Former Phillie Jeff Manto got his ‘butt back to school.’ Now he’ll graduate from Temple 40 years after leaving.

There were enough New York fans in the crowd most nights in Lakewood, N.J., that Jeff Manto knew better than to turn around when he heard the woman screaming his name from the crowd.

In the summer of 2002, Manto was the manager of the BlueClaws — a Phillies minor league affiliate — and didn’t need to be heckled in his home park. So he ignored her until the game was over.

“I finally said, ‘Lady, what do you want?’” Manto said. “She said, ‘I’m your counselor. Get your butt back to school.’”

The fan was Arlene Dowd, who worked at Temple for more than 20 years. Manto left Temple in 1985, 22 credits shy of a degree after he was drafted by the California Angels. He always planned to graduate, but finding time — Manto played 16 seasons professionally, coached for 20 years, and raised three kids — was a challenge.

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But Manto never forgot Dowd, who was persistent that night in Lakewood, just like Manto was when he finally returned to Temple in January 2020. Manto, who grew up in Bristol and played eight games for the 1993 National League champion Phillies, took one class a semester to finish his degree.

Manto, 60, will graduate on Thursday with a bachelor’s degree in general studies, 40 years after first leaving campus. Manto got his butt back to school.

“Arlene definitely sparked the interest,” Manto said. “I thought it was just some crazy fan. She yelled ‘Manto’ 15 times, so I figured ‘Something must be wrong with this lady.’”

There was little money and even less guarantee attached to being a 14th-round pick, so Manto wasn’t sure what to do in June 1985 after the Angels drafted him. He hit .441 that season for Temple and thought the Owls had a chance to make the College World Series in 1986 if he returned for another year.

“I talked to my teammates,” Manto said. “That’s what Temple offered. They offered the camaraderie where you felt like you could ask those guys what you should do and what their advice would be.”

The Owls told Manto that they would sign the contract if they were in his position. Manto listened, became a professional ballplayer, and left his degree unfinished. He played minor league baseball in the summer and refereed high school basketball in the winter as a way to fund his dream. Manto was willing to do whatever it took.

“That‘s how I was taught at home,” Manto said. “Nothing was given to me. If I wanted something, I had to go out and get it. When you talk about this area, there’s a toughness behind it. An intelligent toughness. There’s a lot of people in this area from the same cloth.”

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Manto was in his sixth minor league season in 1990 when he finally got the call to the majors. A player was injured and Cleveland needed a short-term fix. Manto was the guy.

“What you don’t understand your first time getting called up is that you’re going to get sent right back down,” Manto said. “The guys are asking me, ‘Why are you packing everything?’ I figured, ‘Once you get to the big leagues, you stay.’ That wasn’t the case at all.”

He didn’t know it then, but he later found out just what it meant to his parents — his father was a police officer and district magistrate, and his mother was a secretary — that he reached the big leagues. It was his journey, but the dream was shared.

Manto spent parts of nine seasons in the majors and had stints with three teams that reached the World Series: the 1993 Phillies, 1997 Indians, and 1999 Yankees.

His longest tenure was 89 games with the 1995 Orioles, who played Manto at third base the night Cal Ripken Jr. tied Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games streak. Manto was with the Phillies during the 1993 playoffs and watched the games from the clubhouse in case a player was injured. His decision to leave Temple to chase a dream proved fruitful.

“It was everything you would think it would be,” Manto said of being at Veterans Stadium for the 1993 World Series. “Talk about a dream come true. I played for the Phillies in the World Series in my backyard when I was 10 years old.”

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Manto tried to go back to school after Dowd finally caught his attention, but it didn’t work out. He met a few years later with one of Dowd‘s colleagues, who told Manto to contact a Temple professor. Manto, then the major league hitting coach for the Pirates, told the professor he couldn’t attend class until October.

