Now that Major League Baseball has opened its training bases to the suspects -- not the prospects -- it makes some of the soon-to-be extinct sentimentalists of yesteryear pine for another Lou Mandel, an original who defied the prerequisites of normal sanity. He represented fun, meant no harm and absolutely was the first to attend what amounted to his own fantasy camp.
Every year this time, back in the 1930s and 1940s, when the sport was at its best, Mandel would put himself on a one-man Florida tour to introduce himself personally to the various teams. He would travel from one training camp to another, either via bus ticket or hitchhiking, and beg for a tryout.
Modesty wasn't one of his virtues. The guarantee he made to all managers was if they signed him to a contract his presence in the lineup was tantamount to winning the pennant. Just like that.
He took on the picture of a rube, standing there in a business suit that looked much too tight. He carried a straw suitcase, and, of course, his favorite bat and glove.
But Lou was from the city, specifically Brooklyn, back when the Dodgers were still playing there, and the baseball world was such a pleasant place to be. Agents, player associations and divisional playoffs hadn't evolved.
Since he was devoid of ability, Lou was a major-league player only in his own mind. In reality, he may have had trouble making a junior varsity high school team, but he lived this constant dream -- that he was ready for either the American or National League and could surely do what Hank Greenberg was doing for the Detroit Tigers or Mel Ott for the New York Giants.
All he needed was the chance. That was always his verbal calling card. Rejection never bothered him. But what he first had to do was talk his way into an opportunity to audition for a major-league manager or the coaching staff.
Hall of Fame catcher and manager Al Lopez used to say, "A lot of managers would tolerate him for three or four days and then invite him to leave. That's when Lou would start hollering that if the manager didn't know a good player like him, when he saw one, then he didn't deserve to win the pennant."
Mandel knew his way around Lakeland, Clearwater, Palm Beach, Sarasota, St. Petersburg and all the other places on the major- and minor-league spring training map. It was a time frame when baseball and sophistication were strangers. Things weren't as complex and teams wouldn't be risking lawsuits if a would-be player, such as a Mandel, stepped on the field and was seriously injured in a workout.
A Mandel was welcomed, if for no other reason than to break the monotony of the same old daily routine. He couldn't do any of the five things scouts looked for in assessing talent, which means he was devoid of being able to run, throw, hit, hit with power or field . . . but still he insisted he could play any position.
He was something of a baseball version of a touring clown act but didn't know it and, furthermore, if he had realized his enormous limitations it wouldn't have made any difference in the level of his self-confidence. Insults and put-downs tested his resiliency but never deterred him.
There were evenings when players, after having eaten in the hotel dining room, courtesy of the club, didn't have any money to do anything else but loaf in the lobby. They enjoyed the company of one another. They talked about girls, life on the farm, the notorious "snipe hunts" that they concocted for unsuspecting rookies and maybe, in finding real excitement, watched a teammate play a pinball machine.
It was in such a setting where Mandel was at his best. He would tell others how hard he was hitting the ball, that last season he had powered more home runs than Ruth and Gehrig combined and that his ability to steal bases was beyond compare. "Look, watch this," he would say.
Then, in a flash, he would sprint across the lobby of the Tampa Terrace Hotel and throw himself into a hook slide on the marble floor in front of the registration desk. The players would applaud. Some signaled safe as startled vacation guests, relaxing in rocking chairs and listening to the soft strains of the piano player and violinist, were astonished by what they had witnessed.
Lou played all positions, or at least said he did. Luman Harris, once a Baltimore Orioles coach and then an interim manager, enjoyed relating Mandel stories. "Anybody who ever met him never forgot him," recalled Harris on an occasion when the subject matter was baseball characters, the kind not around anymore.
After making the circuit of the major-league clubs, Mandel would work his way down to the minors. The Louisville Colonels of the American Association were training in Palatka, Fla., when Lou showed up. Manager Burleigh Grimes was detained on personal business and was going to be late arriving at the park.
When Mandel, per usual, asked for a trial, the players told him to put on Grimes' uniform. Then Grimes showed up and there was Mandel wearing his suit. Grimes read the riot act. But before that happened, Mandel was playing catch with Ray Thompson.
Every time he threw the ball, he first went into a contortion-like windup. The players were howling. Finally, Mandel suggested to Thompson they change positions. "I can't get anything on my fastball because I'm throwing against the wind," he complained.
He once visited the Orioles, then of the International League, at Kissimmee, Fla., where manager Guy Sturdy told him to run around the park 10 times as hard as he could. Then he hit him ground balls to the point of exhaustion.
Players can be brutal and take advantage of those who are naive. On this occasion they told Lou to go on in the clubhouse to sign a contract. When he walked through the door, he was sprayed with a bucket of water. But, instead of being irate, he smiled and exclaimed: "Gee that felt good. Now I'm all refreshed and ready to go back out and practice some more."
The levity and laughter of training camps has long since vanished. Lou Mandel is only a memory, but a magnificent character to remember with precious nostalgia.