Book Review: The Last Manager: How Earl Weaver Tricked, Tormented, and Reinvented Baseball by John W. Miller (2025)

Earl Weaver was one of the most successful managers in baseball history. Helming the Baltimore Orioles from 1968-1982, (plus a brief comeback in 1985-86) Weaver led the Orioles to 6 playoff appearances and 4 World Series, including a World Championship in 1970.  

Weaver was a feisty, combative field general, and he delighted in baiting umpires. He was also ahead of his time in embracing data to inform his in-game decision making. John W. Miller’s 2025 biography of Weaver, titled The Last Manager, is an entertaining look at Weaver’s life and career. I’d recommend it to all baseball fans.  

Miller adeptly traces Weaver’s path through baseball, as he grew up in St. Louis, and signed with his hometown Cardinals out of high school. Weaver never made the major leagues as a player, topping out at double A ball. Weaver was a second baseman, and he played well during spring training in 1952, but player/manager Eddie Stanky chose himself to be the backup infielder over Weaver. But there was more going on than just Stanky’s selfishness. Weaver’s path to the majors was blocked by the Cardinals’ All-Star second baseman, Red Schoendienst. Weaver’s only hope was to be a backup infielder. Weaver became a player/manager himself, and worked his way up the Baltimore Orioles’ chain, finally getting to the major leagues as a first-base coach in 1968. When manager Hank Bauer was fired on July 11th, Weaver found himself at the helm of a major league squad for the first time.  

Weaver had the immense good fortune to take over a team that was just two seasons removed from winning the World Series. Under Weaver’s first three full seasons as manager, the Orioles won over 100 games each season and went to three World Series. Simply put, the 1969-71 Baltimore Orioles were one of the great baseball dynasties. Those teams featured a terrific infield of third baseman Brooks Robinson, shortstop Mark Belanger, second baseman Davey Johnson, and Boog Powell at first base. The offense was led by slugger Frank Robinson, and the pitching staff was anchored by stars Jim Palmer, Dave McNally, and Mike Cuellar. The Orioles won the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds but lost in 1969 to the “Miracle Mets” and in 1971 to the Pittsburgh Pirates.  

One of my only criticisms of the book is that Miller sometimes glosses over details. About the 1969 World Series, he writes: “What happened next has been well chronicled...The Mets won the next four games and took the World Series.” (p.130) I don’t need thirty pages recounting the 1969 World Series, but I’d like a little more detail, please.  

Weaver’s view of baseball was summed up by his famous axiom that the three things you need to succeed in baseball are “pitching, defense, and the three-run homer.” That certainly worked well for the Baltimore Orioles during Weaver’s tenure. Baseball Reference ranks Ozzie Smith at the top of their Defensive WAR list. After Smith come three Orioles: Mark Belanger, Brooks Robinson, and Cal Ripken, Jr. The Orioles also had amazing starting pitching as well. It’s no coincidence that the Birds’ best string of baseball, 1966-1983, coincided exactly with the career of Jim Palmer. Palmer captured 3 Cy Young Awards, and won 20 games an incredible 8 times, on his way to a career total of 268 wins. Besides Palmer, the Orioles had a long list of starting pitchers who had great success for the team. To name just a few: Dave McNally, Mike Cuellar, Pat Dobson, Mike Torrez, Dennis Martinez, Scott McGregor, Mike Flanagan, Mike Boddicker, Steve Stone, and Storm Davis.  

Weaver was generally disdainful of traditional baseball theory, which often stressed sacrifice bunts, stolen bases, and moving the runner over. Of course, the Orioles still did these things, but under Weaver they bunted less and less often. Weaver said, “If you play for one run, that’s all you’re going to get.” Rather than scrap for one run, Weaver was content to wait for a big inning. Weaver was ahead of his time, as sabermetric statistics have been widely embraced, and they largely follow Weaver’s precepts. The emphasis now is getting walks and hitting home runs, not scratching out a run from a single, stolen base, and sacrifice fly.  

