BLEEDING DODGER BLUE ON 5TH FLOOR.

Byline: KEVIN MODESTI

If the Dodgers clinch the National League West title today or Sunday, their celebration will look different than any in 30 years.

At game's end, Tom Lasorda will not run onto the field, slightly behind his younger, fitter comrades in blue, waving his arms as if he means to take flight, the way he did in 1974, when he was the third-base coach, and in '77, '78, '81, '83, '85, '88 and '95, when he was the manager.

The way Lasorda plans it this time, while the Dodgers pour out of the dugout, the fellow who managed them for the first 41 of their 91 wins this season will be in Peter O'Malley's fifth-story box.

Out of view of the fans, he will applaud, in that funny way of his that always looks like a none-too-convincing ad for isometric exercise.

And then, while the Dodgers repair to their clubhouse for a private champagne celebration with a dozen minicams, Lasorda will slip on his blazer and drive home.

``It's been what, 24 years?'' he says when he is asked how long it has been since the Dodgers won a championship of any kind without Lasorda on the field.

``Thirty,'' you say, like the guy on the infamous tape who told Lasorda that Kingman drove in not seven runs, but eight. You have to go back to the 1966 pennant.

Lasorda, who traded in his uniform for a hospital gown and then a vice president's suit in July, is talking as he walks on the Dodger Stadium club level three hours before Friday's game with the San Diego Padres, which could have been the clincher.

``Is it tough, not to be out there tonight?'' you ask.

``Oh, yeah,'' he says. He spots a familiar face and interrupts himself to say hi.

``Oh, yeah,'' he repeats.

``Welcome back, Tommy,'' somebody says to Lasorda, who is just home from New York.

Who would have thought Tom Lasorda would be in New York during the Dodgers' pennant drive? Other than Bob Dole, of course.

``Miss you, Tommy,'' somebody calls out as he walks on.

``I miss it, too,'' he replies. ``I miss it, too.''

Time marches on, and nowhere faster than in baseball, where the past 20 years' manager is yesterday's news. Lasorda is caught in a kind of limbo between Sports Illustrated and the history books.

Earlier this month, the Dodgers gathered for their team photo and, in what some considered an omission, did not include Lasorda.

``Nobody asked me,'' he says, sounding more amused than angry.

He knows how it works. Generations of Dodgers come and go. Ron Cey's No. 10 is now worn by Chad Curtis, Mike Scioscia's No. 14 by Delino DeShields, Kirk Gibson's No. 23 by Eric Karros. Orel Hershiser's No. 55 belongs to Wayne Kirby, who has hit one more Dodgers home run than Hershiser hit.

Lasorda is in his office now, answering his own phone, which sits near the new Sinatra Wall, surrounded by the other old, familiar photos.

He extols front-office life. A championship, he says, brings together the whole organization, the ticket department, the accountants, the publicists - ``the unsung heroes.''

Now he is one of those, too.

``That's the decision I had to make,'' he says of stepping down - or was it up? - from the dugout.

He doesn't visit the clubhouse because ``I don't want to be a distraction.'' Bill Russell, his replacement, knows he can phone anytime and ``we've talked a number of times.''

He is happy for Russell. He also won't let you forget the Dodgers already were in first place - 41-35 and two games ahead of the Padres - when he quit.

Don't feel bad for him, he says. Feel happy for him, consider him lucky to be alive and healthy. ``I want the fans to be proud of Tommy,'' he says.

Those will be his players celebrating. Just not with him.

``If I had a penny for every baseball I threw to those guys (in batting practice), I'd be a rich man,'' he says.

Lasorda retells an old story, slowly, so you can take down every word, every hidden meaning.

``When I was managing in the minor leagues and my players were called up to the big leagues, I would tell them it's like the guy in Carnegie Hall, giving a great performance, and afterwards the audience gives him a standing ovation,'' he says.

Stay with this.

``But up in the balcony is the guy's father, with a tear in his eye, because he pushed this guy in the right direction. I told them, `When you're playing in the big leagues, think of Tom, because he's down here with a tear in his eye.' ''

The point:

``That's how it will be this weekend,'' Lasorda says. ``When those guys cinch the division, look upstairs. There's Tom, with a tear in his eye.''

MEMO: Kevin Modesti's column appears in the Daily News four days a week.