Tigers Should "86" #11, But Won’t As Long As Sparky And Mikey Don’t See Eye-to-Eye

When Sparky Anderson was leading the Tigers to the 1984 World Series title, he did so with an axe to grind. In his book, “They Call Me Sparky,” the old white-haired manager admitted that much of his motivation was to show his old bosses, the Cincinnati Reds, that they had made a mistake in firing him after the 1978 season. “I wanted to win for all the wrong reasons,” Sparky opined.

But what cap is Sparky wearing on his Hall of Fame plaque in Cooperstown?

That Spark decided to be inducted into the Hall as a Red wasn’t terribly surprising, considering he didn’t want to have much to do with the Tigers at that point, back in 2000. Or now, for that matter. Or ever, as long as Mike Ilitch owns the team. For a while it looked like the Reds, not the Tigers, would be the franchise in Sparky’s doghouse. But Anderson so obviously dissed Ilitch in his book, and you wonder if the bridge can ever be repaired.

I’m not exactly sure what caused the friction between Sparky and Mikey, but I have a hunch it has something to do with the manager’s stand against the possibility of replacement players during spring training, 1995. Sparky was against it as adamantly and as publicly as any manager at the time, maybe the most. He all but dared Ilitch to fire him, flatly refusing to manage major league impostors. The notion of playing with replacements was real back in ‘95, because baseball was still coming out of its labor woes that wiped out the 1994 World Series. It could go on, Sparky said, but it would go on without him. And that was pretty much the last straw for Sparky in Detroit. Buddy Bell took over in 1996.

Sparky’s ill will actually began shortly after Ilitch bought the club in 1992, when one of the new owner’s moves was to fire Anderson’s friend Bo Schembechler, oddly cast as the team’s president. Bo was the lightning rod during the Ernie Harwell fiasco in late 1990, punctuated by Ernie’s famous December press conference, where he announced he’d been told 1991 would be his last season as the team’s radio announcer. Firing Bo Schembechler, at the time, was as guaranteed for garnering good P.R. as announcing that all kids attending Tigers games would receive free puppies. Ilitch, in Sparky Anderson’s mind, pandered to the populist viewpoint at the expense of his buddy Bo.

So whenever you see ole Spark around the team, as he was in spring training in 2003, it’s strictly for his “boys” – Alan Trammell, Kirk Gibson and Lance Parrish. It sure as hell isn’t for Mike Ilitch.

This is all a shame, because the Tigers should retire #11 — Sparky’s old number. But it’s also a shame because there is another big reason #11 should join 16 (Hal Newhouser), 6 (Al Kaline), 5 (Hank Greenberg), 2 (Charlie Gehringer) and 23 (Willie Horton) as rafters-dwelling numbers: Bill Freehan.

Because of Sparky and Ilitch’s feud, Freehan (right) gets slighted

Since 1963, only two men have worn #11 in Detroit: Sparky and Freehan. It would be wonderful to finally officially put #11 to bed. To the Tigers’ — and Ilitch’s — credit, no one has worn 11 since Sparky left the team. And frankly, nobody probably ever will. So why not have a ceremony and frame Freehan’s and Sparky’s names around a big encircled #11?

Freehan, a man chiseled by God to be a catcher, did the number proud from ‘63-’76. He still, to my knowledge, holds the all-time A.L. record for best fielding percentage by a catcher. His block of the plate against Lou Brock in the fifth game of the 1968 World Series should be among the top five greatest plays in Detroit’s sports history, if you ask me. Horton, by the way, made the throw that nipped Brock at the plate and turned the Series around. How fitting, then, for Freehan, a local boy like Horton (born in Detroit and schooled at U-M), to join Willie with a retired number.

But alas, this is unlikely to ever happen as long as there is the chasm between Sparky and Mike Ilitch. You’d might as well start giving the number out again to be worn; it would be retired in our minds only.

It seems silly, in a way, to allow what seems to be an outdated, petty feud prevent what should be a joyous and festive occasion from happening at Comerica Park. But it is there, for all to see: never will #11 get its just desserts as long as Mike Ilitch owns the Tigers. And not just Bill Freehan should be sad about that.
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What do YOU think? I’m eager to hear from you. Post a comment or email me at GregorySEno@aol.com to chime in.

Sacre Bleu! My ‘74 Expos Don’t Stand A Chance With Me At The Helm

Whoever said managing a baseball team is easy? I mean, besides fans and anyone else who’s never tried it before?

I’ve tried it, and it ain’t easy. My record speaks for itself, sadly.

Okay, so it’s not REAL baseball. Some of you faithful Greg Eno readers may recall that I usually replay a baseball team’s season through the magic of tabletop games like APBA, Strat-O-Matic, Replay, Pursue the Pennant, etc. You might also recall that last year’s foray with the 1991 Cubs in PTP was, shall we say, less than successful. And you might also remember me writing that I even fired myself a few years back while piloting the 1959 Pirates in SOM. Thaaaat’s right…..fired myself. I continued to manage, of course, but while pretending to be an interim guy.

Did I also tell you that I’m a little nuts?

Anyhow, I am now leading the 1974 Montreal Expos, that lovely 79-82 club of Ron Fairly, Pepe Frias and Ken Singleton. Okay, so they’re not populated with Hallof Famers, but…this is getting ridiculous. After flirting with .500, like the Tigers, getting close at 21-22, my Les Expos have stumbled big time, losing 13 of 17 to fall to 25-35. I’m in danger of getting fired again.

So here’s the deal: I play most nights, after my lovely wife and child have gone into slumber, the sounds of rolling dice lulling them to sleep. And, lately, the sounds of “#$!@#”. Like the other night, which was another way I am separated from the ghosts of Walter Alston, Casey Stengel and Joe McCarthy: down by three, bottom of the 9th, and my leadoff man, Mike Jorgensen, gets a base hit, then moves to second on a wild pitch. The next batter, Barry Foote (told you they weren’t Hall of Famers), singles. So what do I do? I commit a cardinal sin, that’s what. Instead of holding Jorgy, whose run is meaningless, I send him, challenging the arm of the Cubs’ Jose Cardenal. Big mistake. Jorgy gets nabbed, and instead of 1st and 3rd with no outs, I’m looking at man on 1st, one out.

Oh, how Montreal talk radio would be up in arms!

We recovered to win last night, and can even our four-game set with the 66-96 Cubs tonight.

Maybe the guys will play hard the rest of the way to save my job.

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Thanks to faithful “Out of Bounds” reader Brian DeCaussin, who cleared up the College World Series format for me. A lovely “OOB” t-shirt will be his. Here’s Brian’s email:

Hi, Greg.I’m not sure I understand every little aspect of theCollege World Series, but here’s what I think Iunderstand.It’s begins as a 64 team field, just like thebasketball tournament. Conference tournament winnersget automatic berths and the selection committee picksthe at-large schools just like in basketball. The committee also seeds the teams using, amongstother things, the ever-popular RPI. (Yes, NCAAbaseball has an RPI. Go to Boyd’s World.com for aprimer.) The field has a traditional bracket formatthat determines match-ups throughout.The 64 teams are divided into “Regionals” of fourteams. The four teams in each regional play a doubleelimination tournament. The winner advances onto a”Super Regional”. The Super Regionals feature only two teams in eachbracket in a best of three format. Basically, it’sstill a double elimination scenario. Lose two, youare out.The winner of each of the Super Regionals advances toOmaha. Basically, these would be your Elite 8 teams,if this were hoops.The eight participants in Omaha square off in anotherdouble elimination tournament. The two winners ofeach side of the brackets then face off in a best ofthree championship series. The baseball tourney is like most NCAA championshipformats except that has a double elimination processat each step. I hope this helps. Feel free to ask questions. Whoknows? I may even have an answer or two.Brianhttp://www.beyondboxscores.blogspot.com

Placido Polanco: Fun To Say, Fun To Eat (Well, Not Literally)

There are some sports names that I’ve known over the years that are simply fun to say:
Chico Maki. Manu Tuaiasosopo. Harthorne Wingo. Spud Webb.

And now, Placido Polanco.

Polanco, who I didn’t really know because I don’t follow the National League, is a cherub-looking guy with a face as round as a baseball. But he’s already won me over; the guy can flat out hit. My colleague at Motor City Sports Magazine, Muneesh Jain, was beside himself when the Tigers acquired second sacker Polanco from the Phillies for reliever Ugueth Urbina.

“We don’t NEED a second baseman!,” Muneesh wailed to me.

“What if he hits .390 in his first month?,” I should have said. Then I would have looked like a freaking soothsayer.

Polanco has done nothing but hit the bejeebers out of the ball, play some decent second base, and filled the #2 spot in the batting order like custard in a donut – yummily.

It should be noted that Polanco didn’t just start hitting when he pulled on the Olde English D. He is no stranger to the .300 mark. The Phillies let him go because they are high on young Chase Utley. But after watching Polanco swing the bat and play second, this Utley better be the second coming of Joe Morgan.

So thanks, Philly – we’ll take Placido. Even if my friend Muneesh doesn’t think we need him.

The College World Series? High School Calculus Was Easier To Figure Out! (But You Could Win A T-Shirt)

Today’s post is a contest of sorts.

I need your help.

One of those wonderful “Out of Bounds” t-shirts will be available later this summer (when the new batch is ready) for the person who can tell me, correctly, how the heck the College World Series of baseball is formatted.

I survived high school calculus. I went to college – and graduated, too! I even made it through our daughter’s fifth grade homework this past school year. But I cannot, for the life of me, figure out the College World Series.

Now, I must admit, I am not a fan of college baseball. Never have been. The aluminum bats turn me off; I can’t get past those. Anyhow, maybe that is contributing to my dumbness when it comes to what is, I assume, their granddaddy event. You might wonder, then, why do I care how they run the darn thing, if I am not a fan?

Sometimes you just need to know certain things, even if it doesn’t truly matter. The College World Series absolutely doesn’t affect me, because I couldn’t care less who wins it, frankly. But I would also, at the same time, dearly like to know how the tournament works because it’s one of those mysteries, like Ted Koppel’s hair, that you’d kind of like to be explained.

Plus, I’m in the mood to give out a t-shirt or two.

If more than one person responds with the correct answer, I’ll put their names in a hat and draw. Or you can fight to the death for it – whichever strikes your fancy.

So please post a comment or email me at GregorySEno@aol.com to clue me in.

Thanks.

"Rooftop" Jones’ Debut Kept The Tigers Rolling In ‘84

(another in a series of posts featuring memorable Tigers — in one way, shape or form — who played in Detroit since the last All-Star game here, in 1971. This series celebrates the return of the midsummer classic to the Motor City in 2005, and a new feature will appear each weekend until the game is played in July)

One of the things that most championship teams have in common, in any sport, is contribution from so-called “role players” — guys who aren’t starters, typically, but who do certain things quite well. All your stars can’t play all the time, of course.

The 1984 Tigers had role players coming out of their ears: Marty Castillo, Rusty Kuntz, Johnny Grubb, to name a few, all contributed in their specialized ways. But another guy personified “role player” to the nth degree, and he wasn’t even on the team when the Tigers broke camp in April.

Ruppert “Rooftop” Jones was a lefthanded power hitter who had seen most of his better days pass him by when the Tigers came calling, signing him as a free agent in April. Tigers GM Bill Lajoie figured the club needed another stick, especially one from the left side, so he snagged Jones on the cheap. Lajoie thought the pull-hitting Ruppert would be a good fit for Tiger Stadium, with its short porch in right field. It didn’t take long for Lajoie’s assessment to ring true.

Jones was a hit right off the bat with the Tigers in ‘84

After a short stay in the minors to regain his batting eye and timing, Jones joined the team in Detroit in early June, when the second place Blue Jays were in town. Despite their phenomenal start, the Tigers were feeling pressure from the Jays, who were also playing great ball and were nipping at the Tigers’ heels. The first game of the four-game set was a classic; it was the Monday night when Dave Bergman fouled off what seemed like 20 pitches (it was eight) off Blue Jays reliever Roy Lee Jackson, then finally won the game with a walk-off homer, on national TV. But Toronto won the next two, and suddenly they were only 3 1/2 games off the lead. Enter Jones.

Ruppert, called up the previous day, had a very auspicious Tigers debut. He slammed a three-run home run off the facing of the third deck — hence the nickname “Rooftop”, even though it didn’t clear the roof — to help lead the Tigers to victory and bump their lead to 4 1/2 games. He caught fire as soon as the Tigers promoted him, and before long the Jays were left with dust in their mouths as the Tigers consistently kept their lead between 8-12 games all summer long.

Jones quickly became a fan favorite, with his huge chaw of tobacco in his cheek, his bulging eyes as he got ready in the batter’s box, and his towering home runs. Lajoie was right — Ruppert was indeed a perfect fit for Tiger Stadium, and for Tigers fans. He wasn’t much of an outfielder, but that’s not why the team acquired him. Jones filled his “role” perfectly — providing punch from the left side, both in a DH and pinch-hitting sort of way.

Jones said that going to the Tigers revived him, like a splash of cold water in one’s face. The energy of the pennant race, plus the team’s obvious destiny to win the division, was just what the 29 year-old Jones needed.

Jones slugged 12 homers in just over 200 at-bats with the ‘84 Tigers, then signed with the Angels, where he had a few decent seasons, making it back to the ALCS in 1986.

Would the Tigers have won the division, the pennant, and the World Series without Ruppert Jones? Probably — they were that good. But it doesn’t diminish his contributions to that marvelous ballclub. Besides, you never know what might have happened had the Blue Jays won that game back in May to pull within 2 1/2 games of the Tigers. Could have been a different race. But thanks to Ruppert “Rooftop” Jones, Tigers fans never had to worry about that.

(next week: Tito Fuentes)

For Mooch And Tram, Time To Win Is Now, Not Later

(the following column can also be viewed at RetailDetroit.com, where a new column from yours truly appears each Sunday or Monday. They will also appear here for your reading pleasure. For archives of my columns there, go to www.RetailDetroit.com and click on “Columnists”)

“Fire Alan Trammell!”

“Sack Steve Mariucci!”

It won’t be long before those two declarations will be heard more and more around this town. You know it’s true.

Both Trammell, the Tigers manager, and Mariucci, the Lions coach, started leading their teams in Detroit in 2003. Both had lousy first seasons — Trammell had his with big league impostors. Both made some strides in their second tries. And both must win — if not now, then very soon — to save their jobs, already, if the fans have anything to say about it.

