Early Sunday evening, somewhere in the bowels of Nationals Park, the questions came flying at Dusty Baker thick and fast. Why did he double-switch Bryce Harper out of the game immediately after Harper's ninth-inning home run, and instead put Chris Heisey into the game, thus burning the Nationals' last position player? I mean, it meant that he had to let a relief pitcher (Oliver Perez) take an at-bat with two outs and runners on base in the bottom of the 15th inning, for crying out loud! Why, for that matter, did he leave Stephen Strasburg in the game for 114 pitches? And what the hell was Yusmeiro Petit doing throwing 4 â…“ innings in this game, anyway?

Yes, the questions came fast, and not without a little indignation. Because, fact was, despite the odds, Oliver Perez turned out to be the guy who bunted home the tying run with the game on the line (assisted by some particularly Twins-y defense), and Chris Heisey—who never would have come up in that spot, were it not for the double-switch that made no sense at the time—turned out to be the guy who won the game with a walkoff in the bottom of the 16th inning. Strasburg, for his part, seemed perfectly comfortable with his workload after the game, and so did Petit. And so Baker had a simple answer for his interrogators: “I’m not always right, but I was right today.”

That’s life in Dusty’s world. He does things that seem to be totally head-scratchers, objectively speaking, and more often than you’d think, they work out for him.

Bad decisions, but they worked out, so they’re good. That seems to be the general argument around Dusty’s tactical skills, and it’s that kind of ex post thinking that’s driven a great many writers at this site and around the sabermetric community to criticize Baker as something other than what he is, which is, objectively, a successful manager. Over 21 seasons managing in the major leagues, Baker has won 177 more games than he’s lost (his .528 winning percentage is one-tenth of a percentage point higher than Joe Maddon’s, over 1,502 more games managed), he’s taken all three teams he’s worked for to the playoffs at least once, and he’s earned the near-universal respect of his players. It’s that last part of his resume—the respect and admiration he’s earned from the men who work for him—that I want to focus on here.

Before Sunday’s game, I asked five Nationals first if, and then why, they thought Dusty was special as a manager. They all immediately answered that he was, and though part of that can be chalked up to knowing where their bread is buttered, what they said afterward lent some credible detail to their claims. The same themes kept coming up, and at the risk of this being merely a quote dump, I think it’s better to just share their thoughts in full and then talk about the themes that emerged. Here’s Ben Revere, for example, speaking at his locker while lacing up his shoes:

He’s the kind of guy who, you make a mistake, he ain’t gonna yell at you, he’s just gonna tell you, 'this is what you’ve gotta do next time to prevent that from happening.' Any type of coach like that is always good to play for, because you won’t be afraid to make a mistake. He’ll probably correct you or something, but he’ll definitely help your knowledge of the game get a lot better.

Shawn Kelley brought up a specific moment that mattered to him:

The first game I came in and pitched, I came in to face one guy, a righty, ‘cause there was lefties around him, and I walked him on four straight balls, and it was probably the worst I’ve felt, probably one of the lowest points of my careers, honestly, because I’m a veteran guy; I wasn’t rattled, I wasn’t nervous, literally I just threw four balls and had no idea where it was going, it was just one of those things. And he came to me after the game and just said 'Hey man, just shake that off, you’ll be right back out there tomorrow,' and he put me right back out there tomorrow and I got the job done. Stuff like that is what builds the chemistry and what builds the relationship that you can’t describe, really.

It’s easy to write this sort of thing off, and to say it’s worth only a few runs here and there or at the margins. I’m not so sure that it is. Because, fact is, players keep telling us that it is important—critically important—to their ability to do their job. I don’t see a particularly compelling reason not to trust them. Here’s Stephen Drew:

He’s like a player, man, he just wants to win. It seems like he’s never forgotten what the game is, and how hard it can be, you know. He just pushes you to try to get the best out of you, and that’s what any good manager; seeing that from the other side [when Drew played against Baker] and seeing that now, it really makes a difference.

Baker’s resume as a player came up a few times, actually. Kelley, again, had a lot of things to say here:

Talk about a guy that did as much as most people in their playing career, and what he did as a player, and what he’s been through as a manager, it’s just—his experience is off the charts, so I mean, he’s been there and done it, so there’s no panic, there’s no pressure, you know, he just still got a little bit of that old school baseball in him. A lot of things now are statistics and computers and matchups, and I think he still manages a little bit with his gut and his instinct, which is what this game still needs.

Perhaps the simplest affirmation came from Yusmeiro Petit, the same man who was about to throw 4 2/3 innings after a bunch of days on:

A lot of Latin players said he was a good manager, and that everything is all right with him. It is.

Even Jonathan Papelbon, who didn’t have much to say in general when I talked to him in general, has been won over by Dusty’s charms:

I’m not the type of person that goes by what other people say; I create my own opinions on people when I meet them and interact with them. So, you know, for me it’s been great so far.

And some final thoughts from Kelley, before we discuss:

He’s just a great leader and he’s as much of a fan and cheering for you in the dugout as any manager there is. That’s all you can ask for, is that when you’re out there competing, whether it’s on the mound or at the plate, that your staff including your manager is pulling for you, and wants the best for you, and is going to put you in the best situation you can. That’s what I heard, and that’s exactly what he’s turned out to be. I think it’s just his faith and trust in guys. A couple bad games from a certain player, he doesn’t give up on you. He has faith in his guys that you’ll come through, and that he’s put you out there in a position to do a job, and that you’re going to do it, and do it the best you can, and if you don’t, he’s not going to just give up on you.

I see two themes emerging here. First, that he believes in his guys, and that they know he believes in them. That came up constantly. It’s not like Baker is the only one doing this—playing loose and playing free of fear is something Joe Maddon, for example, talks about all the time, but Maddon gets credit in our community for doing it. Surely Dusty deserves that same credit for instilling in his players a willingess to stretch themselves without fear of reprisal.

The second theme is a sense of personal loyalty to his players that sometimes overrides tactical concerns. If you were feeling charitable, you might call such an approach strategy over tactics. In post-game comments, Dusty mentioned that he left Strasburg in so that he could get a pitcher win—he didn’t want the young man’s efforts “going to waste,” and that he took Harper out, despite the game going to extras, because he’d promised his star the day off, and didn’t want to renege on that promise. This is the sort of thing that makes some heads spin. But it speaks to loyalty, the players notice, and I’m sure it puts them in a position to play better for their manager later on. Players want to play for Dusty. That seems to be a fact. And games like that which happened on Sunday are part of the reason why.

A thousand different times, Dusty Baker has made tactical decisions that teeter on the border between the bizarre and the just plain stupid. Those things, which are well within the remit of what we write about, pretty clearly cost his team runs and therefore wins. I’m not here to argue that point one little bit. What is equally clear to me, though, is that Baker does things in the clubhouse—in the subtle crevices and nuances of personal relationships, respect, and loyalty—that earn him extraordinary devotion from his players. He is, fundamentally, a people person.

I cannot imagine that that trait does not have a positive impact on the bottom line win totals for his teams. Is the positive impact he engenders negated by the tactical confusion he also creates? Possibly. Would it be better if Baker were both a players’ manager and a tactical wizard? Definitely. For now, though, my working hypothesis is that Baker has found, through years of experience, that he can’t always be both, and when he can’t, he sides with the players. We don’t like that choice because we can’t fully understand the benefits he’s seeing. But the players can, and they tell us they’re real. In the absence of further evidence, that’s meaningful to me.