. Off comes his breast protector, and now Rick grabs a batting helmet and breaks it on the top step. So I go shatter a helmet. I tell him, "I can do this as long as you can," and I can, because now I'm as mad as he is. One of my coaches finally broke it up.

[Q] Playboy: Did you ever get into a fight with one of your players?

[A] Weaver: No, none of them ever carried it that far, and neither did I. When the yelling got too loud or too personal, somebody would step in. As a manager, I didn't think I had to bite my tongue; and when players hollered back, they knew I wouldn't hold it against them, and I didn't.

[Q] Playboy: From what we've been able to learn, you and your ace right-hander Jim Palmer spent the better part of the past 16 years bickering with each other. True?

[A] Weaver: Well, I think we like each other. When I lived in Baltimore, I played golf with him every day during the winter; we'd have our arguments on the golf course. During the season, we'd argue on the field and in the clubhouse. It got to the point where the other players started calling us Felix and Oscar.

[Q] Playboy: What kinds of arguments did you have?

[A] Weaver: Strong ones, like you'd have with your wife. Like me trying to tell him how to pitch to a hitter and Jim not wanting to pitch him that way. And me being the boss and making him do it, which he wouldn't, anyway. I always kept a file of index cards on how we should pitch to every hitter we'd faced the year before; the cards would come off the pitching charts I kept every season. One time, I got into a big argument with Palmer about the way he pitched to Juan Beniquez, who played for the Texas Rangers. Beniquez was a .200 hitter who couldn't hit low curve balls. Well, Palmer couldn't get his breaking ball over that day, so he had to go with what he could throw for strikes. But four high fast balls later, Beniquez has two doubles and two singles, and I'm going to say something to Palmer that he's going to resent. Then he'll say something that I'll resent.

[Q] Playboy: What remarks would get to you?

[A] Weaver: Well, Palmer always wanted the added responsibility of positioning our fielders when he was pitching. But sometimes, if someone hit a ball up the middle on him, he would tell me the shortstop was out of position and that it was my fault—and then I'd get mad, because he was telling everybody else where to play, so he could've told the shortstop, too. Palmer, by the way, is probably better at that than any other pitcher in baseball. One day, when Jim Frey was still on my coaching staff, we saw Palmer move our right fielder eight steps back and one step over. The batter hit his next pitch to the exact spot where Jim had positioned the right fielder; our guy didn't have to move. Frey looked at me and said, "Ain't nobody in the world that good." But Palmer was, on that pitch.

[Q] Playboy: One of Palmer's favorite lines at banquets is---

[A] Weaver: Let me guess: "The only thing Weaver knows about pitching is that he couldn't hit it."

[Q] Playboy: You got it.

[A] Weaver: That was first said by Dave McNally, another one of my pitchers, and it was just one of those funny remarks that get printed in the front of Sports Illustrated. It wasn't anything serious.

[Q] Playboy: Were you and Palmer in agreement about the way you utilized him?

[A] Weaver: I think so. Jim's one of the greats, and he's still got 40 or maybe 60 more wins in him. He always wanted to pitch every four days, so that's how I'd try to set up our pitching rotation. We'd have some words about who I might bring in to relieve him, though. This is not the actual figure, but Graig Nettles of the Yankees has probably hit .330 against Jim in the ten or 12 years they've played against each other. But Nettles was only one for 21 against Tippy Martinez, so two years ago, I brought Tippy in to relieve Palmer and Nettles hit one out of the ball park to win a game for the Yankees. Well, in a game Palmer pitched last season, we were beating the Yankees 4–1 in the ninth when Winfield beat out an infield hit and up to the plate stepped Nettles. I went out to the mound, and Palmer wasn't so worried about coming out of the game—he knows Nettles hits him—as he was about who was coming in for him. I told him it would be Tippy, and he said, "Tippy? Jesus Christ, Earl, when Tippy came in last year, Nettles hit one right up there," and now he's pointing to the right-field stands and waving his hands. I said, "Get your goddamn hands down! We're out here in front of the crowd!" Tippy got Nettles for the last out, but back in the clubhouse, Jim and I had one of our screaming matches, with Palmer denying he'd ever pointed to the stands. Well, the next day, one of the New York papers ran a picture of Jim and me on the mound, with him pointing to the stands. I cut it out, but Jim has never said he's sorry about anything in his life. The next day, it's all forgotten, but at the same time, he really didn't know he was doing it.