Trammell (left) and Mariucci already are on the hot seat, in Season 3

It’s probably accurate to make such a statement, though it hasn’t been mentioned too often, beyond the impulsive callers to the sports radio talk shows around town. It’s accurate because both men are in charge of teams that are beyond trying the patience of their respective fans. It’s accurate because honeymoons with the Tigers and Lions, if they were real honeymoons, would be over with when the couple checks into their hotel suite.

But mainly it’s accurate because each man’s ownership is providing him, slowly but surely, with the tools needed to be successful. Tigers owner Mike Ilitch has been breaking out the checkbook lately, the scouting department is finally beginning to produce big league-caliber players, and certain Tigers are maturing and coming into their own, all at the same time. The core is developing at Comerica Park, and it’s up to Trammell to take it to the next level. Same thing with Mariucci. President Matt Millen has been orchestrating some nice drafts as of late, and his free agent signees have been mostly smart and capable.

So it’s getting to be that time — when expectations are higher and more realistic instead of being just lip service. And when that stage of development occurs, only one person is accountable: the manager, or coach. Trammell has this year, and that’s about all, to show people he can manage a bit and manage real big leaguers to boot. Mariucci better win some games in 2005, because his shine has mostly worn off since that day when he was introduced as Lions coach in a ceremony befitting the crowning of a new king. There are whispers that Mooch may not have been the hotshot that was advertised, and that his success in San Francisco may not have been all that much to begin with. Did he win a Super Bowl? An NFC Championship? No and no. In fact, he led the 49’ers no further than Wayne Fontes led the Lions, postseason-wise, when it comes right down to it. I forgive you if you just winced when you read that. But it’s true.

Mariucci’s hiring was exciting because for the first time since….probably ever, the Lions had snagged someone that other NFL teams — real, honest-to-goodness NFL teams — also had considered seriously to run their programs. Trammell’s introduction as Tigers manager was neat because he was a local hero coming home to save the team. But that kind of anticipation and titillation only goes so far. Sooner or later you have to win. Later is gone; Sooner is here now, at the door with his bags because he plans on staying a while. And chances are, he’ll still be here after Trammell and/or Mariucci are gone, if history is any indicator.

Trammell’s case is a bit more touchy, because it’s practically like Al Kaline managing the team for as beloved as Trammell was as a player, and how do you call for the firing of someone like Kaline, for crying out loud? But Bart Starr, who could have been elected the mayor of Green Bay and never been unseated, was fired as Packers head coach eventually. Tommy Heinsohn was as Boston as baked beans, and he got the boot as Celtics coach. And let’s not forget that Sparky Anderson, Trammell’s mentor, was fired as Reds manager in 1978 despite four World Series appearances and two championships in nine seasons. So it can happen; legends can be fired.

Tram might get a longer leash because Ilitch is so respectful of the team’s tradition, but the owner fired Jacques Demers as coach of the Red Wings even though he practically considered Jacques a son. It’s about winning, and Trammell’s playing career and his nice guy status won’t mean a hill of beans if the Tigers don’t start edging themselves over .500 on a consistent basis.

Mariucci is probably more expendable, because even though he is a Northern Michigan boy and best buddies with MSU basketball coach Tom Izzo, Mooch will be, frankly, just another NFL coach who passed through town if he doesn’t get a hold of this situation and start getting the Lions into the playoffs and make some noise when they get there. I doubt very much Lions fans will be concerned about Izzo shedding tears with his friend Mariucci if the latter gets the axe.

Having said all this, it is still unlikely that either man will be canned without a proper amount of time to prove himself, despite the fans’ consternation. But this column isn’t about what Ilitch or Bill Ford Sr. will do; it’s about what the fans will demand. And before long, you’re very likely to hear more and more chatter about getting rid of Trammell and/or Mariucci around every water cooler in Metro Detroit. And on every call-in show on the radio. And in every sports chat room. And on every sports blog. And, eventually, in every column in the News and Free Press.

To be fair, both Tram and Mooch relish the pressure that the need to win produces, and both are eager to meet the challenge. Both are well-versed enough about Detroit sports to know that their popularity and resumes won’t carry them further than their records. Both like and respect their owners, and feel they owe it to them, if nobody else, to win. Both know that their reputations are on the line, and that their success or failure here will impact future jobs in their respective games.

Still, uneasy lies the head that wears the crown — especially crowns that have been as tarnished as those associated with the Tigers and Lions of late. And when I say “of late”, I mean the last 48 years. Three world championships in almost half a century between them will create such tarnishing.

To make it all go away, all Tram and Mooch have to do is follow the advice of Raiders managing partner Al Davis: Just Win, Baby. Or we’ll just find someone who will — local hero or not.

Wanna Feel The Love, Joey? Accept A Demotion

Insert boos and abuse from talk radio here, please

Okay, so what else is going on around town, sports-wise, now that the Pistons have all gone home for the summer?

Basketball still happening at the Palace; Shock doing okay. Baseball not even halfway done yet at Comerica Park; Tigers doing alright. Zamboni still gathering cobwebs at Joe Louis Arena; Red Wings scattered all over the world. And mini-camps and drills still going on occasionally in Allen Park; Lions primed for another quarterback controversy.

Now that my mind is cleared from my Pistons hangover, I have a brilliant idea for Joey Harrington. If he really wants the fans’ support –and he does, trust me — and if he truly is getting tired of the abuse — and he is — then I have the perfect solution:

Become the backup quarterback.

That’s right. Take a demotion. Abdicate the signal-calling throne. Sneak into the team’s offices and retype your name behind Jeff Garcia’s on the depth chart. You do this, Joey, and I think you’ll like the results.

I’m no genius, believe me. I’m simply utilizing the Hipple/Munson/Kramer Theorem, which states that, “The most liked quarterback in Detroit shall be the backup.”

See? All you have to do is anoint Jeff Garcia the starter — Numero Uno — and you suddenly become the most liked QB in town. Let’s face it: the football fans around here have always preferred their quarterbacks with clipboards and baseball caps. They love them like that. But as soon as the helmet gets put on and the clipboard is replaced with an actual football, well….the love goes away, don’t you know.

I know it’s not easy to be #2 when it comes to being an athlete, because you want to play, let’s face it. But you don’t care for the booing and the vitriol, either, and the only way to shield yourself from that is to not play. It’s a genuine football Catch-22, I tell you.

Playing = booing and abuse on talk radio.
Not playing = adoration and cessation of aforementioned booing and abuse on talk radio.

It’s not rocket science, folks.

If you think I’m full of pigskin, fast forward your football brain to, say, mid-October. Joey is on the bench, having not played a down. The Lions are 2-4 — a record, of course, that MUST be the quarterback’s fault entirely. Garcia is being booed and taking abuse on talk radio. So what happens next?

“Put in Joey!”

“Even Harrington could have completed THAT pass!”

“We want Harrington!”

“Backup quarterbacks — UNITE!”

And so on.

If you still don’t think this or something very similar to it would happen, then either you haven’t lived here for more than a day, or you’ve been sniffing the stickum again.

I doubt, even after having said all this, Joey Harrington will take my advice. I know it’s not in a player’s heart and soul to willfully step aside and let someone else take his place. I know Joey will hold on to the starter’s job with every fiber of his being. I know that he believes he’s the man who can succeed where dozens of quarterbacks have failed.

It’s kinda cute, in a way, that he’s still so naive.

Thanks, Krista! Today’s Freep Gives "Out of Bounds" Some Generous Ink

Just wanted to give a shout out to Krista Latham of the Detroit Free Press. Krista is a sportswriter there, and she is also at times the “Undercover Fan.” Sorry to out you, Krista, but you deserve my thanks for the nice plug in today’s Freep, on page 2C, in your story about Pistons bloggers. Very generous of you to give me such ink. And you mentioned the debut of Motor City Sports Magazine, which will hit newsstands October 4, 2005.

Speaking of MCS Magazine, you should know it will be a monthly pub dedicated to Detroit and Michigan sports — high school, college and pro. Look for it. For subscription info, mouse on over to www.motorcitysports.net.

To find out what Undercover Fan had to say about me, click on “MORE” at the end of this post.

Thanks again, Krista! (And now you know what I wrote about a Pistons’ Game 7 loss).

Dethroned? Naah — Time Just Ran Out On The Pistons

Whether Brown leads them or not, Pistons still champs in my book

Well, the Pistons and I have one frightful thing in common: we both have lousy timing.

What a time to go cold. What a time to lose the aura. What a time to run out of tricks in the bag.

You should know what I’m talking about. I crowed — oh, did I crow — that a Pistons Game 7 win was so much in the bag, you didn’t even have to watch the game if it was too much for you. I bragged about how hot I’ve been, prediction-wise, in these playoffs. I told you there would be a party down Jefferson Avenue.

Then I went cold, just like the Pistons, at the worst possible time — the very end, when it mattered the most.

The Pistons led, 48-39, in the third quarter, and you could start to feel that ebb that had been swaying back and forth gradually tilting the Pistons’ way. A couple more baskets there, a couple more stops, and I think the Pistons would have been on their way to back-to-back titles.

But the Spurs did not go away. Neither team had after the first four games, so why should we have expected it would happen in Game 7? In a flash the lead was two — 48-46 — and then you knew, just knew, that you’d have to sweat another one out. One more angst-filled ending. One more “here we go again, so buckle your seat belts” fourth quarter.

The Pistons had been starring in their version of “The Perils of Pauline” throughout the playoffs, and this time the bad guy finally got the girl. Right from the opening tap of the first game of the first round, the Pistons flirted with danger. They fell behind by 16 points — in the first quarter! — to the Sixers in Game 1 of Round 1. They trailed the Pacers 2-1 with Game 4 in Indy. They had to win Game 6 and Game 7 to get past the Heat. And now, one more peril was created, a big one this time: 0-2, then 2-3, with the last two games in San Antonio. One more “foxhole”, as Chauncey Billups said, out of which to climb. But you figured, hey why not, they’ve done it all season, what’s one more? You especially thought that after a gutsy Game 6 win. Weren’t all the Pistons’ wins in the playoffs “gutsy”? Sure seemed like it.

One too many.

It was said about the great Lions quarterback Bobby Layne, “Bobby never lost a game; time just ran out on him.” I think that fits the Pistons pretty well, too. It may be arrogant, but I agree with them that if they play their game, they will win. It’s more about what they do or don’t do that dictates the final result.

Look, the Pistons have no more been “dethroned”, in my book, than a divorced man loses his title of “father” to his offspring. It’s corny, but the Pistons are still champions, in heart and mind if not on paper, because of how they play in momentous occasions. Yes, they got cold from the field in the last 18 minutes and scoring baskets was like eating soup with a fork. But man, did they never quit. Even though watching the final minute was like watching someone taking the last piece of pizza, but only gradually, one morsel at a time, I didn’t truly think it was over until there were 10 seconds left and the Pistons were down by three possessions. That’s how much it takes to believe the Pistons won’t come through. Ten seconds left. A three possession ballgame. Only then could the Spurs feel like champs.

But the Pistons should feel like champs. They should feel it all summer long, all through training camp, and throughout next season (regardless of who the coach is), and certainly during next year’s playoffs. They should feel it because they are it. They are as tough-minded and as resilient a bunch as I’ve ever seen pull on NBA uniforms. They have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I even forgive them Game 5’s misery, which will poke and jab them, but that’s the NBA, brother. Sheed happens.

So I was wrong. I got cold, like the Pistons, at the most inopportune time. They didn’t win. But they are winners.

Thanks, guys.

Hey, It’s In The Bag, Pistons Fans! So Take The Night Off

All you Pistons fans who feel like you’re going to Sheed your pants in anticipation of tonight’s Game 7 of the NBA Finals, here’s a word — literally — of advice for you: relax.

Yep, that’s right. Chill out. Take a bubble bath. Enjoy a glass of iced tea. Read a good book and curl up on the sofa. In fact, you don’t even have to watch the game if it’s too much for you. I’m giving you a night off tonight, if you wish, from the drama and angst of these NBA playoffs. I’m granting you the option of finally getting off this rollercoaster you’ve been riding for two months worth of postseason action.

The Pistons are gonna win it, and if you don’t believe me, then I feel sorry for you because all you’re going to end up doing is giving yourself an ulcer and a Chauncey stomach.

I speak the truth because the hottest person in these last two rounds hasn’t been Billups or Hamilton or Prince or even Wade or Ginobili. It hasn’t been Rasheed or Ben or Shaq or Duncan.

The hottest person, you see, has been me. Moi. Yours truly. The auteur of this cozy little blog.
You can read these next few lines to the theme of “Shaft” if you’d like, but suffice it to say that I was the cat who said the Pistons wouldn’t drop out against the Heat after they went down 3-2. I was the dude who said they would win a blowout in Game 6 over Miami and a tight one in Game 7, and it happened exactly as I said. I was the one who said the Pistons would settle themselves down and win Game 3 against the Spurs. I was the man who risked his life for his fellow man by suggesting the Pistons relax and have fun in Game 6 because nobody expected them to win. I was the one who reminded folks that the 1990 Pistons hadn’t won in Portland in over 15 years, yet swept all three in Oregon to win the championship, so why couldn’t today’s Pistons snap an eight-year streak in San Antonio like a twig if the Portland streak was a tree trunk?

You see? Hotter than a habanero pepper, I tell you.

So spend some time with your family tonight. Go to a movie. Play video games. Drop in on Aunt Meg or Uncle Joe. Check out the Tigers on the tube, if you must watch TV. Go ahead — I’m telling you it’ll all be fine because the Pistons will do what you want them to do, so why put yourself through any more agony?

But if you MUST watch the game, if you just have to see for yourself that I am right and truthful, I understand. I mean, I could be wrong.

But I’m not.

See ya on Jefferson Avenue.

Don’t Look Now, But The Tigers Will Soon Take Center Stage

Time is running out on the Tigers. Their two month rehearsal is over, and in a couple of days they will have to perform for real. The curtain will be raised — because the Pistons’ season will be over with and we will be forced to turn our attention their way. It’s one of the few times that an opening act is sure to upstage the headliner.

The Tigers are 34-33, and if they have been over .500 this late in a season, then maybe it is written on a stone tablet somewhere. Okay, maybe it hasn’t been quite that long, but it sure hasn’t been just yesterday, either. There are 95 games remaining, and even though they probably won’t mean a hill of beans as far as qualifying for the playoffs is concerned, the team has a chance to finish north of .500, and that alone should be cause for a parade, much like the one San Antonio planned for tomorrow.

