John W. Miller’s The Last Manager might sound like the kind of overcooked title you slap on a clickbait article, but the bold assertion has merit. Once upon a time, managers mattered. Then free agency and analytics handed the keys to the players and the nerds in the front office, and suddenly, the guys in the dugout were about as influential as the kid trolling the upper deck selling hot dogs.
Except, that is, for Earl Weaver, the diminutive skipper of the Baltimore Orioles—who somehow thrived in both eras because he was a genius, a lunatic, or both.
Before 1976, baseball players were essentially indentured servants. Sure, they could retire and open a car dealership if they had the cash, but they weren’t free to take their talents to Miami—or the highest bidder. This old system—terribly unfair to the players but fantastic for fans of small-market (read “poor”) teams—meant that smart managers could squeeze every ounce of talent out of a roster held together with chewing gum and blind optimism.
Then came free agency. And money. Scads of money. By 1980, just four years after the rules changed, the average MLB salary had tripled. Suddenly, the teams with deep wallets had a huge advantage, and managers couldn’t just bark orders like a factory foreman on a deadline. They had to manage in the modern sense: talk, persuade, and play nice. The old-school tyrants were shoved aside. But somehow Weaver barely missed a beat.
The numbers back it up. From 1968 to 1982 (not counting two strike years), Weaver’s Orioles, led by stars like Jim Palmer, Brooks and Frank Robinson, Boog Powell, and Eddie Murray, won at least 90 games in 11 out of 12 full seasons. They averaged 97 wins a year. Weaver’s 1969-70 Orioles are the only team in history to win 108+ games in back-to-back seasons. Think about that. The Yankees, the Dodgers, the Red Sox—none of them pulled that off. But a foul-mouthed chain-smoker with the temperament of a caffeinated badger managed it in Baltimore.
Some critics fault him for winning just one World Series (1970) despite four appearances. But that’s like criticizing a chef for earning only one Michelin star while running four top-tier restaurants—it’s still a rare and elite accomplishment. Besides, the 1983 Orioles—the last Baltimore team to win it all—were largely a product of Weaver’s vision, even if he retired a year too soon to share in the triumph.
Any book about Weaver is bound to be packed with stories of his legendary run-ins with umpires. He was the first manager in decades to get ejected from a World Series game, somehow managed to get tossed from both games of a doubleheader—twice—and once was even ejected mid-game for smoking in the dugout. (He subsequently had a secret cigarette pocket sewn into his jersey to skirt the rules.) Miller’s book delivers plenty of these epic umpire battles, but I’ll resist spoiling most of them here.
Behind the theatrics, however, was a guy who viewed the game differently. While everyone else was obsessed with batting averages, Weaver cared more about on-base percentage and timely home runs. He came to despise the sacrifice bunt (why give away an out?). He turned shortstops into power hitters, moving 6’4″ Cal Ripken Jr. from third to short and paving the way for future MLB stars like Derek Jeter. He platooned players before it was cool, squeezing 36 homers and 98 RBIs out of a three-man rotation in left field in 1979. This is to say, he re-created star players “in the aggregate.” Billy Beane and the Moneyball crew should’ve sent him royalty checks.
Where did this knack for data and analytics come from? Miller suggests it came from his Uncle Bud, a bookie who helped raise him in St. Louis. Whatever the inspiration, Weaver was thinking in probabilities decades before the sabermetric crowd made it standard practice. And he wasn’t just a numbers guy. He was the first manager to use a radar gun. His ingenuity even extended to the field itself. He had the Orioles’ groundskeeper doctor the field—muddying the basepaths to slow fast opponents, and hardening the infield to create tricky hops for bad defenders. It was brilliant, it was petty, and it worked.
He even helped develop a baseball video game that eventually led to John Madden Football. Think about that: Earl Weaver is at least partially responsible for the most dominant sports video game of all time. Not bad for a guy who looked like he spent his afternoons drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons and screaming at neighborhood kids to stay off his lawn.
Weaver’s own playing career never took off, though not for lack of talent. In a cruel twist of fate, his minor league team hired a player-manager who played the same position as him. Guess who got most of the playing time at second base? Baseball writers called it unfair. Weaver called it life. He figured he had time to make the big leagues. He didn’t. Instead, he became one of the greatest major league managers in history.
His personality? Volcanic. According to Miller, he drank like a 1950s ad executive: four cocktails and multiple beers a day—a habit that occasionally led to embarrassing situations. He rode his players hard but let bygones be bygones. And if a player ignored his orders and it worked, Weaver rolled with it. “Weaver loved winning more than being right,” Miller writes. If only more leaders thought like that.
Miller doesn’t sugarcoat things. Weaver was complicated. A paradox. He was vulgar, profane, and politically incorrect; yet he was quick to forgive and open minded to new ideas. He pushed to make Frank Robinson baseball’s first black manager, among other generous acts. He was, in short, the kind of guy you’d either love or hate, possibly both within the same conversation.
The book delivers some outstanding one-liners about (and by) Weaver:
“I gave Mike Cuellar more chances than my first wife.”—Weaver (regarding a talented O’s pitcher he had to let go)
“At first, it shocked me that a major-league manager would yell at a player like that, and then I realized I’m gonna benefit from listening to this asshole.”—former Oriole catcher Rick Dempsey
When outfielder Pat Kelly, a devout Christian, told Weaver he should “walk with the Lord,” Weaver shot back, “I’d rather you walk with the bases loaded.”
Ultimately, The Last Manager isn’t just about Weaver—it’s about the death of his kind. Today, managers have been largely domesticated. And baseball, in the process, has lost something: the fiery, brilliant, and infuriating characters who made the game unpredictable and, let’s face it, a hell of a lot more fun.
Miller doesn’t just tell Weaver’s story. He implicitly suggests that baseball was better when guys like Weaver were calling the shots. And after reading his book, it’s hard to disagree.
The Last Manager: How Earl Weaver Tricked, Tormented, and Reinvented Baseball
by John W. Miller
Avid Reader Press, 368 pp., $30
Matt Lewis is a lifelong Orioles fan and the author of Filthy Rich Politicians: The Swamp Creatures, Latte Liberals, and Ruling-Class Elites Cashing in on America (Center Street).