[Q] Playboy: Even if you don't intend to, do you treat a superstar such as Palmer differently from the rest of your players?

[A] Weaver: Neither one of us wanted that. After a 16-year association, I talked to Palmer more than any other player, but he didn't want to be called a brown noser and I didn't want to be doing him any extra favors, except that to a certain extent, you have to. As I told you, because of his experience, I let him position fielders any way he wanted to. When Dennis Martinez started doing that and they hit the ball somewhere else, I had to stop him and make him understand why. Now, here's where Palmer was the greatest person in the world for me: He knows what it takes to be a winning pitcher as far as conditioning is concerned. Year in and year out, he was always the hardest worker on our pitching staff. When rookie pitchers would report to spring training, Palmer would run them right into the ground. Those kids would see what it takes to be a winner, and that worked in our favor. Same thing was true of Brooks Robinson: Each and every day, the best fielder in the world would loosen up by catching 50 or 75 ground balls, and young infielders coming up would see what it takes. Frank Robinson was the same way. The three of 'em will wind up as teammates in the Hall of Fame.

[Q] Playboy: Did you have an inkling that Frank Robinson wanted to become a major-league manager?

[A] Weaver: Very definitely—I got him his first managing job. When I became manager of the Orioles, Harry Dalton, our general manager, gave me an additional raise in return for not managing the Santurce team in Puerto Rico. That was the end-of-the-winter job I used to take to supplement my income as a minor-league manager. Dalton wanted me to manage our instructional-league team, and he also wanted me to be around Baltimore during the winter to shake some hands and all of that. One day, in New York, I was sitting around telling Frank I was gonna miss being in Puerto Rico for the winter, and he said, "Boy, I'd like to have that job." So I called up Hiram Cuevas, who owned the Santurce team, and told him Frank was interested and that he knew his baseball. His instincts as a player were outstanding, you know. Anyway, a week or so later, Cuevas flew to Baltimore to interview Frank and gave him the job, and Robinson held on to it off and on for a number of years. Frank was a great ballplayer and an intense person, and he worked hard to become the first black manager in the major leagues.

[Q] Playboy: Robinson didn't last very long with the Cleveland Indians and became one of the Orioles' coaches for a while after they let him go. Why did that happen?

[A] Weaver: Frank had probably gotten the Cleveland job too quickly; I'd say that about 90 percent of major-league players who go directly into managing don't have the experience to do well immediately. I think the time he spent as an Orioles coach was beneficial to him. And when we had an opening for a manager with our triple-A team in Rochester, Frank wanted the job and went down to the minors to prove that he could manage. He worked very hard in Rochester and did well: and eventually, he was hired by the San Francisco Giants. And now he's manager of the year in the National League, which makes me proud as hell. Not bad, huh? Hall of Fame as a player, manager of the year—I wouldn't mind spending a season as Frank's coach.

[Q] Playboy: Let's talk some more about the nuts and bolts of the game. Hitting a pitched baseball is often said to be the most difficult act in sports. Do you find it to be that complex?

[A] Weaver: No. Basically, hitting has to do with swinging at good pitches within the strike zone. That's what it all boils down to; you've got a number of bad-ball hitters in baseball, but they're few and far between. You don't want to hit a pitcher's pitch, which will be outside the strike zone; you want to look for your pitch. If you're a fast-ball hitter, wait for a fast ball. One year, Willie Randolph of the Yankees got 21 hits off us. Nineteen were on fast balls and 16 of those were belt-high or above. Our pitchers know all that, but Randolph is patient. He'll look for a fast ball on the first pitch, and if you start him off with a curve, he'll take it. He'll work you to two balls and no strikes, and he's still patient, still looking for his pitch.

[Q] Playboy: A number of teams are investing in computerized equipment that can analyze the arc of a batter's swing, body torque and other arcane factors. What's your opinion on the subject?

