PITTSBURGH — The cameras and language made it unavoidable. So did Barry Bonds' stardom and the fact that Jim Leyland, in true Pittsburgh fashion, wasn't about to tolerate complaining, attitude or anything he perceived as disrespect from his players — including the reigning MVP of the National League.
But that much-discussed 1991 incident wasn't the first time Leyland rendered Bonds speechless. A conversation the year before, around the same time, actually said much more about the bond the two men shared, a friendship formed that exists to this day.
Bonds, who had primarily hit leadoff his first four seasons, felt he could do more and planned on his petitioning his manager to shift to the heart of the order. Yet Bonds didn't have to utter a single syllable before Leyland assuaged his concerns.
"Before I ever said a word, he said, 'You're my No. 5 hitter, sink or swim, kid,' " Bonds told the Post-Gazette. "I'll never forget that as long as I live. I was like, 'Wow, thanks, Skip. I've been swimming all my life.'
"I didn't have anything to say. That was probably the first time anyone ever shut me up."
That interaction was one of many between the two that led to Bonds calling Leyland "the best manager I ever had."
It also showcased Leyland's uncanny ability to relate to players of all types, whether it's one with Bonds' immense talent or a role player who might influence games in the later innings off the bench.
As we continue to focus on Leyland's incredible legacy both here and during his subsequent stops, the starting point will again be Bonds, who spoke glowingly of Leyland during a rare interview last week.
"We've had some great times in our careers and have the utmost respect for each other," Bonds said. "[The blowup] is the only thing people want to focus on with us, and that's the sad part. We both had successful careers, have done well and have a lot of respect for each other.
"I take full responsibility for that happening. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I didn't."
The incident
The way Bonds remembers it, Leyland only caught the tail end of a disagreement between Bonds and a member of the Pirates front office at the time, where the outfielder admitted he was distracted during spring training and was told to get back to work.
"I was like, 'Dude, who are you? You're not the coach. What are you talking to me for?' "
That's when Bill Virdon intervened, and Bonds snapped at Virdon — a move Bonds said he also regrets. Leyland was merely protecting Virdon, which Bonds said he had zero problem with his manager doing.
"Leyland had every right to do what he did," Bonds said. "It was just unfortunate it got caught on camera."
As far as Bonds was concerned, the blowup was finished before he went home that day, the result of a post-practice meeting in Leyland's office. The two chatted about Bonds' frustration over losing an arbitration case that offseason and what they could do to move past the incident.
Leyland, as he did countless times throughout his career, struck a perfect pitch to keep the team pointed in the proper direction.
"We solved that problem the same day," Bonds said. "It didn't linger on with Leyland or anything else. He was upset. I was upset. It was just unfortunate.
"I have respect for that because he was defending one of his coaches, and he has every right to yell at us if we were out of line. Leyland just didn't hear what happened at the very beginning."
Aside from that incident, Bonds carries with him plenty of great memories of playing for Leyland.
One time in Montreal, Bonds and others grew frustrated at Pascual Perez's antics on the mound. That's when Leyland offered a solution that holds true to this day when talking about not liking what an opposing pitcher is doing on the mound.
"I'll never forget Leyland saying, 'If you want to put a stop to it, there's a yellow line that goes from left field to right field. Hit the damn ball out of the ballpark, and you can stop all the dancing,'" Bonds said.
Bonds also loved how Leyland would join in the Pirates' around-the-world basketball games in the clubhouse and gave players full days off — refusing to have them pinch-hit or pinch-run when they weren't playing.
One time early in his career, Bonds said he was feeling fatigued and decided to visit the training room. It turned out to be one of his last trips there, until he became more established.
"I wasn't in the lineup," Bonds recalled. "So I asked Skip, and he said, 'I don't play 20-year-olds who need the training room.' I never went back in the training room. Bobby Bonilla and I used to take ice buckets at the hotel, fill up our bathtub and ice that way."
Bonds said he loved some of the tough love that Leyland showed him. When Bonds grew irritated at media coverage that he received, Leyland would joke that Bonds seemed to play better mad.
Leyland also let players prepare in their own way for games, insisting that true team work didn't start until pregame drills or when the first pitch was thrown.
"We talk all the time now," Bonds said. "He came out to my jersey retirement [in 2018]. He's been there for me every step of my entire career. When I go back to Pittsburgh, he's there. We were close before the argument, and we became even stronger bonded after it."
Where there's smoke ...
As much as Bonds was intertwined in Leyland's legacy, so was the manager's smoking habit.
John Wehner remembers being a young role player in the early 1990s, eager for any opportunity he might get, when Leyland would yell down from the other end of the bench.
Wehner: "I'd be all excited, thinking he wanted me to go hit, and he'd say, 'Go get me a pack of smokes, would ya?' "
Smoking on the bench was possible earlier in Leyland's career, but as times changed, he'd often have to disappear from sight to sneak a smoke. And when that happened, Sean Casey learned the hard way that you never, ever talked to Leyland when he was smoking.
After getting hit with a pitch on the elbow one time in Detroit, Casey's left arm was numb when the inning started. He knew he had to come out and told third-base coach Gene Lamont, who made Casey break the news to Leyland.