Jeremy “I’m Not Jack Morris, But I Play Him On TV” Bonderman simply went into that House of Baseball Horrors, the Metrodome, and quieted the Twins to the tune of a complete game 7-2 victory. Fitting that the Tigers should win in Minny last night, the very same evening the Pistons snapped their winless drought in San Antonio. Bonderman, with his bulldog toughness, is indeed the closest thing the team has had to an ace starter since Morris, and if you don’t think so, just try to approach him on the day he’s scheduled to pitch. Apparently he is about as ornery as Morris, and he’s just getting started. Bonderman is only 22, which is obscene. No pitcher should be this poised and this focused and this freaking mean that young, unless he’s still playing in a Pony League somewhere and is cranky because of it.

The Tigers are not good enough to win the division this year, that much is for sure. They are probably not good enough to contend for a wild card spot. They may not be, frankly, even good enough to win more than they lose — even with the return of Carlos Guillen and Magglio Ordonez and with a surprisingly effective pitching staff. But they might keep us interested until Lions training camp begins in mid-July. Oh, how easy it is to be satisfied around here nowadays when it comes to baseball. The Tigers have lowered our expectations so much, you need a limbo bar to keep track of them.

It figures that in the season when the pitching is finally legitimate, the hitting goes south. The Tigers traded a pretty good reliever — Ugie Urbina – for a pretty good hitter — Placido Polanco – and when was the last time that happened? Usually it’s hitting for pitching, but the Tigers suddenly find themselves awash with good, young arms in their organization. See what happens when you get rid of Randy Smith and his Mr. Magoo scouts?

It’s this maddening absence of a consistent offense — a surprising void — that will keep the Tigers shackled to the .500 level. It is too much to ask a pitching staff to keep the other team to two or three runs every game over 162 games. This isn’t the late 60’s anymore; hitting is the game now, not pitching and defense, like the good old days.

So in two days the Pistons will be finished, the curtain will rise, the baseball season will take front and center, and I have just one thing to say to the Tigers:

You got one month to hold my interest.

Win Or Lose Game 7, Pistons Have Proven Their Mettle

Unlike Games 1 & 2, the lane closed fast and often on Ginobili in Game 6

At one point early in the Pistons’ remarkable 95-86 win in Game 6 of the NBA Finals, Game 5 hero Robert Horry had fallen flat on his keester, and Ben Wallace took advantage of the situation and slammed the ball home. The symbolism was clear: Game 5 was an ancient memory for these Pistons.

At this point, I almost don’t even care if the Pistons win Game 7. Okay, I do care — very much so, frankly — but I am so proud of them right now that, to me, they’ve already proven themselves with yet another display of their mental toughness. I certainly wouldn’t bet against them in Game 7 — no way, uh-uh. How could you? By now, after watching the last two playoff runs by this team, you’d have to be blind — both in eye and in heart — to not see that the Pistons absolutely do not wilt under pressure. They are 5-0 in games in which they face playoff elimination under Larry Brown, and at least three of those have been in the most hostile of situations: Game 6 in New Jersey in ‘04, Game 7 in Miami ths year, and last night’s Game 6.

The entire city of San Antonio was just ready to burst out with partying and celebration. The champagne was chilling in the Spurs’ lockerroom. The parade, we were told over and over, was planned for Thursday. The Pistons hadn’t won in San Antonio since 1997. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

But the Pistons have this unreal ability to take such situations and turn them into positive energy and play their toughest basketball. So Chauncey Billups and Rip Hamilton went out and proved that if they aren’t the best backcourt in basketball, then they are most definitely the best that has never made an All-Star team. Toss in some Tayshaun Prince offensive boards at the most key of moments, devilishly gutsy play from Rasheed Wallace, who was aggressive yet restrained with his five fouls, and the Pistons took control of the game in the closing moments. They had seen a seven-point lead that they had tried to nurse wittled down to one, 87-86. Then in the last couple minutes, Detroit outscored the Spurs 8-0. Hello, Game 7.

The only parade that will occur in San Antonio on Thursday will be the marching of the Pistons into the SBC Center to try to do what nobody thought they could do, mainly because nobody has done it: win the last two games of a Finals series, on the road, to win the championship. The funny thing is, the Pistons will still be underdogs, but that’s just fine. But it’s not right. I think the Pistons, considering the situation, should be looked at as having the upper hand. This is one of those moments they relish.

Once again, the 2-3-2 format changes the dynamics of this series. Normally, the Pistons would ave won a home Game 6 to force Game 7. But not only have they pushed this series to the brink, they have exorcised those “You haven’t won in San Antonio since 1997″ demons, all in one fell swoop. Forcing a Game 7 by winning Game 6 on the road is a whole different animal. Now all the Pistons have to do is relax and have fun, as I hoped they would do in Game 6, because most folks still think the odds are against them. And maybe the odds, from a mathematical sense, are indeed not in their favor.

Just the way the Pistons like them.

Down 3-2, Pookie Piston? Relax And Have Fun!

Cheer up, son: the pressure’s all on the Spurs


Here’s a question for all of you Pistons fans to ponder as you gnash your teeth and wring your hands and fantasize of all the ways Tony Soprano might do away with Robert Horry:

When is it easier to relax, have fun, and let it all hang out in professional sports — when the whole world expects you to fail, or when an entire city breathes down your neck, ready to crack open cases of champagne and is telling you, “Don’t EVEN think of losing!”?

This is where you’re supposed to say, “Ummm…the first one?”

Tell me, what percentage of this great basketball-loving country expects the Pistons to win one game in San Antonio, let alone two? How many believed that whomever won Game 5 would win the championship? How many think that, because of Game 5’s classic drama, anything after it is merely something that has to be played so the Spurs can officially be crowned champions? And how come I’m asking so many questions today?

Sorry to be so inquisitive, but if the Pistons ever just wanted to toss aside all their angst, tension and just play some damn basketball, it is tonight in Game 6. They say they thrive on the “us against the world” situations and maintain they play their best ball when their backs are to the wall. Well, I’d say their backs are pretty much part of the brick and mortar right about now. Just about EVERYONE figures this series is over. You’ve heard the talk, the numbers: the Pistons haven’t won in San Antonio since George Gervin was a rookie (okay, maybe not that long, but April 2, 1997 may as well be an eternity for some media folks), they stunk down there in Games 1 and 2, blah, blah, Blaha.

To hear some people talk — and I’m not including Bill Walton here because the operative word was people – the Pistons may as well not even bother showing up tonight except for the presentation of the Larry O’Brien Trophy to the Spurs so they can shake their hands.

But here’s something else for them to talk about, by the way: do they know that when the Pistons split the first two games of the 1990 Finals with the Trailblazers, they hadn’t won in Portland in over 15 years? Don’t they remember what happened next? Didn’t the Pistons sweep all three games in that Oregon town to win the championship? Why am I still asking so many freaking questions?

Anyhow, see where I’m heading here? (Another question, sorry). Okay, the Pistons haven’t won in San Antonio since ‘97. Fine. I could quibble and say the Pistons only visit the Spurs once a season due to league scheduling, but I won’t stoop to that level, even though it’s true. But a friend of mine, Bob Zahari, likes to point out that such streaks are actually good omens for the streakee because, frankly, they’re due. Z, you’re absolutely right. Aren’t the odds that the Pistons are bound to win in SBC sooner or later? Why not make it sooner?

Look, even I have my doubts about whether the Pistons can pull this off, and I’m about as optimistic of a guy as there is when it comes to our basketballers. My gut tells me this may be one hole they don’t crawl out of, but who the hell am I? The Pistons have proven so many people wrong about their chances in so many playoff series the last couple of years, they’d make great defense attorneys. They’re the Perry Masons of the NBA.

So here’s to hoping the Pistons just stay loose, have a ball, and enjoy the hell out of tonight’s game. Basketball jerseys don’t have collars, but don’t for a moment think the Spurs won’t feel their throats tighten the longer the Pistons hang around. And if you think the pressure should be on the Spurs to finish the Pistons in Game 6, what the heck do you think it will be like during a Game 7?

Then we can all say, “The Spurs haven’t beaten the Pistons in San Antonio since June 12, 2005.”

I don’t know about you, but Z and I think those aren’t very good odds. Not a long enough streak.

"Horry"-Fying! Pistons Will Be Haunted By Defensive Lapse

Robert Horry, sticking his final dagger into the Pistons’ hearts


I have not played organized basketball since I was 14 years old (I’m 41 now). I have never, ever coached the game. I haven’t even played a pickup game in several years. I have never been a student of the game, have never been unusually wise to its theories, and have never purported to know all that much about the x’s and o’s beyond what any normal fan might know.

But there is one thing that even I knew when the Pistons were in a timeout with 9.5 seconds remaining in overtime of Game 5 of the NBA Finals last night:

DON’T LEAVE ROBERT HORRY ALONE!

Horry, who didn’t score a single point until there was one second remaining in the third quarter, somehow found an empty telephone booth at the Palace and changed into his Superman costume. Well, maybe not, but he found his deadeye shooting touch, and he began raining three-pointers on the Pistons like a basketball-sized hail storm. Four of five he had hit, 18 points he had scored, and his shots were as clutch as clutch can get. Oh, how he was saving the Spurs time and time again, whenever it looked as if the Pistons might pull away and put the Spurs down 3-2. Forget Manu Ginobili. Disregard Tony Parker. Even Tim Duncan should have been brushed aside during the Pistons’ timeout in that situation — 9 seconds remaining and the Spurs down two, 95-93. A two-point basket, you could live with. A three-pointer was what you had to be worried about, because even though I am no basketball expert, as I indicated, even I know that three points, when you’re up by two, can put you behind by one.

Especially when the hottest player, the player that has been sticking daggers into your heart throughout the fourth quarter and overtime, is on the floor, inbounding the ball.

So Horry tosses the ball in to Ginobili in the corner, and even though he is 30 feet from the basket, Rasheed Wallace tries a trap — a weak trap, by the way — and Manu does what even I — the non-expert, you recall — would do: pass it to the guy who has been hitting all those big triples. And Horry, probably scarcely able to believe his fortune, finds himself as alone as a guy who had a limburger and onions sandwich for lunch, and calmly drains a go-ahead trey as if he was tossing a penny into the Atlantic Ocean. Ballgame — and maybe series.

The Pistons will be haunted by this breakdown in defensive fundamentals for longer than you want to believe. If coach Larry Brown didn’t harp on his guys to keep a man on Robert Horry and be careful of the triple during that strategy session, then I’m a monkey’s uncle. And I’m an only child, so you know what the odds of that one are. Yet just two seconds into the play, the only man that was left open was……ROBERT HORRY! It’s enough to make a Pistons fan want to eat Ben Wallace’s afro.

Hey, everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has mental lapses, even veteran NBA players. But Sheed tends to have them more than others. From his ill-timed technical fouls to his maddening refusal to take the ball to the hole, Wallace’s mind appears to be elsewhere in the most cataclysmic of times. Did you catch how he almost became the second coming of Chris Webber at the end of regulation? Snatching the rebound of Tim Duncan’s missed put-back as time ticked away, Sheed tried to call timeout, even though the Pistons had none remaining. But unlike Webber’s blunder in the ‘93 NCAA Championship game, the clock read 0:00.0 when he attempted such foolishness, so a technical foul wasn’t called. How would that have been for a way to lose? Even Rip Hamilton, you could see, was beside himself. He rushed to Sheed, obviously unsure that time had expired, and was frantically telling him something like, “YOU IDIOT!! WHAT THE #$&% ARE YOU DOING?!!” Or words to that effect.

So having dodged that dart of a mental blunder, the Pistons appeared, several times, to take control in overtime. And every time they did, Robert Horry was there — a put back, a drive, dunk and foul, and those irritating triples. Watching Horry launch from behind the arc, as hot as he was, was like watching a guy drive in for an uncontested layup: you knew it was going in. Yet during the most crucial play in a game full of them, Horry was abandoned by Rasheed Wallace all so he could try to trap a man 30 feet from the hoop when the Spurs still had a timeout left should Ginobili had gotten into some real trouble. OOPS!

No, the series isn’t over. Yes, the Pistons seem to defy the odds, time and again, and do things that most people don’t believe they can do. But this one is going to be awfully tough to bounce back from.

You don’t have to be a basketball expert to see that.

2-3-2 Format Might Be Pistons’ Saving Grace Again

More than a trophy is at stake in
this year’s Finals

Let’s hear it for the 2-3-2 format of the NBA Finals!

I’m still not quite sure why the NBA does it like that, considering every other playoff series in every other round is 2-2-1-1-1, but it can have a dramatic effect on things in the most important series of them all, and I’m wondering why it’s set up that way. Why fool with formats in the Finals?

By the way, in case you live beneath a rock, the 2-3-2 means two games at the favorite’s arena, three at the underdog’s, and two more at the favorite’s. In every other series, after the first four games are split 2-2, the teams alternate home games.

So the Pistons, in any other series, would be playing tonight’s Game 5 in San Antonio, not the Palace. It could very well make a difference in who wins these Finals. Think about it. The Spurs, beaten and dazed, would be heading back to Texas for some much needed home cooking and an excellent opportunity to right the ship and take a 3-2 series lead. Then the Pistons would need to win two in a row to capture their back-to-back titles.

But with the 2-3-2, the Pistons have the pivotal fifth game at home, and they, not the Spurs, can keep the momentum going and capture a home win for that all-important 3-2 lead. It is a change in format that is unbelievably drastic, when you consider it for a moment.

Last year, of course, the Pistons took advantage of their split in L.A. in Games 1 and 2, swept their home games and won the Larry O’Brien Trophy. It’s interesting to note that not only were the Pistons the first to sweep their home games under the 2-3-2, which took effect in 1984, but they were also the first to sweep the games on the road, too — in 1990 at Portland. Not a bad little statistic.

Tonight’s game cannot be overstated in its importance, though I’m sure the loudmouths on ABC will give it a shot. This has been an odd Finals series, maybe one of the oddest ever, and while conventional wisdom says the Pistons will win Game 5, who can tell after four blowouts? Whomever wins this series will have added quite a piece to their legacy. A Pistons repeat would be simply impressive as hell, and a Spurs title would be their third in seven seasons. Both have a lot to lose with a defeat: the Pistons would be portrayed as paper champions and one-year wonders, and the Spurs, if they lose, would be painted as soft choke artists. That’s all.