[A] Weaver: Doesn't make a heck of a lot of sense to me. A batter's gotta get up there and outthink the pitcher and hit the ball hard. Now, there are times when players start doing things mechanically wrong; a hitter may have drifted off the plate an extra three or four inches, and you can show him that on film. And if he's holding his bat a few inches lower, you'll spot it when you analyze films of him that you shoot when he's going good. But that all falls into a groove and comes naturally once a guy starts hitting again.

[Q] Playboy: Have you figured out why players go into batting slumps?

[A] Weaver: The only thing I've figured out is that slumps have always been part of baseball, and they're just going to happen. You get an Eddie Murray, who suddenly went zero for 21 in the '79 world series, or a Gorman Thomas, who couldn't buy a hit in last year's series—in both cases, it just happened to be their time for a slump. Players go into slumps about twice a year, but in the world series, it's very noticeable. Neither one of them had a defeatist complex when he was in those slumps, by the way. I talked to Gorman during the play-offs—he didn't have a good play-off, either—and he was going to hit a home run that day to win the game. And during Eddie's world-series slump, he'd come to the ball park and say, "This is my day." What happens is that they become overanxious at the plate and they try to win ball games by themselves. They wind up swinging at pitches outside the strike zone, and that'll keep you in a slump any time.

[Q] Playboy: How do you get players out of a batting slump?

[A] Weaver: How do I help? I can't help them get out of it. Put them in the line-up is the way you help them get out of it. If they're doing anything mechanically wrong, we'll spot it on film, and sometimes a batting coach picks up something small they're doing differently.

[Q] Playboy: If none of that works and a player loses every shred of confidence in himself, what's your next move?

[A] Weaver: If a guy's really down on himself, I'll call him into the office and remind him of all the ability he has and everything he did to get to the major leagues and tell him that it'll start happening again. I'll fire those kinds of words at him and if his subconscious accepts them, it'll help. But if a player's known me for many years, his conscious mind's going to reject a lot of things that I say. The same words coming from me won't be nearly as effective as they would be from somebody else.

[Q] Playboy: Is that why you once sent veteran outfielder Paul Blair to a hypnotist?

[A] Weaver: No, Paulie did that on his own and became a much better hitter—as long as the posthypnotic suggestions lasted. He had been hit in the head by a pitch a few seasons before, and he stood way off the plate, but nobody can really say whether or not he had a fear of the ball. The one thing I know is that he was in a terrible hitting slump, so he went to a doctor, who hypnotized him. The doctor put him into a light trance and told him that baseball was fun, that there was nothing to be afraid of. When you're in a trance, you're wide-awake and more alert than you are at any time in your life, and you accept and believe the suggestions you're given. But if you don't go back and get hypnotized again, those posthypnotic suggestions are gonna wear off after about a month. When Paul started hitting again, he made some statements that the doctor didn't really do him any good and that hypnosis wasn't responsible for his improvement at the plate. But after his hot spell ended, he eventually wanted to go see the doctor again. The doctor had read some of his statements in the newspapers and decided not to see him. A subject has to believe in hypnosis, and the doctor could see that working with Paul might just be a waste of time. Paulie never hit that well again.

[Q] Playboy: We know that you're an accomplished amateur hypnotist who has put hundreds of people into trances. Did you ever hypnotize one of your players?

[A] Weaver: No, I just do that for entertainment. I got started on it after I read a number of books on hypnotism and studied a little bit about Edgar Cayce. What got me interested in all of that was The Search for Bridey Murphy, a book about a woman who, under hypnosis, recalled a life she'd led in the past.

[Q] Playboy: Do you believe in reincarnation?

[A] Weaver: It's a little bit over my head. In the Bible, it says, "Yet unless a man be born again, he cannot reach the kingdom of heaven." You can interpret that any way that you so desire.

[Q] Playboy: How do you interpret it?

[A] Weaver: I try not to give it any thought.

[Q] Playboy: Would you think about it now?

[A] Weaver: Well, I do know that Duke University has collected evidence of peculiar happenings, if you want to call them that: people leaving their bodies and being at the death scene of a dear one and hearing everything that was said—and then returning to their own body and getting a telephone call an hour later telling them their relative had died. Things such as that. Whether I believe in 'em or not isn't important. To me, it's all very confusing, and in my conscious mind and in what I have to do on this earth, I just give no thought to that. It's 100 percent separate.

