In 1984, Topps printed its final card for Lou Piniella as a player. Even though he was hitting .302 at the time, Piniella realized that he was blocking the way of younger outfielders in the organization and agreed to retire in the midst of that season. The sweet swing, the reliable hands, and the clubhouse agitation—all prominent features of the longtime Yankee—departed the Bronx to make room for a new wave of outfield youth.

Piniella was one of the last remnants of Gabe Paul’s regime as Yankee general manager. After the 1973 season, Paul sent aging reliever Lindy McDaniel to the Royals for Piniella, who had won the American League’s Rookie of the Year in 1969 but had slumped to a .250 batting average and a .291 on-base percentage during his final season in Kansas City. Paul figured that Piniella had endured an off season, nothing more. Piniella fit Yankee needs precisely—given their lefty-leaning lineup—providing them a semi-regular outfielder and DH who would play against all left-handers and occasionally against right-handers, too. In three of his first five seasons in pinstripes, Piniella hit .305 or better while filling in day-to-day gaps in left field, right field, and at DH. He became a vital complementary piece to the world championship teams of 1977 and ’78, culminating in his miraculous “stop” of Jerry Remy’s sun-screened line drive in the tiebreaking playoff game of 1978.

Aside from his one-hop snare of Remy’s drive, I’ll remember two features of Piniella’s game more than others. First, he owned one of the best opposite-field strokes of any hitter I’ve seen. As he took his stance, he kept his hands back, wrapped almost behind his right shoulder. With his left shoulder tucked in and his back visible to the pitcher, Piniella pushed the ball toward right field with the same kind of ease and precision that most players reserve for their pull side. Then there was his reliability in the field. Though he lacked speed and had nothing more than an average throwing arm, Piniella possessed hands of velvet. If he could reach a fly ball, he caught it. And whenever he pounded his fist into his glove, he was sure to make the play.

Piniella’s line-drive stroke and sure hands represented the best of his talents. But he had his critics—Clete Boyer was among them—those who felt that he was vastly overrated. Piniella didn’t hit with much power, rarely drew walks, and ran the bases poorly, sometimes atrociously. Most of his value was tied up in his batting average. If he batted .300 or better, he could help you, but if he hit anything less, he was just wasting at-bats that could have gone to Roy White or Cliff Johnson.

While with the Yankees, Piniella also enhanced his reputation as “Sweet Lou,” which had begun to form with Jim Bouton’s revealing passages about him in Ball Four. As is common with many nicknames, the origins of “Sweet Lou” derived from the theory of opposites. Like the 400-pound guy who is called “Tiny,” both friends and detractors of Piniella referred to him as Sweet Lou because of his sour moods, sarcastic sense of humor, and his explosive temper tantrums. On the field, his displays of anger, including incidents of helmet-and dirt-kicking, sometimes reached comic proportions.

I first encountered Piniella three years after his retirement from playing. By then, he was the Yankees’ manager, one of many successors to Billy Martin. In 1987, the Yankees played the Braves in the Hall of Fame Game here in Cooperstown. Aside from recalling the hijinx of Rickey Henderson and Claudell Washington at the Sheraton Hotel in Utica (that’s an article for another day), my strongest memory of that weekend involved Piniella. Covering the event for WIBX Radio, I had the assignment of doing on-field interviews prior to the game. I targeted Piniella as one of my prime interviews. I made my way in his direction amidst an army of media types that swarmed Doubleday Field; we soon made eye contact each other. As I drew closer, Piniella’s blank expression became a scowl, followed immediately by a dismissive wave of the hand. He’s telling me to go away, I thought to myself. Stopping dead in my tracks, I soon realized that Piniella was gesturing toward someone else, someone he knew. Relieved that he hadn’t dismissed me, I was nonetheless intimidated, and gave up my pursuit of Sweet Lou.

Piniella did not return to Cooperstown until last year, when his Cubs were scheduled to play the Padres in the final Hall of Fame Game. The two teams never actually played, the game canceled by several downpours of rain. Unfortunately, Piniella provided the other downer of the day. During the pre-game parade that made its way down Main Street, Piniella made it obvious he wanted to be anywhere but Cooperstown, underscoring some earlier negative comments he had made about having to travel to upstate New York. According to my spies, a number of fans screamed “Lou! Lou,” hoping that Piniella would wave—or even smile. Instead, he continued to frown, maintaining a scowl that reflected his contempt for having to come to Cooperstown in the first place.

In spite of my disappointment in Piniella’s dismissive attitude toward the Hall of Fame Game, I like him—as a manager. Except for Tampa Bay, he’s consistently posted winning records, even for teams with a recent history of failure. Last year, Piniella guided the Cubs into the postseason for a second straight fall (though the team followed up with a second straight early exit from the playoffs). It’s amazing the impact that he continues to have on his teams offensively, whether it was in New York in the eighties, Cincinnati and Seattle in the nineties, or now the Windy City in the 2000s. When Piniella took over Chicago’s helm four years ago, the Cubs found themselves choked by an offense that could only kindly be described as below-average. They didn’t walk, didn’t get on base, and didn’t score runs. By 2008, Piniella’s philosophy had taken hold. Aside from Alfonso Soriano, almost all of Chicago’s hitters worked the count capably last summer. Youngsters like Geovany Soto thrived under Piniella, as did seemingly past-their-prime veterans like Jim Edmonds. Even the role players, from Mike Fontenot to Reed Johnson, make ample contributions. It’s no wonder that the Cubs scored 855 runs, putting them well ahead of all teams in the National League. Simply put, runs scored translated into games won for the Cubs, just as it did for Piniella long ago with the Yankees, Reds, and Mariners.

So with Piniella, you take the bad—the temper tantrums and the moodiness—with the good. Just a few days ago, Piniella unleashed another tirade, this one directed at ESPN’s Steve Phillips. The former Mets general manager had dared to mention that the presence of an impatient manager like Piniella made life more difficult for Kosuke Fukudome, a Japanese player who faced an extremely difficult transition to American culture. I thought it was a fair point by Phillips, but Piniella took it as a personal insult.

There will likely be more tantrums from Piniella this season, whether it be a public scolding of the media, an angry mound lecture to a wild Cubs pitcher, or a childish dirt-kicking of an umpire. That’s Sweet Lou for you: good player, better manager, and ready to scowl at a moment’s notice.