The feeling here is that the Pistons will win tonight, but not in a blowout. Then, I gotta admit, I like them in a Game 6 down in Texas. Three straight wins in a Finals series is a tough winning streak to top, and the momentum will be completely on the Pistons’ side. If it goes seven, though, I kind of think the Pistons might be in trouble.

Regardless, this series has a lot at stake for both teams, much more so than any matchup in recent memory. I disagree that the four laughers are bad for the game. It merely sets up an ending that no one — no one — can predict with any certainty. It’s great theatre, frankly.

Let’s get it on.

Woodie & Hondo Helped Fuel Tigers’ ‘72 AL East Charge

(another in a series of posts featuring memorable Tigers — in one way, shape or form — who played in Detroit since the last All-Star game here, in 1971. This series celebrates the return of the midsummer classic to the Motor City in 2005, and a new feature will appear each weekend until the game is played in July)

More and more sports fans are emerging who weren’t even born when the Tigers were just two measly runs away from going to the 1972 World Series. Around Detroit, the ‘68, ‘84 and even the ‘87 teams get all the publicity, for their World Series and/or divisional exploits. But hardly anyone talks about the ‘72 club, and they might be the most interesting story of them all.

The ‘72 Tigers were managed by Billy Martin, and I could fill up an entire blog with just stories about him, so suffice it to say that Billy was, of course, fiery. Going into the season, Billy was concerned about the team’s pitching but not so much about the hitting, which figured to be sufficient. The Tigers were coming off a second place finish in 1971, to the Orioles, and even though Martin complained publicly that the O’s seemed to have all the good, young talent and the Tigers didn’t, Detroit was nonetheless clumped into a group of teams that had a shot at winning the AL East title. The Tigers were an older, veteran-laden team than the other contenders, and it was the team’s way to pick up aging players to plug holes that their minor league system couldn’t.

So the Tigers acquired, in Martin’s tenure, vets like Duke Sims, Tony Taylor, Dave Boswell, Jim Perry and Dean Chance, to name a few. But in 1972 specifically, the Tigers struck gold with the acquisitions of pitcher Woodie Fryman and first baseman Frank Howard.

The Tigers got Fryman from the Phillies, who were having a terrible season. Howard came from Texas, also awful in their first season as ex-Washington Senators. Fryman, a lefty starter, was 32 and was experiencing a 4-10 season when the Tigers snatched him up. Fryman fit in nicely immediately, going 10-3 with an ERA under 3.00. He was Doyle Alexander before Alexander. Doyle, as you probably know, went something like 9-1 down the stretch for the ‘87 Tigers who won the division on the final day of the season. Fryman was dominant, and it was a good thing, too, because surprisingly it was the Tigers’ pitching that saved their bacon because the vaunted offense struggled mightily. The starting rotation of Fryman, Mickey Lolich, Joe Coleman and Tom Timmerman was so proficient that the offense didn’t have to score a lot of runs, which it didn’t.

Fryman was 1972’s Doyle Alexander for the Tigers

Howard was an even more interesting story. Hondo was 36 and at one time with the Senators was considered one of the most feared sluggers in the game. In 1968, for example, Howard hit 10 home runs in one week, still a league record. He had come into the big leagues with the Dodgers, and before long he was consistently hitting 20-30 homers. But by the time the Tigers came calling in ‘72, Howard was near the end of the line and was merely pedestrian with the new Rangers. It seemed like his career was over. But the Tigers’ acquisition breathed life into Hondo. He only played 14 games, but he had some key hits and was perhaps the team’s biggest cheerleader. He had to cheer, because he was acquired too late to qualify for the postseason roster. I always felt sorry for Howard because of that, being relegated to booster when everyone knew he was dying to play in the ALCS against Oakland. But Howard insisted he was simply happy to be in the playoffs, coming over from the last-place Rangers, even if he couldn’t play.

Who knows how the ‘72 ALCS would have turned out had
Howard (above) been able to play in it?

The Tigers won the division by outlasting the Red Sox and Orioles. The title was clinched on the final Saturday night of the season with a win over Boston at Tiger Stadium. Because of a players strike that began the season, the Tigers played 156 games, the Red Sox 155 in ‘72. And the Tigers won the division with an 86-70 record compared to the Bosox’ 85-70 mark. Who says one game can’t make a difference?

The Tigers lost the first two games of the ALCS in Oakland — it was best-of-five back then — but then recovered to win the next two in Detroit. Then, in the deciding fifth game, which Fryman started, the Tigers lost a heartbreaker, 2-1, when little-used reserve George Hendrick slid home with the go-ahead run in the fourth inning. The Tigers were that close to returning to their second World Series in five seasons.

Both Fryman and Howard returned to the Tigers for the 1973 season, but neither had much of an impact. Fryman was 6-13 with an ERA over 5.00, and Howard was a part-time DH, hitting 12 homers in 227 at-bats. The Tigers flirted with contention, but then Martin lost it — as he always did wherever he went — and got fired, and the team finished third.

Neither Woodie Fryman nor Frank Howard wore the “olde English D” very long, and lots of folks don’t even know they played for the Tigers at all. But without them, the Tigers may not have won the AL East in 1972. And had Howard been able to play in the playoffs, maybe the Tigers would have won the ALCS, too.

But I guess we’ll never know, will we?

(next week: Ruppert Jones)

Schmidt’s Estrangement From Lions Another Sad Episode Of Ford’s Ownership

(the following column can also be viewed at RetailDetroit.com, where a new column from yours truly appears each Sunday or Monday. They will also appear here for your reading pleasure. For archives of my columns there, go to www.RetailDetroit.com and click on “Columnists”)

The man with the best winning percentage as a Detroit Lions coach under the William Clay Ford ownership — 40 years and counting — never was a head coach before, nor after guiding the team. He had the one NFL head coaching job — with the Lions from 1967-72 — and was basically never heard from in the league again. What’s worse, he has barely been associated with the Lions organization since he coached, and that’s a shame because the man is Joe Schmidt and he was only the greatest defensive player the team has ever had. Some might even argue he was the best player, period.

There was no such thing as middle linebacker before Joe Schmidt

The Lions have had 12 head coaches since Ford became sole owner of the team in 1964, and only one has ended his stint as a winner: Schmidt.Yet once he walked away from the Lions in early 1973, citing the meddlesome ways of GM Russ Thomas, Schmidt has been a stranger to the team. He was never sought out when the team needed football advice, which was basically constantly.. He was never offered a job in the organization. He was never a candidate anywhere else in the league for a coaching position, but that’s not so mysterious. However, Schmidt’s apparent estrangement from the team he served so well as linebacker and coach is disappointing, even if it never gets mentioned, which is another slight, as far as I’m concerned.

Schmidt played for the Lions from 1953-65, and if you have any doubt about his abilities, it has often been suggested that he helped invent the position of middle linebacker, just so you know. Schmidt was the anchor of a defense that at times dominated the league in the 1950’s. As a show of how much emphasis the team and its fans placed on defense in those days, when the Lions won the 1953 championship, it was Schmidt the players and fans held aloft, thrusting him as close to the sky as they could, even though the game was won by a Bobby Layne-led drive in the closing minutes. The Lions were a winning, entertaining group in those days, their roster heavily populated with Hall of Famers and near-Famers. Layne rightfully got his props as QB, but the defense was clearly led by Schmidt. Without Joe Schmidt, maybe there is no Dick Butkus, Ray Nitschke, or anyone else with the initials MLB next to their name on an NFL roster. That’s no overstatement, either.

Schmidt’s prowess as a player continued over to his coaching. The Lions were a mess — as usual — when he took over in ‘67, and after a couple rebuilding years, the team became consistent winners, posting above .500 records in each of his last four seasons. Schmidt had restored the Lions — his team, his franchise — back to playoff-contending status. The only thing his teams couldn’t do was beat the Minnesota Vikings (the Lions were 1-11 against the Vikes during Schmidt’s tenure). I often wondered how far his 1970 squad, which finished 10-4, would have gone had it just managed to squeeze out a touchdown or even a couple of field goals against Dallas in the playoffs. That was the infamous 5-0 loss, and the Cowboys went on to the Super Bowl that season. What might have been.

But Schmidt coached like he played — angry and no-nonsense — and it eventually led to a butting of heads with Thomas, the general manager who at various times during his lengthy tenure may very well have been the most hated man in all of Detroit sports. In fact, it was Thomas’ unpopularity in Detroit that Schmidt was trying to parlay during a power struggle that emerged after the 1972 campaign. The Lions had, once again, finished second in their division, but Schmidt and Thomas disagreed about the team’s direction going forward. Schmidt complained that Thomas was overstepping his bounds as GM, becoming too involved in personnel and game preparation decisions. He took his complaints to owner Ford, figuring William Clay would keep the popular Schmidt and offload the mostly loathed Thomas. But Ford put his weight behind Thomas, an old friend, and Schmidt resigned, posthaste. His career won-lost-tied was 43-34-7. A record like that nowadays as Lions coach would enable a man to be elected mayor of the city.

Ford, for all his warts, has often brought old Lions back into the fold, either as an assistant coach or a front office person. He has, for the most part, respected the team’s tradition, such as it is. But when it comes to Joe Schmidt, it’s been different, and I’m dying to know why.

It’s not terribly surprising that Schmidt never coached again after quitting the Lions. He wasn’t all that jazzed to do it in the first place, and doubtless he would only have done it for the Lions, a team for which he bled Honolulu Blue blood. But Charlie Sanders, the great tight end, was welcomed back, both as an assistant coach and as a member of management. Greg Landry came back to coach quarterbacks. Larry Lee went from offensive lineman to the front office. Dick Jauron is the Lions’ current defensive coordinator. None of them, except for Sanders, had Lions playing careers half as brilliant as Schmidt’s. Yet they all drifted back to the franchise in some way, shape or form. As for Schmidt, he was almost immediately out of sight, out of mind after walking away. It wasn’t until 1993 — 20 years after his resignation — that the team mentioned Schmidt’s name publicly again, and when it did, it couldn’t have been more awkward, or disrespectful.

The Lions had traded for hotshot linebacker Pat Swilling that April, a deal made with the New Orleans Saints just before the ’93 draft. Swilling had always worn #56 with the Saints. Schmidt wore 56 with the Lions. Supposedly the number was retired by the Lions, although there was never a formal ceremony. Typical. Anyhow, Swilling thought it would be great if he could wear 56 in Detroit. Joe Schmidt’s number. The number of a Hall of Famer. That Swilling decided not to respect the team’s tradition and to put people on the spot, including Schmidt himself, told me a lot about Pat Swilling before he played a single down for the Lions. Schmidt had worn 56 for 13 seasons, doing it as proud as any NFL player could do a uniform number. Pat Swilling had been a Lion for about 48 hours.

So what did the Lions, those clueless boobs, do? They publicly announced that, yes, Swilling could have 56 — imagine that — and on top of it all, Joe Schmidt would be at a made-for-TV press conference to “offcially” unretire #56. I always wondered how the team got Schmidt’s phone number, or even his area code, considering his name was hardly breathed around the Silverdome. So the press conference was held, Schmidt presented the “Swilling 56″ jersey, told the media that it was okay by him if Swilling wore the number (what else was he going to say?), and back into the closet he went. Have you heard anyone involved with the Lions mention Joe Schmidt’s name since then? Neither have I. Oh, by the way, Swilling wore 56 for a couple so-so seasons, and bolted for the Raiders. Letting Pat Swilling wear Schmidt’s #56 for about 30 games was like letting someone use the Mona Lisa as a dartboard. It still angers me that Pat Swilling, not Joe Schmidt, was the last Lion to wear #56.

Also, whenever the Lions have needed some football consultation — and they’ve needed plenty — never have they looked for Joe Schmidt. It’s probably too late now, since Schmidt’s been away from the NFL for so long, but if there was only one man — ONE — who’s been able to coach a team to an overall winning record in over 40 years, wouldn’t you think that team would want to tap into that man’s football brain from time to time? Yet the Lions have never, as far as I know, brought Joe Schmidt in for a cup of coffee and given him an opportunity to postulate as to what ails the team, and how it could possibly be cured.

So did Schmidt anger Ford when he resigned in ‘73? Did he burn bridges when he tried to win the power struggle with Thomas, who Ford adored and to whom the owner was loyal, to a fault? Or did Schmidt himself want nothing more to do with the Lions? Regardless, it’s sad that one of the greatest players in Lions history has had virtually no ties with the team in over 30 years, other than to unjustly “unretire” his jersey number. The least the Lions can do is to “re-retire” #56, complete with a festive Ford Field ceremony, at halftime of a game with, say, the Packers, a fierce Schmidt-era rival of the Lions. That would be fitting and proper.

This is where you picture me not holding my breath.

Gibby’s ‘Bear Trap’ Just Might Snap Down On The Spurs’ Title Hopes

The lane snap closed on Ginobili in Game 4 like a certain bear trap
did on the Toronto Blue Jays in 1987

Okay, so what do Kirk Gibson and the NBA Finals have in common?

Back in 1987, when the Tigers were making a furious run at the AL East title, they traveled to Toronto on the season’s next-to-last weekend. They were a half game out of first place, nipping at the Blue Jays’ heels.

The first three games were all losses, but Saturday’s was a particularly gut-wrenching defeat. It was nationally televised, and the Tigers blew a huge lead, gradually, throughout the game, and lost in the Jay’s last at-bat. NBC’s Vin Scully accurately said the Tigers had “come from ahead” to lose. The team was 3 1/2 games out, with only a week and a day’s worth of games to be played, and never were the fans’ hopes lower. But then Gibson stood in the Tigers’ clubhouse after the game, and as dejected teammates changed and showered around him, he uttered these words:

“Maybe we’re just setting the biggest bear trap in history.”

Gibby’s words would never ring more true.

The Jays collapsed like a house of cards. The Tigers won the next day to start Toronto’s slide, thanks to Gibson himself, who hit a game-tying homer in the ninth then drove in the winning run in the 11th. Toronto didn’t win another game the rest of the way, the Tigers did, and they finished their improbable comeback with a three-game sweep of the Jays the following weekend.

Gibby’s words might ring true again — 18 years later

The Pistons might have set up such a bear trap in San Antonio last week.

If few people thought the Tigers would catch the Blue Jays after falling 3 1/2 games out of first place with a week to go in ‘87, how many outside of Detroit thought the Pistons would even win a game against the Spurs, let alone the entire series? Try about as many as you can count on one hand, and maybe still have some uncounted fingers remaining.

