The greatest sight in Major League Baseball during the 1970s was almost certainly this one: the Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver storming out of the dugout to remonstrate over some perceived injustice to his players. He would be so incensed at the officiating — or he pretended to be — that it was if he’d been eating chilies and was excreting flames.

If you were holding a hot dog, this was dinner and a show. Weaver was short and a bit tubby; he resembled Archie Bunker’s better looking, harder-drinking younger brother. He would kick dirt on a base, or yank it out of the ground, or lie down on it, or sit on it like a Buddha. Like Redd Foxx, he faked heart attacks. He performatively tore up rule books. He mimed throwing umpires out of the game. Officials got so upset when Weaver “beaked” them in the chest with the bill of his cap that he was forced to flip it around when arguing. He was ejected repeatedly, and fans ate it up. In Baltimore’s old Memorial Stadium, one sportswriter commented, he was like Elvis playing Vegas.

Weaver, who died in 2013, is the subject of a vivid new biography, “The Last Manager,” by the writer and former Orioles scout John W. Miller. Most sports books are pop flies to the infield. Miller’s is a screaming triple into the left field corner. He takes Weaver seriously; he understands why his tenure mattered to baseball; he is alert to the details of the unruly pageant that was his life; he explains, a bit ruefully, why he was probably the last of his kind, an unkempt dinosaur who ruled before the data geckos came into power.

Weaver’s antics wouldn’t matter if weren’t a superlative manager. He led the Orioles for 17 seasons, from 1968 to 1982 plus an ill-advised return in 1985-86. During this time the Orioles had five 100-win seasons, and won six American League East titles and four pennants, including three in a row from 1969 to 1971. The team took the World Series in 1970. They were a treat to watch, and rarely out of contention, in the other years.

It’s one of Miller’s central arguments that Weaver’s instincts as a manager made him a walking precursor to the stathead era. He prized throwing strikes, getting on base and playing impervious defense. He matched players to situations. “Once computers came along, you didn’t even need a manager anymore,” Miller writes. “You could just program them to think like Earl Weaver.”

Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.

Thank you for your patience while we verify access.

Already a subscriber? Log in.

Want all of The Times? Subscribe.