A black-and-white photograph of Jerry Manuel’s childhood home hangs on the wall of his Comiskey Park office, reminding him not only of how far he has come, but how many hills he has yet to climb.
On first glance, the house in Cecil, Ga., looks like little more than a beat-up wooden shack on a crusty patch of dirt. This was the place where Manuel grew up with his parents, three brothers and four sisters, learning the lessons that would ultimately lead him to the South Side of Chicago, where his team has a chance to quench a city’s long-standing thirst for a baseball championship.
His father, Lorenzo Manuel, built the house with his own hands more than 40 years ago.
“We had the first indoor facilities in town,” Jerry Manuel recalled quietly. “We have the deed, and what it took to buy the materials to build on–$223 and a mule.”
Lorenzo Manuel worked three jobs to support his family–as a cook, a hospital aide and a barber who cut folks’ hair in front of their house on weekends. He died only a few days after Jerry earned a World Series ring as a coach for the 1997 Florida Marlins, barely a month before the White Sox made him their 36th manager in franchise history.
Renette Manuel, Jerry’s wife of 26 years and his high school sweetheart, hung the photo of the old house on the wall behind Jerry’s desk while decorating his office before this season. Tired of seeing blank white walls staring back at her whenever she visited the ballpark, Renette turned the office into a mini-Manuel museum, filled with inspirational posters, family photographs, a newspaper column on his late sister, Barbara, and words of wisdom from inspirational leaders such as Martin Luther King.
“He’s so proud of his father, his father’s accomplishments, his humble beginnings,” Renette said. “The fact that his dad worked three jobs, that he’d built this house. . . . He’s very proud of where he came from.
“Those are the things closest to him. His motivator was Martin Luther King, and his dad is close to his heart. His sister too. That’s why I picked those things. They mean a lot to him, and they say a lot about who Jerry is.”
Just who is Jerry Manuel?
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He’s a father and a husband, a major-league manager and a baseball “lifer.” He’s known as a devout Christian and a devoted reader of the words of Gandhi, but his team sometimes engages in unruly behavior, especially when the Detroit Tigers are in the opposite dugout.
Manuel is different things to different people, but one title he has always worn on his sleeve is “leader.” Even when Manuel was a little-known reserve infielder for the Montreal Expos, he had the ability to take over a room when the situation called for it.
“You knew back then that he was very insightful because he was always helping the younger players, both on and off the field,” said Wallace Johnson, Manuel’s third-base coach and former Expos teammate. “He was always willing to share information with young guys coming behind him.”
Manuel was, and is, the kind of guy who speaks softly but carries a big piece of lumber. He rarely turns up the volume and he chooses his words carefully. It doesn’t matter how the message is delivered. What matters is that it’s received.
“I was always that way,” Manuel said. “In 1981, I was the 25th player and we were in the playoffs against Philadelphia. Dallas Green [then the Phillies’ manager] said something about our team, something to the effect that we had never won before, and so I called a team meeting.
“Here we’ve got Andre Dawson, Gary Carter, Tim Raines … all these bigwigs, and I called the meeting. Everybody was like, `What in the world does he want? He doesn’t even play. What’s he talking about? Who is he?'”
The transformation
One of the people who helped change Manuel’s life was former Cubs outfielder Thad Bosley, now a hitting coach with the Oakland A’s. The two were teammates in spring training with the 1983 Cubs, and Bosley ran a Bible studies class that Manuel attended.
“One day we started talking about life, about success and failure and some of the things we’d both experienced individually,” Bosley recalled. “Jerry had mentioned to me that he observed things I would do and wouldn’t do, and he wanted to know why. Why wasn’t I going out with the guys, carousing … things like that.
“I just told him it was because of my belief in God, that God had given me an opportunity to play in the big leagues, and my fiduciary responsibility as it related to that. It touched him someplace, inside of him, based on where his life was at the time.”
The one moment Manuel remembers most vividly in his spiritual awakening involved a Cubs prospect he doesn’t even remember by name reaching the end of his career. The two were in Bosley’s Bible studies class.
“He was a catcher in the minor-league system,” Manuel said. “I was always intrigued by different philosophies and thoughts, whether it be Christianity, Hindu, Muslim, whatever. I was intrigued by that. I had religion, but not a relationship with God. It didn’t affect my lifestyle, while a relationship with God does.
“The next day was a cut day for the minor-leaguers, and this catcher was one of the guys cut. He had such peace about him, and he was excited. He said, `Wow, something great is going to happen to me.’ Yet here his dream had just gone right out the window.