[Q] Playboy: Separate from what?

[A] Weaver: The Apostles' Creed, which is my true belief. I believe in God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, creator of heaven and earth, and His only son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. Now, whether Jesus Christ had us live before or whether God had us live before, I don't know.

[Q] Playboy: If we understand you correctly, you're leaving the door open on reincarnation, and you don't believe it necessarily clashes with Christianity?

[A] Weaver: There's no clash whatsoever. There are so many religions, and everybody interprets the Bible differently. Just the two main versions, Catholic and Lutheran, have a difference of five sacraments because of the way some human being, even though he was supposedly inspired, translated the Bible. We don't know which one is right, the King James version or any other.

[Q] Playboy: Did you attend chapel services with the Orioles?

[A] Weaver: I attended a couple of them—they were held every Sunday in the clubhouse, because there's no time to go to real services. We also had Bible studies on Wednesdays, and I went to a couple of those. I was raised in the Lutheran faith, and I do not attend church, but I do pray every day. I used to have a lot of fun talking with Pat Kelly, who led the chapel services. Pat had been a reborn Christian for two or three years, and he wanted to get everybody on his side in ten minutes. I don't know why, but I always teased him.

[Q] Playboy: In what way?

[A] Weaver: Oh, one Sunday in Minnesota, our bus was late to the ball park and we were about 20 minutes away from batting practice when Pat came rushing up to me. "Earl, I know we're late," he said, "but we've got to have chapel." I told him OK, but he'd have to finish up in ten minutes, because we had ten minutes of work to do before batting practice. Pat said, "Earl, don't you want us to walk with the Lord?" I said, "Pat, I'd rather have you walk with the bases loaded." Pat was an outfielder we'd gotten from the Chicago White Sox, and he was a terrible base runner. He'd try to take extra bases on a hit and get thrown out, you'd put the steal on and he'd get picked off first by the pitcher—he really was bad. Before he left Chicago, some guy had given him a scrapbook, and seven of the first nine pictures in it were of Pat getting picked off first or caught in a rundown, or getting thrown out trying to stretch a single into a double. When he showed it to me, I said, "Pat, were you ever safe?"

[A] One Wednesday, when we were playing at home, I was in the clubhouse and it was about an hour before Bible study. There was Pat with a Bible open, and I just couldn't help myself. He'd been picked off a couple of times within the past few weeks, and I went up to him and said, "Pat, can you find a chapter on base running in there?" That really hurt his feelings. He closed the Bible and looked at me. "Earl, when was the last time you had this book open?" he asked. I told him not since the start of the season. "Well, let me ask you another question," he said. "When was the last time you got down on your knees and prayed?" I couldn't resist: "Last night—when I gave you the steal sign." Pat's chin dropped all the way to his ankles, and I had to get outta there. Just before Bible study, he came up to me and said, "You're going to hell! You'll never get to heaven!" The other ballplayers got tired of hearing us holler at each other, and when Pat and I would start in, somebody would always yell, "Give it a rest!"

[Q] Playboy: It sounds as if the Orioles—and their manager—were a very close bunch. Strange but close.

[A] Weaver: Well, we lived together for seven months a year. My speech at the start of every season was that we were going to spend more time with one another than with our wives. We were going to spend eight hours at the ball park together, we'd be traveling together and staying in hotels together, and it wasn't always going to be easy. There were going to be arguments, but like those you have with your wife, you always make up. You try to have that kind of relationship with one another and then, when October comes, we can all break up and choose our own friends again.

[Q] Playboy: As matters now stand, you're never going to make that speech again. Are you going to miss being a manager?