Have the Pistons won the NBA Finals? Of course not. Have they altered the course of the series? Aye-aye, captain. Are they in the Spurs’ heads? Add a few more “aye-aye’s” to that one.

The Pistons didn’t just square the Finals last night with their 102-71 victory. They put on a basketball display of such dominance that if it was a baseball game, all that would have separated the Spurs from having a perfect game thrown at them would be a scratch single.

The Pistons’ performance was, by the numbers, awesome: 18 forced turnovers, 22 fast break points, only 4 turnovers of their own. They outscored the Spurs 51-36 in the first half and 51-35 in the second. They never allowed San Antonio to make any significant runs. Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker were restrained because the Pistons squeezed the lane from the width of I-696 in Games 1 & 2 to that of a hallway. But you didn’t need a stat sheet to confirm the Pistons’ total control of Game 4. Even someone watching their very first basketball game, with hardly any knowledge of the rules, would agree that the Spurs were absolutely demolished. It doesn’t take a basketball guru to see that one team was racing down the court for layups and dunks all night while the other struggled to even get a shot off.

But buyer beware: this series is far from over, and just as people shouldn’t have written the Pistons off as dead after Games 1 & 2, nobody should go overboard and declare the Spurs as moribund after two lousy games in Detroit. The Pistons have unbelievable confidence now, no question, and the Spurs are in a fog, but this is the NBA and these are the two best teams in the game and great teams have the ability to bounce back. Nobody gets to the NBA Finals with luck and by being a fluke. There’s a reason only two teams remain now and that reason is each team has resiliency, talent, and bounce back capability.

It is often said that in a playoff series, the next game is always the most important. And how much more important can Game 5 get? Just please don’t use the hackneyed phrase that it’s now a “best-of-three” series. A seven game series is just that — a seven game series. It has ebbs and flows and a best-of-three series means you’re starting from scratch at 0-0. This Finals series is hardly about starting at 0-0 now. The Pistons are surging and the Spurs are reeling, which is exactly why Game 5 is oh so vital. The Pistons must continue to apply the pressure, continue to choke the Spurs, or else they might yet go back to Texas trailing, which would be awful after what they were able to do in Games 3 and 4. So Game 5 is the Finals’ next “must win” game, which will be followed by another “must win” for somebody in Game 6. T’ain’t no best-of-three, people.

Mission two-thirds accomplished for the Pistons in Detroit. And even if they go 3-for-3 at the Palace, they still probably will be considered underdogs, because the final two games are in San Antonio. But never would being an underdog feel so sweet.

Billy, Wait! A Better Job Will Be Opening Soon

Laimbeer can coach, as his WNBA title proved


I see where Bill Laimbeer is getting more and more serious in his discussions with Knicks boss Isiah Thomas about coaching in the Big Apple.

Lams, one word: WAIT!

You don’t want to coach the Knicks, and you especially don’t want to work for Thomas, the 16-ton weight of the NBA. Everything Isiah has touched in his post-playing career has turned to stone. He is the anti-Midas.

I know you’re eager to coach in the NBA, Billy, but PLEASE exhibit some patience. You’re too busy coaching the WNBA’s Shock, anyway, to be thinking about the Knicks or any NBA team. Swin Cash, Ruth Riley and Deanna Nolan need you more than Isiah or anyone else in the men’s game, for the moment. Anyhow, a better job, for you, is sure to open up soon anyway.

The Pistons will have a vacancy, no question, as soon as the NBA Finals are wrapped up, and despite those reports that say ex-Timberwolves coach Flip Saunders is the frontrunner to land in Detroit, you are an intriguing option for Joe Dumars and Bill Davidson. You are a local hero, a la Dumars, and you have proven you can coach a bit, thanks to your Shock ladies. You know what the “Bad Boys” and tough defense are all about, and you know how important Pistons basketball is to the scheme of things here. You found that out sitting next to George Blaha and analyzing all those Pistons games on TV. You know the deal here, babe. You could make a serious run at winning the coaching job in Detroit/Auburn Hills.

So why not chill, cool your jets for a bit, and wait for Dumars to come calling?

The Knicks job would be a disaster. Isiah’s clue free, despite all those overly nice things you said about him and his personnel decision-making abilities. You wouldn’t get a warm and fuzzy welcome there, not that you ever needed that. But the job is tough enough without the fans on your side, so why make it tougher? I know you like and respect your old teammate Zeke but come on, the guy is flying a rickety ship and you don’t want to go down with him and torpedo what could be a promising NBA coaching career, do you? In Detroit you’d have a far better chance of success, which means you’d be well on your way to being a fixture on NBA sidelines — in Detroit or elsewhere.

If Larry Brown returns as Pistons coach next season I’ll cut the net down at the Palace and swallow it whole. It ain’t happening, so why not wait and see what Joe D. and Mr. D. have to offer? If Flip gets the job after all, so be it, but chances are Isiah will still need a coach at that point, although I still wouldn’t take the Knicks job if I were you. If not Detroit, then another, more stable NBA team will come calling, don’t you fret. You’re gonna coach in the NBA, that’s for certain.

So patience, Lams, patience. Don’t be blinded by the bright lights and false allure of Broadway and the Garden. Their glare is only hiding the reality of a dim and doomed future on the Knicks bench.

"A Series Breaks Out" — And The Pistons Believe Again

Billups helped “x out” the Spurs in Game 3

Well, the Pistons stomped the Spurs last night, just as I thought they might, and even though I hate to quote from anyone on TV, ABC’s Al Michaels hit it dead on when he said, “And just like that, a series breaks out.”

Oh yes, indeed.

Aside from the hope that the Pistons’ 96-79 win will quiet some of the national media’s love-in with the Spurs, who Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star called “one of the best teams the NBA has ever produced”, the victory had enough ingredients to it that the Pistons’ confidence should be restored and the Spurs’ should take a slight hit.

I saw a nice little trap, which had been mostly absent in San Antonio. I saw forced turnovers, another missing piece in Texas. I also saw Pistons shots actually go into the basket, which was another vast difference from the games in San Antone. But mostly I saw a team that believes in itself again.

This mission is far from accomplished — no doubt about that. Winning Game 3 is meaningless, basically, if the Pistons don’t also capture Game 4. But a chink has been put into the Spurs’ armor, and Manu Ginobili, supposedly the best player since Michael Jordan, if you listen to Bill “Frontrunner” Walton, had the “coming down to earth” game that was also sorely needed, if you’re a Pistons booster. But the mission is also well under way in Auburn Hills, and now it will be up to the Spurs to match the Pistons’ intensity.

In pro sports, half the battle can be the simple belief that your opponent is beatable. And I’m not sure the Pistons truly believed that until late in the third quarter of Game 3.

As Spurs coach Gregg Popovich – who I like and respect, by the way, mainly because he’s not that loudmouth, sore loser Stan Van Gundy — said, the game last night was 63-63 with about 1:30 left in the third quarter. Then the Pistons pressed, got some turnovers and some more fast break points, and suddenly it was 71-63 Detroit. Things only got worse from there for the Spurs. But up to that point, the Spurs were still driving the lane, still draining three-pointers, and basically refusing to wilt to the hostile Palace environment. Those last couple minutes of the third and the first few minutes of the fourth might — might — be the turning point of this series, should the Pistons climb up and over the Spurs. It was a window where the Pistons believed again, and received a jolt of adrenaline and confidence as dramatic as if someone plunged a six-inch syringe directly into their heart.

No, mission far from over, but if the Pistons take the Spurs to the woodshed in Game 4, not only will a series have broken out, it will have spread, like a bad rash. And Game 5 is in Detroit, too — hardly the antihistamine the Spurs will need for such a rash.

"Rematch"? No, It’s Just Interleague Play!

Just wanted to get something off my chest.

I have no problem with interleague play in Major League Baseball, although I still think interest would be even greater if the teams played NL rules in AL parks and vice-versa, to better give fans a taste of how the grass is on the other side of the fence. And I have no problems with geographical rivalries emerging: Cubs-White Sox, Yankees-Mets, Angels-Dodgers, etc. But what is it with the incessant references to “rematches”?

The Yankees are playing the Pirates, which is being billed as a “rematch of the 1960 World Series.” The Reds-Orioles series is a “rematch of the 1970 World Series.” The Tigers-Padres tilt this week is, of course, a “rematch of the 1984 World Series.”

NO, THEY’RE NOT!!

The only true “rematch” this year of interleague play was when the Red Sox visited the Cardinals. Those two teams met just last October, and there was a nice little subplot with Boston infielder Edgar Renteria coming back to St. Louis, where he made the final out in last year’s series as a member of the Cardinals. Both teams have largely the same cast and characters as 2004, so that is an honest-to-goodness rematch. But Yankees-Pirates is no such thing, unless Bill Mazeroski, Dick Stuart and Vern Law suddenly decide to suit up for Pittsburgh, and Tony Kubek and Yogie Berra and Whitey Ford pull the pinstripes on again. It’s merely a meeting of two franchises who, 45 years ago, happened to have played each other in a World Series. Nothing more than that. Call it anything else. Say “this is the first time these two franchises have payed each other since the 1960 World Series.” That would be okay. Say “a lot has changed since the Yankees and Pirates faced each other 45 years ago in the Fall Classic.” That would be fine, too. But please, PLEASE don’t call it a “rematch.”

Webster’s defines “rematch” as “a second contest between the same opponents.”

Tell me, what is the same about the 1960 Yankees and the 2005 Yankees, besides the pinstripes and the hatred most of America has for them?

I know it’s not a big deal, and this sort of thing is bound to happen when interleague matchups occur, but it still bothers me because it’s wrong.

Closer to home, the Tigers-Padres series this week at Comerica Park is no more a rematch of the 1984 World Series than if my 2005 waist size battled my 1984 waist size. They’re both just opponents in name only.

By the way, my 2005 waist size would kick my 1984 waist size’s ass.

See what can happen in 21 years?

Whatever You Choose To Call It, The Pistons Better Bring It Tonight

Okay, so what is it for the Pistons tonight? Put up or shut up. No tomorrow. Backs to the wall. Must win. Bring your “A” game. One quarter at a time.

Take your pick. Regardless, the Pistons are about to play one of the most important games in franchise history tonight — Game 3 of the NBA Finals — and if you think I’m overstating things a bit, I’m not. But of course, the Pistons have put themselves in such a position, so it’s put up or shut up. Sorry — I used that one twice.

But really, ever since they won the world championship, and before, the Pistons have been quick to point out the lack of props they get for being as good as they are. They’ve thrived on the “us against the world” mentality, and purport to enjoy it when they are underdogs and nobody gives them a chance. Well, guess what? They are underdogs now, very much so, and nobody gives them a chance — not a fat one, nor a slim one.

This is one of the most important games in franchise history because this is an opportunity beyond opportunities to put your play where your mouth is and show everyone that you are not paper champions — one year wonders who happened to be in the right place at the right time (read: the Lakers’ demise). This is a chance to prove all that stuff, really prove it, about how you play better when you’re pushed to the edge and how you have hearts of champions and all that other propaganda. A chance to remind everyone that the Pistons, if they go, will not go quietly and will make recapturing the NBA title as difficult of a thing the Spurs will ever do in their basketball lives. A chance to reign a little longer as champs and still keep alive the hope that this summer will be as glorious as the last.

All that pretty much goes out the window with a Game 3 loss and an 0-3 hole. Sure, you could still make a statement in Game 4 under such circumstances, but it would be one of those “who cares” statements, like something you shout to someone whose back has already been turned and who’s well on their way to something much better.

There is no more time for talk about getting Rasheed the ball or how Chauncey has to get everyone, including himself, involved, or how Rip can find his shooting touch or why Tayshaun hasn’t been anything or what has happened to Ben. Time’s up on that. There is only time for the effort of all efforts, the return of stifling defense, and the declaration, to yourselves and your fans, that the Pistons are still the world champs until someone takes it from them. Not only takes it, but rips it from their cold, dying, gnarled fingers. But the Pistons are not dead yet. They are not even twitching. They are still very much alive.

As alive as a team can be when it has no tomorrow.

Be Careful What You DON’T Wish For, Lou — The Owners May Keep You Rooted As D-Rays Manager

Piniella’s bubble seems ready to burst

Seems like there may be a game of chicken going on in Tampa Bay.

Lou Piniella is acting very much like a man who would very much like to be fired as manager of the Devil Rays. He has taken a page from the Billy Martin book of self-destruction, calling out ownership publicly, saying in essence that there is not the desire to win — at least not now.

“They’re not interested in the present, only the future,” Piniella said the other day of the New York-based group that’s held controlling share of the ballclub for about a year. “But when other teams are getting better presently, you’re going to get your butts beat.”

But Piniella wasn’t done — not even close.

“I’m not going to take responsibility for this,” he said. “If I had been given a $40-45 million payroll, I’d stand up like a man and say it’s my fault. Well, I’m not going to do it. So if you want answers about what’s going on here, you call the new ownership group and let them give them to you.”

The D-Rays have indeed been getting their butts beat — allowing 10 or more runs six times since May 29. They were pelted 25-4 in the first two games of their weekend series with the — gulp — Pittsburgh Pirates. And the payroll numbers are real — Piniella didn’t make them up. But for Lou to say “I’m not going to take responsibility for this”, is wrong. A manager publicly stating that the buck doesn’t stop here is not the right message to send to his players. Why should his players now give 100% if their manager shrugs his shoulders and says, “Look what I’m up against, guys”?

Alan Trammell not once complained during the 43-119 sham that was the 2003 season for the Tigers about the big league impostors that he was given to manage. He didn’t whine about payroll and say “Ask Mike Ilitch” when pressed about his ballclub’s travails. Granted, Trammell was a managerial rookie in ‘03, and Piniella has been around the block a few times. Doesn’t matter. It’s bad behavior, no matter how lengthy or impressive your resume may be.

Anyhow, I mentioned “game of chicken” at the top because I doubt the D-Ray owners will axe Piniella, even after his outburst. And maybe they won’t simply because that’s probably what Lou wants. He knows he can find a job elsewhere, so why not do it all except leave a suicide note? The worst thing that can happen to him now is to remain manager of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

His worst nightmare just may come true, at least for the remainder of this season.

Oh, by the way, Piniella is proving what Sparky Anderson always maintained: good players make managers good, not the other way around. It always has, and always will be, true.

Pistons’ Discovery In Texas: Looking Into The Mirror Can Be Extremely Uncomfy

The Pistons have met the enemy and it is them. Problem is, it’s them in San Antonio Spurs uniforms.