Casey: "I always said he was like a pit bull. You put a ribeye in a pit bull's bowl, you don't come over and grab the ribeye; you let him finish. ... But I go down there, and I'm like, 'Skip.' No response. I'm like, 'Oh, [no].' He finally looks up like, 'What?' I startled him. I said, 'I can't lift up my elbow. I don't think I can go back out there.'
"He says, '[Gosh dangit]. OK, have Geno send Marcus Thames to first, put some ice on your elbow — and never, ever bother me again when I'm smoking.' "
At third base, Lamont would often have to watch Leyland's signals closely to decipher an actual sign from the manager cupping a cigarette. Meanwhile, Wehner laughed at the time Leyland — who wore spikes for games — wiped out on the cement floor behind the dugout in Miami.
Wehner: "We definitely gave him some grief for that."
However, the absolute best story about Leyland smoking again comes from Casey, who first noticed this move — one Leyland apparently picked up from Mark Grace — when the Tigers arrived in Anaheim following a late, cross-country flight.
Casey: "It's like 3 in the morning. Guys are tired. Leyland checks in first, and I'm probably 10 people back. When I get up to the desk, here comes Leyland. 'Excuse me, ma'am. I just wanna let you know, somebody has been smoking in my room. I don't mind. I just don't want you to charge me for it.' She's like, 'No problem, sir. We'll mark that down.' I saw that, and I was just like, 'Oh, my God.' "
'A great temper'
Don't get up. Those were the instructions to those who never witnessed one of Leyland's postgame tirades, where the initial explosion would be followed by several aftershocks.
Lamont: "If he wasn't happy, he'd let it out the first time. But you better sit tight, because he'll probably come back at least once and maybe twice. I think the players found that out."
Mike LaValliere: "He could go. What a great temper."
Good luck getting through a story about Leyland losing his mind without some sort of laugh, a feat Bob Walk could not accomplish when describing the "Night of the Porcelain Croutons" in Montreal.
Bad loss. Silent clubhouse. Food wheeled into the main area. Unlike other places, Olympic Stadium used porcelain plates. Jim Gott says something positive about getting the Expos the next day.
Walk: "Leyland slams his plate, it shatters into a million pieces, and he yells, 'Get 'em tomorrow, my [expletive] ass.' That set him off. Now there's 20 minutes of us getting yelled at. Junior Ortiz named that explosion the 'Night of the Porcelain Croutons' because when people were eating salad, they kept finding pieces of white porcelain."
The only other time Walk can remember Leyland ruining a meal happened at San Francisco's Candlestick Park. A clubhouse attendant grilled 50 or 60 burgers for a postgame meal, and the Pirates played so poorly that Leyland flipped the table, sending circles of meat flying into the air.
Players sifted through the wreckage for anything edible they could find. Leyland did later apologize to the clubhouse manager, Harvey Hodgerney, and paid him back for the mess.
LaValliere had a good story about one of Leyland's explosions, although it's doubtful he was reimbursed for the damage caused. While screaming at his players, Leyland kicked a coffee table inside the Pirates clubhouse, which sent cups of tobacco juice flying everywhere.
One landed on the Pirates catcher.
LaValliere: "Now I've got to put my head down and bite my tongue because I'm ready to laugh like hell. Later on, we fined him in Kangaroo Court for doing that. I think he cut one short because he was probably getting ready to laugh, too."
That's the funny thing about Leyland's legendary blowups.
While he certainly had a violent temper — the first time Walk met Leyland was when the manager tried to fight an entire dugout in the minor leagues — Leyland was also a performance artist.
He wouldn't blow up all the time, LaValliere said, because then the message would get lost. "As a player, if you're constantly getting aired out, you tune out," LaValliere said. "He had good timing on that."
But Leyland also knew how to not let things fester, and he wasn't afraid to dial up that iconic scene from "Bull Durham" — "They're kids, scare 'em" — while simultaneously peeling back the curtain for veterans.
Wehner: "When he'd blow up, some of the [stuff] he would say was so outrageous and fun. He'd say, 'If I hear one more pitcher talk about his [expletive] role. I'll tell you what a [expletive] role is. A [expletive] role is what you put [expletive] butter on.' ... He would scare the [crap] out of people. But then when you're older, I'd be walking to the shower or the lunch room or something. He'd come by and go, 'That was a pretty good one, wasn't it?' It was all an act!"
Walk can attest to that. August 1993. Game against the Dodgers in Los Angeles. Kevin Gross — who's 6-foot-5 — hit Kevin Young.
Walk retaliated by hitting Gross and was ejected. Leyland lost his mind arguing the call and tried to fight Gross, charging and throwing a punch at the player.
Walk: "He comes in the clubhouse. It's empty, just me and him. I'm thinking, 'Is he gonna go crazy in here?' He sits down next to me, lights a smoke and says, 'So how'd I do? That was a good one, wasn't it?'"
Leyland wasn't talking about his career, although he might as well have been. Few managers in MLB are more beloved than Leyland, by players and fans alike. It's crazy that he's not yet in the Hall of Fame.
But give Leyland this: Everything he did was uniquely him, creating an incalculable number of terrific stories to tell.
Don Kelly: "There was always a method to his madness, and he always had a really good way of connecting with people, getting them to feel comfortable and laugh but being serious at the same time."
Wehner: "That little bastard commanded respect. You wanted to win for him. You wanted to play hard for him. He cared. He cared about you, and he cared about the game. I think I speak for a lot of players when I say that I have the utmost respect for the man."