“He said, ‘Whoa, you mean to tell me that you’re going to miss four of my 10 classes, and you expect to pass?’” Manto said. “I said, ‘Uh, I don’t know.’ He said, ‘Sir, I don’t know who you think you are, but you have no chance.’ That set me back a little.”

He shelved the idea until 2019, when his tenure ended as a minor league instructor with the Orioles. Finally, Manto had time. The scholarship he had in the 1980s was no longer valid, as Manto needed to return to class within two years of retiring as a player, which he did in 2000. He called Fran Dunphy and asked if the school had any scholarship money left over. There was nothing, Dunphy said.

“Obviously,” Manto said. “You trust what Fran Dunphy says.”

Manto’s first class was a virtual course in political science and cost him $1,500. The first assignment was to “describe yourself in pictures.” It had been nearly 40 years since he left the classroom. Manto was lost. And then his daughters — Temple graduates Gabrielle and Andreana — stopped by the house.

“I said, ‘Hey, can you guys help me?’” Manto said. “Both of them said, ‘You know what, Dad? Remember when we went to Temple and you said, ‘Figure it out?’ You figure it out.’ It was definitely a touché moment.”

Manto figured it out. He finished the class and called Dunphy again before the next semester. No money, Dunphy said. He paid another $1,500 and then called Arthur Johnson — who replaced Dunphy as Temple’s athletic director — before the 2021 spring semester. Johnson gave Manto the same answer.

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“I’m doing the math, and a general studies degree at 60 years old doesn’t make financial sense,” Manto said. “I told my wife that was it. I never promised anybody that I would get my degree, even though I knew it would be pretty cool to get.”

But Manto — the guy who made the majors as a 14th-round pick — decided to take one more swing. He called the NCAA to see what it could do. He learned of a program meant for people like Manto who lost their scholarships after becoming pro athletes. Lori Thomas, the NCAA’s assistant coordinator for finance, told Manto that the NCAA would fund the rest of his degree.

“I said, ‘Wait, what‘s the catch?’ She said, ‘There is no catch,’” Manto said. “It was all taken care of. It was a program I never knew existed, and it was a game-changer for sure. Thank God for that last phone call.”

Manto finished his final class last month by writing a research paper about the decline of Black players in Major League Baseball. He enjoys writing, but this was a new experience.

“I had to go to scholarly articles that I would‘ve never gone to,” Manto said. “I had to get some absolute, concrete proof. I couldn’t have much of an opinion. Everything I wrote had to be factual and quoted. It was interesting.”

Manto is unsure what he’ll do with his degree. It could allow him to coach in college if an opportunity arises. For now, he’ll wait and see.

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He coaches the varsity baseball team at Conwell-Egan and owns Manto Player Development Center on Canal Street in Bristol where swings are measured by the same technology used by big league teams and critiqued by someone who once coached major leaguers.

“I enjoy coaching,” Manto said. “I enjoy telling the stories to my kids. Sometimes, I think they think I was a rodeo clown. They look at me like, ‘What do you know?’ But they’re really good kids.”

He opened his center in February and wants to provide honest feedback, even if it‘s not what a player or parent wants to hear.

“The goal is to alert these players and parents of what it actually takes to get to the next level,” Manto said. “I’m not saying ‘major league level.’ I’m talking about the next level. I think players and parents are extremely misled in their evaluations, and it‘s bothersome. It bothers me that people are trying to sell ‘Major League Baseball’ and say, ‘All you have to do is this, and you’re going to get better.’ That‘s not true. The goal is to let these parents know the exact truth.”

Manto spent his life in professional baseball. Now he’s a college graduate, finishing something he left behind 40 years ago. A screaming fan in Lakewood was not a heckler, but an inspiration. Dowd was persistent that night, just like Manto.

“It was always on my mind,” Manto said. “It was unfinished business. It wasn’t something I was eagerly after, but it was always on the back of my mind. I would talk to my fellow teammates, and they all had their degree, and everyone in my family has their degree. It was like a knot in my stomach.”