Tommy Lasorda was parked in the middle of the Dodgers home clubhouse one afternoon, his head tilted over as if exhausted, his eyes cloudy. Players, coaches, clubbies and media slid past his scooter, this way and that, some dragging a hand over a narrow, hunched shoulder, some greeting him, “Tommy!”, as they passed.
He was a dry stone in a shallow, hard-running creek. His eyes and a small smile said hello back. That was about all he had to give that day. And still he was there, among them,…
Source link