[A] Weaver: I know there are certain parts of the job I'll miss. I had a lot of fun and laughs along the way, and every day that I went to the ball park, I knew that before the night was over, someone would say something that would make me laugh. I'll miss that, and I'll also miss the fans. Baltimore's fans take their athletes to heart, and they took me to heart. I had a good job, is what I had. As long as you have to go someplace—and that's what it was; I had to go—you may as well go to a place you enjoy. But some nights were sheer misery: The game would go wrong, the fans would boo and I'd go home with my tail between my legs. I won't miss that. I'm not going to miss the 14-day road trips and sitting in a hotel room by myself. And I can get along very well without the tension and the long hours and the worrying that sooner or later, I'll have a year when I'm called the biggest butthole in the world. The good outweighed the bad by far, but at the end of a season, I'd feel I'd been put through a pressure cooker, and I'm looking forward to a lot of days of 100 percent relaxation. It's not as if I'm giving up baseball, you know. I'm just giving up work! I'm not going to miss baseball, because I'm going to see a lot of baseball. And I'm not going to miss work.

[Q] Playboy: What could bring you out of retirement?

[A] Weaver: Financial need or an obligation to the Baltimore organization to help it for a limited time. I'm on a two-year contract as a consultant to the Orioles, and in a way, they're paying me to not manage. I didn't want to be tempted by any offers, because I don't want to manage. If the Orioles asked me to come back for a limited time, however, I would. I don't think that will happen, because they hired Joe Altobelli. I recommended Joe for his first managing job, and he'll do fine. But I'll be there if they need me. Remember Danny Murtaugh's situation at Pittsburgh? He retired, did some scouting for the Pirates, and when they got in trouble with their manager a few years later, Danny went back and finished up for them. That would be nice—if the Orioles needed me. What would be nicer is if they didn't need me and I still got enough money so that I didn't need the work.

[Q] Playboy: What are you planning for yourself at this point?

[A] Weaver: Well, the first thing I'm going to do is see how I do on television with ABC. I'm obligated to them for 15 Monday-night baseball games, three Sunday games and this year's world series. I want them to use me, and I want to be good. My job is to explain the intricacies of baseball, and I want to do it well enough so that everybody understands what's going on. If I get good enough at it, then I'll keep the job.

[Q] Playboy: You made your TV debut as an ABC sports commentator during last fall's Milwaukee-California play-off series. How would you rate your performance?

[A] Weaver: I know that I was very nervous at first; in fact, I was nervous all the way through. Keith Jackson was exceptionally nice to me, and Palmer, who was also in the booth, was just great. Jim has a little experience, and I thought we did pretty well. We'll have to wait and see whether I'm there because of my name or because I can add something to the broadcasts. The name'll wear out fast, so if I'm there in a couple of years, I'll have learned the job. All told, I have a 25-day work schedule with ABC television, which is fine, because it leaves me free to do what I want to.

[Q] Playboy: What do you want to do?

[A] Weaver: I think I've wanted since I was 17 to relax and enjoy everything there is to enjoy in life. If I'd been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I might have bought a minor-league baseball team so that I could play, but I'd never have named myself manager—I'd never have gone through that. I've been waiting a long time to spend more time with Marianna, my wife. Now I have it; we'll have more than just the winters together. And there's a million things I want to do. Three of them are within 35 minutes of my home in Hialeah, Florida: Calder, Hialeah and Gulf Stream. I like going to the race track. It used to be a thrill for me to bet five dollars a race; now I bet ten dollars a race, and there's no thrill. My enjoyment is the environment and watching the horses run. I know a lot of jockeys and trainers who live in the Miami area, and I may buy a horse pretty soon. There are two golf courses minutes from where I live, and I play every day and enjoy associating with guys who are my own age, not 25- or 30-year-old ballplayers. I like playing gin, going to the beach, cooking, canning vegetables, gardening, going to the country club—I can do all of it now. I've set up my finances to the point where I'll have a comfortable amount of money to live on every year. Barring any unforeseen family situations or financial emergencies, I won't be tempted to go back to work, because I won't need the money. Why work when you don't have to?

[Q] Playboy: What happens if you miss the action?

[A] Weaver: That's the only thing I'm not ruling out. Three years from now, I may be tired of this life. Bill Rigney, who's spent his life in baseball, tried retirement once and didn't like it. He gave me a pretty good idea why. He said, "Earl, golf is fun until you wake up one morning and you realize it's the only thing you've got to do—and to pass the day, you've got to play." I think about that a lot, but I just hope it doesn't turn out that way.

"All you have to do is look in the book: My record is not as good as Joe McCarthy's, better than almost everybody else's."