“The Earl of Baltimore,” as he was called, was also ahead of his time in looking for favorable hitter-pitcher matchups, often making frequent use of platoons and pinch-hitters. That strategy worked well during Weaver’s time, when teams didn’t carry as many relief pitchers as they do now. Weaver’s starting pitchers were also effective enough that they didn’t need to rely on very many relief pitchers. These days, with teams carrying 12 or 13 pitchers, there’s simply no room on the roster for players who are mainly used as pinch-hitters.  

As a baseball fan growing up in the 1980’s, I was too young to have memories of Weaver during his glory years. Even though he retired at the end of the 1986 season, Weaver still made two appearances on the 1987 Topps set, one of the most iconic baseball card sets of my youth. Weaver got his own manager card, and he was also pictured on the Orioles team leaders card as well. I also knew Earl Weaver from the computer game Earl Weaver Baseball, which was a favorite of mine growing up. I didn’t play entire seasons, but I loved the feature that allowed you to play with All-Star teams from the past. The Last Manager has a chapter devoted to the development of the computer game, which was very entertaining to read. 

Upon finishing The Last Manager, I thought more about Earl Weaver and his legacy. Weaver was a winning manager, but was he actually a good manager? Sure, he got the most talent possible out of his teams. But in some of the fundamental tests of managing people, I’d give Weaver a failing grade. Weaver never became close with his players. I suspect some of this came from his years running the minor league spring training camp for the Orioles. Weaver’s rationale was that you don’t become close to players, because one day you’re going to have to tell a player that he’s being sent down to the minor leagues, or traded. He had to tell many, many players this news during those spring training camps. I understand where that impulse of not getting close to anyone comes from. But part of being a good manager of people anywhere is, you have to get to know the people you are managing. Jim Palmer said of Weaver’s relationship with players “He just never got to know them.” Miller does write that Weaver learned he couldn’t yell at Eddie Murray, because Murray was extremely sensitive to criticism. I’ll give Weaver some points for that. But the volatile Weaver yelled at most of his other players. There are other ways to handle professional athletes. Bud Grant, the famous Minnesota Vikings head coach, was a contemporary of Weaver’s who didn’t yell at his players. Grant said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “These guys have been yelled at since they were kids. They don’t need me yelling at them.”  

After finishing the book, I also struggled to come up with nice things that Earl Weaver did for people. There certainly weren’t very many that are chronicled in The Last Manager. While I admire Weaver’s ability to win baseball games, and as entertaining as he was, I certainly wouldn’t want to have played for him.  

Book Review: Scott Fitzgerald, a Biography by Andrew Turnbull (1962)

The original dust jacket of Andrew Turnbull's biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1962. 

In 1932, F. Scott Fitzgerald rented a house from the Turnbull family. Located in Towson, Maryland, just outside of Baltimore, “La Paix” was a beautiful, sprawling old Victorian home. Fitzgerald lived there for 18 months with his wife Zelda and their daughter Scottie. The Turnbulls lived in a newer house on their sprawling property, where they raised their three children: two daughters, Frances and Eleanor, and an 11-year-old son, Andrew.  

Andrew Turnbull was fascinated by Fitzgerald, who took a paternal interest in the boy. Fitzgerald played tennis, tossed footballs, and shot .22 rifles with Andrew. He also encouraged Andrew’s interest in words, writing him letters filled with obscure words that would send Andrew to the dictionary. Andrew attended Princeton, as did Fitzgerald. Andrew was a better student, as he actually graduated from Princeton, then earned a master’s and doctorate from Harvard in European history. Turnbull wrote the second biography of Fitzgerald. Titled simply Scott Fitzgerald, it was published in 1962. The following year, Turnbull edited the first collection of Fitzgerald’s letters.  