The Spurs have done a wonderful job, so far, of playing Pistons Basketball better than the Pistons. Of course, those Texans will say it’s “Spurs Basketball”, but why quibble when I’m trying to make a point?

Whatever you choose to call it, the Spurs are moving the ball, playing active defense, making hustle plays, and draining three-pointers like a basketball storm from hell. They’re also getting the calls, but I hate to go there because the Detroit media are villifying the Pistons for whining, when in fact they have a case; the Spurs are getting the whistles to blow their way, and I think even an objective observer would concur.

From the “glass is half full” seat, where I sit, the Spurs did nothing more than hold serve on their home court. The next three games are in Detroit, and I think the Pistons will spank the Spurs in Game 3, giving them something to think about and putting a chink or two in their armor. I think even Manu Ginobili, who has been anointed the next best thing since sliced bread — and Michael Jordan – will come down to earth. Watching Ginobili sink three-pointers like he was pitching pennies into the ocean was a tad discouraging, but home cooking has always agreed with the Spurs. Hey, if you listen to Bill Walton, which I am loathe to do, the Spurs don’t have much of a chance in the “wildest, most difficult place to win in all of sports” — the Palace of Auburn Hills. He really did say that, or something very close to it. It must be true, because Bill Walton never uses hyperbole, does he? Oh, and Walton, no fan of Larry Brown, tried to insinuate the Pistons don’t believe in their coach any longer by saying, “You have to wonder if the Pistons still believe in their coach.” Okay, so he more than insinuated it — he damn well said it. Still, it was a cheap shot and a clueless analysis. Typical of Walton, anyway.

By the way, what did you think of ABC’s love-in with the Spurs? Their pregame and halftime shows have been so full of Spurs features and fawning, you would think you were watching Fox Sports Southwest. It’s been disgusting, the slant toward the Spurs, and you can only hope it gets better when the series shifts to Detroit. Like, how about a pregame interview with, say, Rick Mahorn and Bill Laimbeer, so they can diss the Spurs and predict a Pistons victory? That would even out Ahmad Rashad’s ridiculously softballish “interview” with former Spurs stars David Robinson and George Gervin. Robinson said the Pistons had to “step it up” and they both picked the Spurs to win. Wow — what a scoop, Ahmad!

Maybe I’ll turn down the sound and listen to George Blaha tomorrow night. Of course, the radio feed is about three seconds ahead of the TV feed, so that makes for a strange experience. Still, it might be worth it to not listen to anymore pro-Spur drivel. Of course, it’s been like this throughout the playoffs with the Pistons and their opponents. In Round 1, the announcers gave their love to Allen Iverson. In Round 2, it was the Reggie Miller Swan Song Farewell Tour, and in Round 3, it was The Dwyane Wade Mini-Series on TNT. The Pistons have been treated about as shabbily on the tube as any defending champ I’ve seen.

Of course, maybe ABC was on to something last night; they treated their coverage as if the Pistons weren’t even there. Then the Pistons decided to justify the slant by not showing up.

Quiet Al Cowens’ Explosion In Chicago ‘Strange But True’

(another in a series of posts featuring memorable Tigers — in one way, shape or form — who played in Detroit since the last All-Star game here, in 1971. This series celebrates the return of the midsummer classic to the Motor City in 2005, and a new feature will appear each weekend until the game is played in July)

Cowens (left) and Farmer were involved in one of the strangest on-field incidents in Tigers’ history

If there was a “Jeopardy” category called “Infamous Tigers-White Sox Games Since 1971″, no doubt the most well-known clue would be, “This caused a forfeit to the Tigers of the second game of a doubleheader at Comiskey Park in 1979.” The correct question? “What is ‘Disco Demolition’ night?” The exploding of disco records in the infield between games of a doubleheader that June evening of ‘79 is still talked about from time to time.

But a year later, another Tigers-White Sox matchup was the setting of one of the most bizarre on-field incidents that I’ve ever seen.

In May 1980, the Tigers traded first baseman Jason Thompson to the California Angels for outfielder Al Cowens, the 1977 AL MVP. Thompson was one of a trio of young, talented Tigers that somehow fell into manager Sparky Anderson’s doghouse, along with Ron LeFlore and Steve Kemp. So off to the Angels Thompson went, and to the Motor City came Cowens, a serviceable if not flashy player who was a solid .280-.290 hitter and played a decent outfield.

The year before, in ‘79, Cowens had been hit in the face with a pitch by former Tiger Ed Farmer. The pitch did some severe damage to Cowens’ jaw, and it robbed him of some of hs confidence at the plate. He kept his anger over the pitch to himself, allowing it to brew and fester. How much this was eating him became painfully obvious a year later, as a Tiger.

In a game at Comiskey, Farmer faced Cowens for the first time since the beaning. It was remarked about, but certainly nobody expected what was about to occur. After a routine groundout, Cowens didn’t even bother running all the way to first base. In a flash, he charged the mound, fists flailing, intending on beating Farmer to a pulp. Of course, the benches emptied, and the two combatants were separated. It was so odd watching on TV, and probably in person, too, because if you didn’t know the history between the two men, you would have thought Cowens had lost his mind. Even knowing what had happened, it was strange, because it was just a simple groundout for crying out loud.

But it got even stranger. At first, Cowens expressed no remorse for what he did, feeling fully justified to have gone after Farmer. But as the weeks went on, and his temper cooled, Cowens did indeed apologize. But he wanted to go even further, so with the egging on of some of the Detroit media and his teammates, Cowens agreed to shake hands with Farmer prior to a game with the White Sox at Tiger Stadium. The handshake was captured on camera, of course, and Farmer accepted Cowens’ apology.

To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two players shake hands on the field over a fight.

Cowens played for the Tigers thru the 1981 season. Sadly, he died young, at age 51, in March 2002. Maybe he’ll pal around with Farmer when Ed joins him upstairs.

Play Ball!? Not For Today’s Kids

(the following column can also be viewed at RetailDetroit.com, where a new column from yours truly appears each Sunday or Monday. They will also appear here for your reading pleasure. For archives of my columns there, go to www.RetailDetroit.com and click on “Columnists”)

Do kids play baseball anymore?

I don’t mean high schoolers. I don’t mean college students. I mean, kids. You know, 11 and 12 year-olds, that sort. Does Little League still exist, or has it gone the way of drive-in movie theaters, penny gumballs and the use of turn signals on cars?

I’m 41, and when I was a kid, we played baseball in some way, shape or form constantly as soon as the mercury hit 60 degrees. If it wasn’t a pickup game at the local school’s ball fields then it was curb ball or “500″ or a game of “pickle.” I won’t take the time to explain these activities if you haven’t heard of them. Suffice it to say that a baseball mitt was as common an accessory to a bike’s handlebars as piercings are to a hip-hop fan.

And therein lies the lament. I fear we are losing today’s youth to video games, raunchy, dark music and cell phones, with their text messaging, built-in cameras, and basically anything other than the ability to make phone calls. Boy, I sound like an old fogie, huh?

But really, how much trouble can a kid get into by playing ball? How negative is the influence of an aluminum bat and a pair of cleats? Oh, why don’t kids play baseball anymore?

Look, I don’t have any scientific, statistical evidence to support my claim, but I nonetheless assure you that today’s parks and neighborhoods are becoming less and less populated by baseball-playing kids as the years go on. Think about where you live. Have you heard the popping of baseballs into mitts and the chatter of pre-teens as they call their field and confirm that a foul ball on strike three is an out and declare that the rules of the game are either “pitcher’s hand” or “pitcher’s mound”? Have you driven around your environs and seen a Little League game in action? Isn’t all this few and far between?

So much to do, yet nothing to do

Now, I admit I don’t hang around with any 12 year-old boys — my name’s not Michael Jackson, after all — but our daughter Nicole, who’s 12, knows a few, and never are they playing baseball. Riding their bikes? Sure — and that’s good. Playing Grand Theft Auto on Playstation Two? Yep — and that’s not so good. Nicole plays that, too, and while that doesn’t exactly warm my heart, I at least have the security of knowing that my wife and I have reared her in such a way that she knows that just about all that is depicted on that game is WRONG. But baseball may as well be a science project sent home for extra credit for as much as it isn’t embraced by today’s youth.

So why don’t kids play ball anymore? Well, it can’t be the cost; it doesn’t get much cheaper than a bat, ball and glove. It’s not like you have to buy expensive equipment and pay for ice time, like hockey. It can’t be the number of participants needed for a form of the game, like football, because all you need for a bit of catch is two, and not much more for a decent game of pickup. It can’t be availability of venues. If you have a strip of street or a yard, you can play a little baseball. And a lot of actual ball diamonds and softball fields are mostly vacant, practically inviting a game.

Part of the blame, I believe, can be placed squarely on the shoulders of the Tigers. We’ve been subjected to so much bad baseball around here for the last 12 years that we’ve lost half a generation’s interest. Look about you next time you’re at the mall. See how many Chauncey Billups, Steve Yzerman and Joey Harrington jerseys you come across, versus that of Dmitri Young or Pudge Rodriguez. It ain’t even close, folks. Granted, not all of the kids who wear those colors are playing basketball or hockey or football, either, but you get the feeling they at least have enough interest to catch a game on TV or talk about it at school. But with the Tigers as putrid as they’ve been since the first Clinton administration, what else do you expect?

But it’s not just the poor Tigers. Today’s youngsters just have so many distractions. There is everything to do, yet nothing to do, really. How enriching are three hours of Playstation or Game Boy? How much does a session on the Internet add to a child’s personal development? How beneficial is it to our kids’ psyche to listen to music with lyrics so dark and sassy that it makes one long for the time when the swiveling hips of Elvis or the long hair of the Beatles was the worse it could get? But it’s so much easier for parents, isn’t it, to let their kids spend all afternoon trying to reach the next level of the latest video game than it is to nudge them outside, much less with a ball and bat? I know I’m guilty of it.

When we played ball as kids, we did it almost as much to fill time as anything else. There were only so many reruns of “The Three Stooges” or “Lost In Space” one could stomach, after all. Honestly, I think we played ball to stave off boredom half the time. But once we got our rear ends out there, you needed a nuclear bomb to get us away from the playing field. We didn’t always let darkness or mother’s cries of “Dinner!” stop us. And even if we did lose some players from the game, all that meant was there’d be more “imaginary” runners on second and maybe right field was off limits — unless you batted lefthanded, of course, in which case left field was out.

I also think this goes beyond just baseball. It was once said about the New York Yankees and their lack of camaraderie, “When the Yankees go out to dinner together, they sit at 25 separate tables.” Today’s kids are together, yet they aren’t. Each of them is in their own home, in front of their own television, or computer, each trying to kill the most dudes with their own joysticks, all so they can talk about it at school the next day. If you’re lucky, you might get some form of buddy behavior if two of them try to kill dudes with a joystick at one of their homes. So they’re not just not playing baseball. They’re not doing a lot of things, but I suppose you can’t fault them for blowing off some steam after 35 hours a week of school and another 10 of homework. Our fifth grade daughter is toting around textbooks in her backpack that dwarf some of mine from college for goodness sakes.

I know I could do better, though. There’s nothing keeping me from blowing the dust off my mitt, buying an inexpensive model for Nicole, and having a game of catch. Nothing other than my fear that she’d find it so boring that she would never want to do it again. Get my drift? Still, it’s probably worth a shot. Someone under 15 has to start playing this game again, for crying out loud.

There used to be a decent patch of grass across the street from our house, next to the private school that sits there, where some kids used to goof around with baseball. I wasn’t always thrilled with their language, but I overlooked it mostly, happy to see them having fun with a tennis ball, a bat, and Lord knows what for bases. But then the school expanded, and there’s a parking lot there now, where the “mound” and “plate” used to be located. I have a hunch that the whole thing drips with irony, but I’d rather not analyze it that hard. It’s bad enough to think that it’s one less place for kids to play baseball.

Hey, Didn’t You Used To Be Pudge Rodriguez?

Pudge smiling: good thing someone took a picture

It hasn’t gotten much play, because of the Pistons’ dominance of sports headlines in this town of Detroit, but there is something going on that I am concerned about, yet can’t quite put my finger on. It smacks of something that is bubbling just below the surface, and it ain’t momma’s homemade spaghetti sauce.

What on earth is going on with Pudge Rodriguez?

I don’t mean at the plate, although he is falling short of expectations, despite having an okay season thus far. I don’t mean defensively. He seems agile and still quite capable being the backstop, maybe due to his weight loss.

But he has been quiet — oh, so quiet — and it started during spring training and you wonder what is eating him. Now the Tigers have traded his friend, reliever Ugueth Urbina, and it seems there may be some controversy surrounding the move, namely Ugie’s off-the-field and on-the-airplane behavior. But more on that later. Anyhow, Ugie is gone, and that can’t possibly help Pudge’s countenance.

If you don’t see what I am talking about, think back to last season. Think about how quotable he was, and how much he seemed to smile. If that was the honeymoon, then you can kiss that goodbye, because Pudge just isn’t the same guy as he was in 2004.

I never hear hide nor hair from him anymore. I can hardly think of one quote I’ve read of his since spring training began. He is spoken about, still, but doesn’t speak. Pudge is wearing a sour puss, and I have no idea why.

Of course I must admit, I don’t know Pudge and I may be full of pine tar when I bring this up, so I can only go by comparison, but the 2004 Pudge and the 2005 Pudge are almost 180 degrees different, and I don’t mean just by what the numbers on the scale say. He reminds me of an emperor without clothes, or clothes with no emperor. Either way, it’s not good.

To be fair, I haven’t heard one negative word about Rodriguez from his teammates or manager, so again, I could be accused of sniffing the Ben-Gay. But it’s also eery to me how I haven’t heard anything about it from the media folks, either. Why isn’t anyone writing about something that appears, on the surface, to be fairly auspicious? The only thing I read was a cryptic line from one of the Tigers’ beat writers back in March, indicating that he noticed a burr in Pudge’s britches. But after that, nothing. Maybe when the Pistons are done, someone from the newspapers will see what I’m seeing. Or rather, not hear what I’m not hearing — from Pudge.

Rodriguez isn’t even on the record when it comes to the team’s play anymore, and that’s another odd thing. With other teams in Detroit and other cities, you usually hear and read the most from the stars, the leaders. Imagine following the Red Wings and not hearing a peep from Steve Yzerman. Doesn’t compute, does it? I mean, come on, Dmitri Young isn’t that much of a larger-than-life figure. There’s room for others to talk, too, especially the richest catcher in baseball.