“It wasn’t fake; it was real. I studied him real good. I felt, `If he is that strong in his beliefs …’
“He didn’t make baseball his god. He believed something else was going to take care of him. That’s something I needed a foundation of. I needed to grow somewhat, and go backward a bit, hoping I’d grow somewhat every day.”
Manuel’s life changed that day in Mesa, Ariz. He spent that year at Class AAA Iowa and two more years in the minors before becoming a player-coach with Montreal’s top farm club in Indianapolis. He eventually moved up to the Expos, serving as their third-base coach from 1991-96 before becoming Jim Leyland’s bench coach on the ’97 Marlins.
When Manuel and Bosley met up again years later, Manuel told him how he had become a true Christian.
“He came over to me and said, `Hey, man, because of you my life has changed,'” Bosley said. “It’s like anything you do–you don’t go out and consciously say, `This is how you’re supposed to be.’ I think you try to be who you are and live what you believe in. Jerry is not just a good manager, he’s a great manager.”
While Manuel considers himself a strong Christian, he doesn’t go out of his way to talk about or impose his beliefs on others.
“You witness by your lifestyle,” he explained. “Not by your mouth.”
Manuel was asked if he believes he’d be in his current position if he hadn’t turned to religion 17 years ago. He paused before answering.
“I don’t think I really would’ve got the opportunity to manage,” he said. “What I really believe is that the job was not given to me by the White Sox. It was given to me by somebody else. That’s my belief.”
Manuel’s faith has never wavered, though he has endured personal heartbreak over the last three years, including the fatal heart attack suffered by his sister, Barbara, after last season.
“I get tested every day,” he said. “The death of my father, the death of my sister … everything has been outside the baseball arena. But it tests my faith every day.”
The journey
Imagine the 2000 White Sox without Manuel in the dugout. If ever a team reflected the personality of its manager, it’s this confident, cocky, yet calm ballclub.
“I’m biased with this guy and what he brings to the table,” Johnson said. “But I don’t think you’d get the same kind of focus or performance from these guys at this point in their careers without him. For them to do the things they’re doing at this point, I think it all points to him.
“His personality is ingrained now. I think it’s a cumulative effect. When we first came here we had Albert Belle, Robin Ventura, those guys . . . he’s been the same then as he is now. The main ingredients here have come since then, and they’ve taken on his persona.”
Manuel eschews the notion that he’s a “player’s manager,” explaining that it’s not part of the job description.
“I’d hope I’d be thought of as a manager who’s fair and honest,” he said. “When you start looking for a man to accept you, you lose focus.”
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While Manuel’s preseason tiff with Frank Thomas made headlines, the two have since bonded, and the results can be seen in Thomas’ MVP-type numbers. The Sox players realize Thomas is the horse that can carry the club into the playoffs, but they also know Manuel is the glue that holds it all together.
“He’s a terrific manager to play for, and for a variety of reasons,” pitcher Mike Sirotka said. “The biggest thing is he doesn’t get too caught up in himself. He’s not here from an ego standpoint, so it’s not about him being king. His belief is you basically leave the guys alone and let ’em play and he just fine-tunes it. When players have a feeling they’re going to get a chance to go out and play or go out and pitch, they’re much more likely to respond.
“You see it in the way we play. He’s very mild-mannered, yet very intense, and I think that rubs off on us. We’re a fun-loving team, but when it comes to pitch by pitch or at-bat by at-bat, we’re very focused and intense.”
While Manuel often gives off the aura of a man who enjoys each and every moment of life, there are obviously times when the game grinds on the soul. Increased expectations, tough losses, difficult personnel decisions … all can take a toll during the marathon baseball season.
“There was a moment in the season when [the Sox] underwent the transition from chasing to being chased,” Renette said.
“You could tell it was kind of wearing on him. But now he’s flowing with it just fine. … I can’t say that he never takes his job home. We talk a lot. That’s part of his wind-down time. I give him that room to wind down. I sit and I listen, and we’re done and we go on with family life.”
The more success the Sox experience, the more people will be pulling at Manuel for his time, and the less time he will have to himself. More success means more exposure. What if low-key, low-profile Jerry Manuel finds himself a household name?
“I would hope that I’d remain the same and not offend anyone,” he said. “But I do enjoy anonymity and privacy very much.”
If the Sox do what Manuel believes they can do and compete in the World Series, privacy will be hard to come by in October. But that’s the road he hopes to travel, knowing full well that the pitfalls of becoming an overnight celebrity might be one of the nasty side effects.
“It probably won’t be the same,” he conceded. “But I’d hope it doesn’t change me.”