One of my favorite descriptions of Fitzgerald was written by Andrew Turnbull: “There was always something of the magician in Fitzgerald. He was the inventor, the creator, the tireless impresario who brightened our days and made other adult company seem dull and profitless. It wasn’t so much any particular skill of his as a quality of caring, of believing, of pouring his whole soul and imagination into whatever he did with us.” (p.231) I just love this passage, and it makes Fitzgerald come to life. You can imagine his sparkling wit enlivening Great Neck, the French Riviera, Saint Paul, Baltimore, and all the other places he lived.  

Turnbull understood Fitzgerald’s complicated personality, and his admiration for Fitzgerald comes across strongly in the text. But his book is no mere hagiography of Fitzgerald. Turnbull interviewed many people who knew Fitzgerald, and there are numerous accounts of his behavior, both good and bad.  

Fitzgerald exhibited a strong personal charisma, and Turnbull wrote of him: “Fitzgerald focused on you—even riveted on you—and if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that whatever you happened to be talking about was the most important matter in the world. A further seduction was his smile—quick, tight, and very appealing. It was not so much a smile as a flash of confidence in you and your mortal possibilities.” (p.226-7) There was more than a touch of Jay Gatsby in Scott Fitzgerald.  

Turnbull masterfully chronicles Fitzgerald’s life, from the glamour and fame of the 1920’s to the crash of the 1930’s, and his final attempt to remake himself in Hollywood. Brad Hayden wrote of Turnbull in the Dictionary of Literary Biography: “His speculations concerning Fitzgerald are filled with poetic insight and fidelity to the romantic spirit of his subject.” I read this quote grateful that someone summed up the book so well, and wishing that I had come up with such an elegant sentence.  

Turnbull wrote a beautiful summation of the eighteen months when Fitzgerald lived at La Paix. It’s one of my favorite passages in the book. “My mother was grateful she knew Fitzgerald when she did, for he must have been more impressive then than at almost any other time—because more tragic, and therefore more profound...My mother became for a brief season a listener to and therefore a sharer of his thoughts, and they blotted out the surface lights and carried her, as the poetry of his books has carried others, down into the depths. And not the depths of weakness and illness alone. They were there, but also the angels.” (p.248)  

After editing the collection of Fitzgerald’s letters, Turnbull also edited the 1965 volume Letters to His Daughter, which collected his letters to Scottie. Turnbull also wrote an acclaimed biography of Fitzgerald’s contemporary, and fellow Scribner’s author Thomas Wolfe, published in 1967. I’m lucky enough to have a signed copy of Turnbull’s Wolfe biography.  

In addition to his own memories of Fitzgerald, Turnbull interviewed and corresponded with many people who knew Fitzgerald. In “A Note on Method and Sources” at the end of the book, the list of people Turnbull talked to about Fitzgerald is six pages long. It’s a great loss for Fitzgerald and Wolfe studies that Turnbull’s papers do not survive, as “Turnbull’s files were destroyed when his widow left her house in Cambridge, Massachusetts.” (F. Scott Fitzgerald Remembered, p.x) 

I knew that Andrew Turnbull died young, at age 48 in 1970, but it wasn’t until recently that I learned he committed suicide. I’m always saddened by any mention of suicide, and it’s hard for me to say exactly why I feel such sadness at the passing of someone I never met, someone who died 11 years before I was born. Part of the sadness is that I’ve always loved the connection that Fitzgerald had with Andrew Turnbull—how his friendship with this boy turned into a literary conversation, with Turnbull becoming his biographer, and editing the first collection of Fitzgerald’s letters. I’ve used the quote about Fitzgerald being “the inventor, the creator” numerous times on my Fitzgerald walking tours. I don’t know that the quote ever evoked in my audiences the same warm feeling I always had upon reading it, but I loved sharing it with people. I’ve moved away from reading direct quotes on my tours, unless I’m quoting from Fitzgerald himself. But when I talk about Fitzgerald’s personality, I always paraphrase what Turnbull wrote about how “Fitzgerald focused on you—even riveted on you— and if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that whatever you happened to be talking about was the most important matter in the world.” In that tiny way, I know my words are paying a little tribute to Andrew Turnbull’s work in researching and writing such a finely woven portrait of a talented writer who also happened to be his friend.