And regarding Urbina, now it is rumored that Ugie may have been involved in some sort of altercation on the team flight to Los Angeles last Sunday night, which greased his skids out of Detroit. And it didn’t take much to read GM Dave Dombrowski’s post-trade comments and see that he hardly denied the reported altercation. “I don’t make it a practice to discuss what happens on the team plane or in the clubhouse,” Dombrowski was quoted in today’s Detroit Free Press. Pleeease. That’s one of the weakest “denials” I have ever read. But Dombrowski is a smart, savvy man, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted people like me to believe the Urbina altercation story, and so crafted a wonderful denial that was so weak it was brilliant. Mission accomplished, because I believe something indeed happened on that flight to Los Angeles. And that “something” is what contributed greatly to Urbina now being an ex-Tiger.

How the Urbina trade effects Rodriguez, only time will tell. But it can’t possibly put him in a better mood. But then again, you wonder how much worse he can get at the same time.

Stay tuned.

I Hate Two Day Breaks Between Playoff Games — Until Right Now

Rasheed and the Pistons need a rest

I tell ya, I’m not usually into two days off between playoff games. I’m an every-other-day-is-good kind of guy. But if there’s any team that could use an extra day off right now, it’s the Pistons.

They’ll deny it, of course, because that’s their way, but you had to think they were a tad on the tired side as Game 1 of the NBA Finals wore on. Shots were short, the hustle plays weren’t quite there, and there was simply an overall malaise that was evident and, frankly, understandable. The Pistons hit a wall, which is what can certainly happen when you play just 72 hours after a grueling seven game series. Traveling from Miami to Detroit to San Antonio didn’t help.

So I am not panicked, and the Spurs don’t scare me, no matter how much the ESPN guys tell me I should be afraid. San Antonio wasn’t much until the fourth quarter, and even then they were basically a one Manu team. But they, too will get better. Their rust from having not played in, oh, six weeks — or so it seemed — is gone now, but not before a truly awful start to Game 1.

The Pistons will play much better Sunday — they have to, of course — but they gotta keep this Ginobili from shooting through the lane like a poison dart. He got all of the calls, too, which was a tad discouraging. And speaking of calls, isn’t it funny how the NBA Defensive Player of the Year, Ben Wallace, seems to not get any of them? Ben was called for an offensive foul even though the Spurs defender was clearly inside the cute little defensive arc beneath the basket that’s actually supposed to help the refs, and on the reverse side, he was denied a charge on Ginobili even though Wallace was clearly outside the cute little defensive arc.

But let’s not cry over spilled blood.

The Pistons are going to have to fight and claw to win this series, and they’ll be better prepared to do that after this convenient 48 hour break.

Oh, and by the way, I’ll take Tim Duncan over Shaquille O’Neal any day on my team.

Yet another reason to rest up.

It Doesn’t Get Any Easier, But The Pistons Will "Git Er Done" Against The Spurs

The great Lakers teams of Shaq and Kobe never did it. The Chicago Bulls dynasty of Michael Jordan never did it. The Celtics of Larry Bird and company never did it. Even our own Bad Boys never did it.

“It” is win a Game 7 of a Conference Finals on the road.

But the 2005 Pistons did it — the first since the ‘82 Sixers — and while that certainly doesn’t mean they are one of the greatest teams of all-time, it sure doesn’t hurt whatever legacy they are forging during these last two playoff runs.

Frankly, to keep comparisons local, they may be more resilient than the Bad Boys of the late 80’s and early 90’s, if only because they seem to do things the hard way, much more so than Isiah, Joe, Bill, Vinnie and the rest used to do. Of course, maybe that means the Chuck Daly-led were better overall, because they didn’t put themselves in those sticky situations nearly as much. I’m not sure. Regardless, winning Game 6 of the conference semifinals in New Jersey last year, coming back from a 3-1 deficit against Orlando the year before, and now climbing out of a 3-2 hole, including a Game 7 win on one of the most hostile courts in the NBA to capture the Eastern title — all this surely must cement something when it comes to these Pistons’ biography.

The Miami Heat were about 2:30 away from being in San Antonio tonight to start the NBA Finals. That’s how much time was left when Shaq hit one off the glass to give the Heat a 78-76 lead. And when Chauncey Billups missed an ill-advised three-pointer the next trip down the court, Miami had a golden opportunity to go up by four, or more, in transition. But then the Pistons dug down deep, found some more, and pestered Damon Jones into a turnover, and seconds later, the game was tied. And anyone who has followed this team, I believe, probably got the same feeling I had: this is OUR game for the taking, baby. And the Pistons took it, along with the conference title, right smack on Miami’s home floor, when the pressure was greatest.

Tell me that ain’t worth something in your book.

It is because of this amazing intestinal fortitude, this unwavering focus and resiliency, that the Pistons will defeat the Spurs in six games to win a second straight NBA crown.

As usual, the Pistons are not the trendy pick. Already I am seeing where the Internet polls are running about 60-40 in favor of the Spurs. ESPN’s Dee Brown, who won a reality-type show to win a spot as a network basketball expert, said in the wake of the Pistons’ Game 7 win that he just had to go with the Spurs because they “match up well” with the Pistons. I wonder what the losers of that ESPN contest think. But this is all good. The Pistons love being underdogs, although it amazes me that they constantly ARE underdogs, despite all they’ve accomplished. Some people even thought Allen Iverson and the 76′ers might give them trouble, and it’s just gone on and on from there this spring. Indiana, in Reggie Miller’s swan song, was supposed to send Reggie off with an upset over Detroit. And how many people outside of Detroit thought the Pistons would defeat the Heat after falling behind 3-2? Certainly not TNT — the network of drama — who must be having a hangover now that their seven-part Dwyane Wade mini-series is over. Like I have ranted here before, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a network portray a seven-game playoff series from the perspective of one player as much as TNT did with the Pistons-Heat tussle, all through the eyes of Wade. If you listened to TNT, Wade was the planet, and the other nine players on the court were the moons orbiting around him. It was ridiculous. So tell me, what has Dwyane Wade done, exactly, other than spell his first name wrong? His teams have won three playoff series, and lost two since he’s been in the league. And two of those wins came against chump pretenders. Wow — no wonder they went ga-ga over him.

So the Pistons will win it, mainly because they are the Pistons and not many people think they can do it. But as far as the actual basketball is concerned, the Pistons play just a tad better defense than San Antonio, and I don’t think the Spurs have faced a frontcourt quite like the trio of Tayshaun Prince and the Wallaces. Hey, it sounds like a band, doesn’t it?

No wonder it’s time for an encore.

Those "Out of Bounds" T-Shirts Are Still Begging To Be Given Away!!

Just a friendly reminder that those lovely “Out of Bounds” t-shirts are waiting for those who choose to participate in “Who Is Your All-Time Favorite Tiger And Why” contest.

Aren’t you just dying to walk around with one of those shirts that shamelessly promotes this blog? Thought so!

All you have to do is post a comment or email me at GregorySEno@aol.com describing who your favorite Detroit Tiger player is/was of all-time, and why. It could be due to a personal encounter, or something you saw or heard on TV or radio, or an amazing effort you witnessed in person. Or it could simply be someone you attached yourself to for any number of reasons. I know it’s tough to pick just one guy — hence the t-shirt giveaway to the three best entries. Who’s the judge? Me, baby — along with jury and executioner, but that’s for another time.

Time’s running out! I will accept entries thru June 19, Father’s Day. Hurry!

And thanks to those who have already entered. And good luck!

Washington: First In War, First In Peace, Last In MLB Logo Design

Hey, it’s the National League All-Star team…or IS it?

Do me a favor and take a look at the above logo. What comes to mind?

Do you see the logo of a National League team, or the National League All-Star team?

Here’s where I’m going with this: I happen to be anal when it comes to uniforms. I have high standards, which include the categories of presentation, logo design, colors and nicknames.

And I gotta tell ya, the logo of the Washington Nationals bugs the hell out of me.

I thought the franchise did a wonderful thing by resurrecting the old, script “W” on the ballcaps, from the original Senators teams. But instead of keeping the theme and spelling “Nationals” in script the way “Senators” used to appear, they came up with this awful thing, which looks like something you’d expect to see on the chests of the National League All-Star team during a homerun hitting contest. It just has that “look” of something generic, to only be worn during All-Star weekend. It bums me out.

There are a whole lot of unis that I am not thrilled with in baseball, although at least we’re out of the horrible uniform decade of the 1970’s, with its infatuation with double-knits, a new thing back then. Everyone looked like softball teams during the 70’s, except the Tigers, who kept things traditional, thank goodness. Remember the trend on caps of different colored bills than the rest of the lid? Yecch!

I remember the Cubs, in the 90’s, coming out with a road outfit that had a solid blue jersey and the word “Cubs” in script on the front. Trouble was, the “Cubs” looked a whole lot like “Cuba”, and that country’s uniforms used for international play. It was strange, and I wondered how the heck that design could have gotten by all the marketing folks without someone saying, “Hey — we look like CUBA!”

Anyhow, that’s my rant for the day. Stay tuned for my preview of the NBA Finals tomorrow. Bet ya can’t wait.

What, Me Wrong? Pistons In Seven — As Guaranteed

The legacy of Willis Reed is safe after all.

Didn’t you think Dwyane Wade’s “dramatic” entrance onto the floor last night just before Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finalas was a tad contrived? As TNT’s Craig Sager wrung his hands in his tangerine suit, actually asking us to believe that a decision on Wade’s availability had yet to be made just minutes before tipoff, it was ridiculously obvious that the Heat staff was trying to manufacture a Reed-like moment, presumably to gain inspiration.

Willis Reed: Now THERE was an injury!

Reed of the New York Knicks literally hobbled onto the court just before Game 7 of the 1970 NBA Finals at Madison Square Garden, a game in which he wasn’t expected to play due to a very painful knee injury suffered in Game 6. But that was real. Reed truly wasn’t being counted on, and indeed he only played 15 minutes, only scored four points (he hit his first two shots, including the Knicks’ first basket) and only grabbed three rebounds, but his very presence was absolutely a boost, as the Knicks destroyed the Lakers. Reed moved around like someone who should have had his leg in a cast, not on a basketball court.

But anyone who thought Wade, with today’s medical treatments and pharmaceuticals, wouldn’t play in a Game 7 due to some painful ribs — not denying the fact that they surely hurt him — must be in quite a state of denial. The timing of his entrance onto the court was so contrived it was funny — almost as funny as TNT’s taking the bait and trying to add to the “drama.” Of course, that’s what they’re known for: Drama.

And the faithful readers of this little blog — and you both know who you are — know that yours truly hit this thing right on the money after Game 5’s debacle. I said the Pistons would wipe the floor with the Heat in Game 6, then win a close one down the stretch two nights later. You may hold your applause to the end.

But I don’t want to get too cocky; my prediction was also driven by my disgust over the Pistons’ performance in Game 5. Still, I was right, so nyaa-nyaa-nyaa-nyaa.

Sorry.

As for The Finals, the Pistons will win those too. More on that later.

You wanna doubt me?

The Dead Milkmen and Sparky Anderson? Anything Was Possible With Jim Walewander

(another in a series of posts featuring memorable Tigers — in one way, shape or form — who played in Detroit since the last All-Star game here, in 1971. This series celebrates the return of the midsummer classic to the Motor City in 2005, and a new feature will appear each weekend until the game is played in July)

Jim Walewander scored the biggest run of the season for the ‘87 Tigers

The Tigers were desperate. After an 11-19 start to the 1987 season and a climb all the way toward the top of the AL East, the Tigers were watching their charge to overtake the Toronto Blue Jays fall apart in Canada on the second-to-last weekend of the season.

The Tigers went to Toronto that Thursday just 1/2 game behind the Jays. But after three straight losses, including a gut-wrenching “come from ahead” defeat on Saturday on national television, the Bengals were 3 1/2 games back. And now, on Sunday, they were behind going into the ninth inning, staring a 4 1/2 game deficit in the face, with only a week to play.

Enter two heroes — one that you might suspect, one that was very unlikely. The likely rescuer was Kirk Gibson. The surprise guy was Jim Walewander.

Walewander — “Wales” to his teammates — had only joined the team in May, but already he had established a reputation of being one of the flakiest characters to wear the Olde English D since Mark “The Bird” Fidrych. Walewander was a carefree kid who himself suspected he had no real business being in the big leagues, but he was happy as heck to be there anyway. He was good for the media types with his offbeat quotes, and he had a fondness for a band called The Dead Milkmen. It was this fondness that eventually would involve Tigers manager Sparky Anderson, leading to one of the strangest encounters in a Tigers dugout ever.

As Walewander’s interest in the Milkmen grew legs, every Tigers fan in the Tri County area knew of the band, even if they couldn’t name a single song the lads performed. Inevitably, Sparky became aware of Walewander’s near obsession, and before you knew it, a meeting was arranged by Walewander between Sparky and the Milkmen, in the Tigers dugout before a game.

Well, it only ended up being one of the biggest media events in Detroit sports history, if only for its unlikelyhood. Picture Liberace meeting up with Bob Probert in the Red Wings locker room, or Truman Capote chatting up Alex Karras at Lions training camp. It was that off the charts for Sparky to hobnob with the Milkmen, in the Tiger Stadium dugout of all places.

A deliciously odd moment in Detroit sports: Sparky meets The Dead Milkmen

As Wales beamed, Sparky held court with the Milkmen, and such antics kept the team loose as they zeroed in on Toronto and the divisional crown. Even though he was probably the 25th man on a 25 man roster, Walewander became one of the most sought out players by media and fans alike. Everyone, it seemed, loved Jim Walewander — pinchrunner and utility infielder.

But back to Toronto on that next-to-last Sunday of the season. The Tigers were behind in the ninth until Gibby cracked a home run off Jays closer Tom Henke. Then, with the score tied in the 11th, Gibson was up again, pinchrunner Walewander on second base. Gibby hit a flare into short centerfield. Walewander raced to third, but against the wishes of the third base coach, he continued on toward home plate. Blue Jays infielder Tony Fernandez — I think it was Tony — fielded the blooper and, on the urging of his teammates and with his back to the infield, turned and threw a bullet to home. Wales, with a perfect headfirst, sweeping slide, beat the tag, scoring the go-ahead run. The Tigers held on and won, and suddenly a 4 1/2 game deficit wasn’t to be, replaced instead by a 2 1/2 game gap. It was probably the difference between winning and losing the division for the Tigers.

Walewander may have very well saved the Tigers from AL East extinction with that aggressive, daring baserunning, a bi-product of his airy personality. Because, as you know, the Jays folded like a tent, losing their remaining games, including a 1-0 loss to Frank Tanana on the season’s final day. The Tigers were AL East champs.

A large part of that comeback can be credited to the devil-may-care baserunning of a utility player who made a name for himself not from his baseball playing skills, but because of his flakiness and affinity for a punk band named The Dead Milkmen.

Walewander had 54 at bats for the Tigers in ‘87, 188 the next year, and after cups of coffee with the Yankees and Angels, he was done by 1993. But he quite possibly scored the biggest run of the season for the ‘87 Tigers.

Such is baseball.

(next week: Al Cowens and Ed Farmer)

Hey, Schwab: Stump THIS!

(the following column can also be viewed at RetailDetroit.com, where a new column from yours truly appears each Sunday or Monday. They will also appear here for your reading pleasure. For archives of my columns there, go to www.RetailDetroit.com and click on “Columnists”)

I watched him perform last week, on television, on one of those ESPN channels, and the more I watched, the more I saw his fist-clenching and fist-pumping, the more I noticed his slightly arrogant, hardly humble act, the more I felt my insides churn.

No, I’m not talking about Shaquille O’Neal. Or Dwyane Wade. Or Bill Walton.

I’m talking about The Schwab.

I stumbled upon his show one night — “Stump The Schwab” — and I was sucked in within minutes. Seriously, I think I attached myself to The Schwab’s show faster than my wife can get hooked on any movie on Lifetime. I mean it — I was on The Schwab like a barnacle. I only wish he could have felt my presence and was distracted enough to actually MISS A FREAKING QUESTION!

For those of you who don’t know, and haven’t yet been subject to it — and may God keep you blessed — “Stump The Schwab” is a sports trivia show, featuring, of course, The Schwab. I have no idea what Schwabbie’s real name is, though it’s rumored to be Howard. Regardless, The Schwab is basically a fat guy with a beard who must have less of a real life than any human being on this planet, because he appears to know every single sports fact, tidbit and piece of useless junk on this planet. And the funny thing is, if Schwabbie is reading this (which he may because he knows everything about sports), I just paid him a compliment, in his mind.

The man I hate — The Schwab

The premise is thus: host Stuart Scott is joined by, on one side, Schwabbie, and on the other, three pretenders to the Sports Trivia Throne. The three contestants duke it out, along with the Schwab’s participation, to decide who gets to face Schwabbie in the final showdown. I have only seen a few episodes, but on one of them it was mentioned that a contestant did indeed Stump The Schwab and win once upon a time. I plan on writing ESPN and asking for the tape of that one. I plan on playing it whenever I am blue and need a pick me up. Because after watching a few minutes of Schwabbie knocking every hardball out of the park, I was ready to (Jesse) Barfield all over myself.

I am going to assume, for sake of ethics and credibility, that The Schwab is actually that trivia laced and the whole thing isn’t some put on. They introduce him as ESPN’s very first researcher, so I’m going to take it on face value that he is really that almighty. Besides, it’s more fun, I suppose, to hate The Schwab if I am convinced that he’s genuine.

And I DO hate The Schwab. I found myself gritting my teeth every time it was his turn to answer, hoping beyond hope that he would fumble one away — just like Leroy Hoard of Cleveland in the NFL playoffs against Denver, by the way — and leave the door open for a Pretender to put back the miss. When Schwabbie got it right — as he always seemed to do — I sneered.

You have to understand, I rather pride myself on my sports trivia knowledge. My friends will agree, and they will also tell you that I am their poor man’s Schwab. My wife would call me The Slob, but that’s another column altogether. Regardless, while I don’t flaunt it like Schwabbie, I feel like I can handle most any sports trivia pitch you toss at me, and at least drive it to the warning track. So when I see The Schwab answering questions that he either should have no business knowing, or that I also know, it makes me want to jump out of my skin and into the ESPN studios to take him on in a know-holds-barred Sudden Death Match. Oh, how I would love to wipe that smug look off Schwabbie’s scraggly face!

The format is Scott announcing several different categories, in which there are usually long lists, such as “Name Every Player Who Has Reached 3,000 Hits Since 1970″ (an actual list from an actual episode), and one by one, Schwabbie included, the contestants have to name a player on the list during their turn, until either all contestants are eliminated (which occurs if you fail to answer or get one wrong), or the list is complete, whichever comes first. The list is on the screen for the viewers at home, though I rarely need it (yeah, right). When a player is named from the list, his graphic darkens, leaving the remaining names bright. Schwabbie ALWAYS successfully names someone from the list, and he does so with 100% assurity and with a tad too much defiance for my liking. Like I said, I hate The Schwab.

The next round usually involves something like having to put, in proper order, the teams that a journeyman player from one of the four major sports has played for, within a certain time limit. Schwabbie doesn’t play this round, but he does take over Scott’s role and tells the contestants whether they’re right or wrong. And when they’re wrong — which they usually are — Schwabbie doesn’t just give the right order, he offers another piece of trivia, which I am convinced is strictly for purposes of showing off. Like I said, I hate The Schwab.

All this leads us to the final showdown, Schwabbie vs. Pretender, Manu-a-Manu (Ginobili or Tuiasosopo). Each man gets three strikes. There are different categories, from which each player chooses for his opponent to answer. Every wrong answer is a strike. Just like baseball — the first diamond was laid out by Alexander Cartwright, not Abner Doubleday, by the way — three strikes and yer out. So far, it’s only been The Schwab remaining. Like I said, I hate The Schwab.

I don’t think I would have as much of a problem with Schwabbie if he showed the slightest hint of humility or occasionally a “Gee, whiz” sort of attitude. Instead, he pumps his fist and smugly answers as if it’s HIS money they’re giving away. Sometimes Scott is only halfway through a question, and Schwabbie is nodding knowingly, ready to pounce as soon as Stu stops speaking. The irony of this obnoxious habit was never more cruel than during a game-winning question from the Championship Edition the other night. The question was, “These two NHL defensemen were the only two teammates to finish 1-2 in voting for the Norris Trophy, in 2002.” Schwabbie started nodding during the word “teammates”. AARGH! Schwabbie won it on a Red Wings question that I would have been all over like (Eddie) Mayo on a BLT! (The answer, of course, is Nicklas Lidstrom and Chris Chelios). Like I said, I hate The Schwab.

I’d like a crack at The Schwab, just so you know. When I watch the show, I play along, trying not to look at the lists on the screen, to simulate what would happen if I was one of the Pretenders. I think I could acquit myself well, even with the lights and cameras and Stuart Scott’s lazy left eye there as distractions. And I’m sure the show isn’t designed to be taking itself seriously. It’s supposed to be mostly fun, I know that. Then how come, when Schwabbie struggled with a question in one of the episodes, did I actually say, out loud, yet quietly but with definite mocking disdain — and I am not making this up — “Oh, what’s the matter, Schwabbie? Don’t you know the answer? Oh, poor Schwabbie.” The Schwab missed it, and it was my turn to fist pump, basking in the glow of his wrongness.

Did I mention that I hate The Schwab?

What, Me Worry? Pistons In Seven — Guaranteed

The Pistons will be here between Games 1 and 2
of the NBA Finals — The Alamo

Go ahead and book the flight to San Antonio. Make the arrangements, make sure the busses are ready and don’t forget to turn off the coffee pot. Pack some warm weather clothes and make time to visit the Alamo between Game 1 and Game 2 of the NBA Finals. Break out those tapes of Spurs games for the scouting folks.

The Pistons, not the Miami Heat, should do all of the above.

This is a sure thing — surer than sure. Bank on it. Put all the money on Detroit. Bet the farm, Ellie May. The Pistons will win Game 6 in Detroit Saturday, then take the Heat to the woodshed in Game 7, celebrating a return trip to the NBA Finals on Miami’s home floor.

Why am I so certain of all this? Maybe I’m disgusted about Game 5, but I truly believe the Pistons are destined to win this series, and if the Heat think the defending champions are done like dinner, then they have dibs on another think.

I like the Pistons in a Game 7 on the road, almost more than I would like them if the game was at the Palace. There is an enormous amount of pressure on the home team to win a Game 7, and it doesn’t take much for the players, and the fans, to get tight. And a team like the Heat, who haven’t enjoyed this much playoff success since, well, ever, might feel their collars shrink a bit. They say the clinching game of a series is always the toughest to win, and the task is certain to be even tougher when you’re going up against the champs after having blown a chance to do away with them in Game 6.

Oh, I’m sure there will be talk in the Heat camp of “putting them away” and “keeping them down” and “not letting them have any life”, but it will all be for naught. The Pistons will not only defeat Miami in Game 6, they will spank them good and send them to bed without dinner.

This is the time when Rip Hamilton, Chauncey Billups and even Rasheed Wallace usually step to the forefront, especially Wallace. He was miserable in Game 5 — two points and five fouls — and his history with the Pistons, especially during the playoffs, is that he bounces back like a superball after poor games. Game 6 won’t even be close, Mildred — and you read it here first (I hope).

Game 7 will be a battle, no question, and will likely be nip and tuck the whole way. But the Pistons will put the defensive clamps down midway through the fourth quarter and come away with the win and the Eastern Conference Championship.

Sorry, Miami — but Dolphins training camp is only about a month away. Something to look forward to, I’m sure.

The Disabled List: It’s Not Just For Visiting Anymore — You Can Live There Too!

Something is hurting Juan again


Can you imagine the deep doo-doo the Tigers would be swimming in if Juan Gonzalez had taken them up on their contract offer of 2000?

Juan Gone is gone again.

The Indians’ Gonzalez, in his first big league at-bat in almost a year, swung and hit a tapper in the infield and started to run it out and — oops! — his right hamstring gave out on him again. It was the same hammy that caused him to miss the last 11 months. His comeback lasted three pitches. He was like a boy on his first date — he didn’t even make it to first base.

Shortly after the Tigers traded for Gonzalez before the 2000 season, it was painfully — no pun intended — obvious that Juan had no intention of staying in Detroit beyond the length of his contract, which had a year to go. To say he didn’t warm up to the Motor City would be like saying Lisa Marie Presley didn’t warm up to Michael Jackson’s kiss at the MTV Music Awards that time. Watching Tigers GM Randy Smith trying to woo Juan to sign a long-term deal was like watching a train wreck — you didn’t want to look, yet you couldn’t stop. It seemed as if the only person in Detroit who couldn’t see that Gonzalez wanted no part of Detroit or the Tigers was Smith himself. What would you think if you offered a player well over $100 million over seven years, and he told you to go stuff some baseballs up your backstop?

But the Tigers were blessed by Gonzalez’s snub. Never one to stay healthy, Juan has visited the disabled list since that 2000 season more than “Refrigerator” Perry has visited an all-you-can-eat buffet. Gonzalez doesn’t just visit the DL, by the way — he pitches a tent and sets up camp.

Supposedly the Indians feel comforted by the act that they “only” owe Juan about $600,000, whether he plays or not. Such is the world of baseball finance these days. But beyond the money aspect, they’re getting absolutely nothing from Gonzalez on the field, which is what many teams who have employed him have gotten. What’s worse, this is Gonzalez’s second tour of wounded duty with the Indians. He also has nabbed the Rangers twice in his career. Some teams never learn, I guess.

The sad thing is, had Gonzalez stayed healthy, he would almost certainly be in the 500 home run club by now (he has 434), with a shot at 600. When he was on, he was that good.

It’s always a tough call to get annoyed with athletes who are injury-prone, because some guys are simply snakebitten. But then you look at players who put themselves through hell and then some, and you think of Kirk Gibson in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, and then it becomes easier to get annoyed with dudes like Gonzalez. I mean, he irritates me and he hasn’t played for the Tigers in five years.

Right now the scuttlebutt is that the Tribe might not activate Gonzalez again and may just say “Adios” because his hamstring might never really get better.

Ya think?

Home Is Where The Heartburn Is For The Tigers

If you look closely, you can see the
complimentary mint in the visitors’ dugout

Whenever the topic of Comerica Park comes up, it is invariably asked how much the fans have embraced the ballpark, now in its sixth season of operation, believe it or not. The curiosity is understandable, considering the Tigers played at Michigan and Trumbull for over 80 years.

Have the fans, it is asked, finally accepted CoPa as the Tigers’ new home?

Hey, have the Tigers themselves?

The Tigers have not, truly, established any sort of home field advantage since moving into Comerica for the start of the 2000 season. Granted, they’ve fielded some awful teams lately, but there has never really been any sort of notion that the Tigers have figured out a way to put their ballpark into proper use. We’ve heard over and over, ad nauseum, about CoPa’s ridiculously large environs, and how it punished hitters, except those who spray the ball and like to hit into the gaps. Then where are all the spray hitters who like to hit into the gaps?

This season the Tigers, as usual, are below .500 at Comerica, 10-14. They are 13-12 away from home.

It’s always the visiting team, it seems, that manages to figure out how to play in Comerica, and that’s odd, considering most clubs only come here once a season. Last night the Texas Rangers came into town and trampled all over the good guys, 8-2, and they made it look so easy. Of course, the Rangers have been victimizing everyone lately; they have a nine-game winning streak. But after a stirring three-game sweep in Baltimore over the weekend, punctuated by Sunday’s come from behind 8-6 win, you thought the Tigers would have some momentum and would be eager to try to get something going at home. Instead, they went meekly.

Okay, okay, the Rangers starter was Kenny Rogers, who is 7-0 with an ERA that looks like the price of a candy bar — 0.87 — in his last seven starts. Rogers clearly has been doing it to others, too. But so what? You’re at home! You just came off a sweep of the AL East leaders, right on the heels of being swept in Yankee Stadium! What about staring Rogers and the Rangers’ winning streak in the face and causing the other team to blink for once?

In fairness, I’ve always thought baseball to have the least effective home field advantage of all the four majors, but having said that, the teams that win pennants and World Series usually have a sparkling record at home. They figure out how to play to their parks’ nuances. They find a way to make it uncomfortable for the visitors. The Tigers will never take that next step to contention if teams can waltz into Comerica and feel like guests at the Ritz — which they are, in Dearborn, off the field, but you know what I mean.

As soon as the Tigers can stop leaving mints on their opponents’ pillows at CoPa, then maybe we can start talking about the team making some noise in the AL Central.