Blame Broadcasters Drysdale, Kell For Sparky-To-Detroit

A casual conversation at a press box buffet led to Sparky Anderson becoming manager of the Tigers in 1979 — and kept him from managing the Cubs in 1980.

It’s a story I had almost forgotten about, but was reminded of when I cracked open They Call Me Sparky, Anderson’s authorized biography with Dan Ewald, which was originally released in 1998. I attended the premiere of the book at the Royal Oak Music Theatre, and got an autographed copy. But I digress.

The Tigers were in Anaheim in June 1979, playing reasonably well under new manager Les Moss. Hall of Fame pitcher Don Drysdale was an Angels broadcaster back then, and Sparky was doing TV features for an LA station, having been fired by the Reds after the 1978 season.

Sparky’s book, released in 1998

Sparky told Drysdale that he was set to be the manager of the Chicago Cubs in 1980. A verbal agreement had been reached with the Wrigley family.

Later, in the press box cafeteria, Drysdale saw Tigers broadcaster George Kell and told him about Anderson’s gig with the Cubs in 1980. Kell then sought out Tigers GM Jim Campbell and relayed Drysdale’s scoop.

The next day, Campbell began peppering Sparky with short, abrupt phone calls — each one progressing in interest. Sparky initially said he didn’t want to manage — anywhere — until 1980. He also told Campbell that his asking price was probably too steep for the financially-conservative Tigers. But Campbell persisted. He wanted Sparky immediately, not in 1980.

“There’s no way I could look Les Moss in the eye if I knew I was firing him at the end of the season,” Campbell told Sparky, according to the book.

Finally, Sparky, impressed by Campbell’s diligence, agreed to take over the Tigers the following week, when the team returned to Detroit.

It didn’t work out right away. The Tigers went 2-9 in Sparky’s first 11 games at the helm.

But it worked out for the next 16 years. And the Cubs lost out — again. The team that had been cursed by a billy goat was now done in by a press box buffet conversation. Typical.

Thomas’s 500 Homers Are Pure And Undisputable

Frank Thomas, as far as I can tell, did things the right way.

Never, that I can recall, was Thomas placed under a shroud of suspicion because of his exploits on the baseball diamond. Never do I remember his name being bantied about as a possible user of performance enhancing drugs. I don’t recall seeing him raising his right hand in testimony on Capitol Hill. And I certainly don’t remember him beginning his career with a David Banner-like physique and ending it with that of the Incredible Hulk.

Thomas, who hit his 500th career homerun last night, should breeze through Hall of Fame ballotting, unlike some of his contemporaries, whose numbers and change in body structure have most sensible people looking at them cross-eyed.

Thomas watches #500 fly in the Metrodome

“The Big Hurt,” they call him, and it’s because of the pain he inflicts on opposing pitchers, not on the game itself. Frank Thomas was jobbed of the Comeback Player of the Year Award in 2006 (he won it in 2000), a slight that I still can’t understand. He went from 105 AB (and 12 HR) with the White Sox in 2005 to 39 HR, 114 RBI with the A’s last season, in under 500 AB. His departure from the White Sox was contentious, which was something else I never understood, because all Thomas did was give that franchise 16 glorious seasons — the last two of which were injury-ravaged. He, more than anyone, put the White Sox back on the radar after years of mediocrity in the 1970s and ’80s.

He was, dare I say, the most feared righthanded hitter in the big leagues for most of the 1990s. And even now, at age 39, he’s not someone I relish seeing come to the plate against my team. Yes, last year’s ALCS against the Tigers was brutal for Thomas. And Tigers fans should thank their lucky stars that his slump coincided with that series. But you know what? Even though he struggled mightily against the Tigers last October, I always felt like the next at-bat would be the one where he’d break out of it and make us all pay.

There’s no question that Thomas’s career was lengthened — and even saved — by the designated hitter rule. He will go down with Edgar Martinez as two of the greatest DHs of all time. How much that matters to you is your business. I’m not a DH fan, but if it’s there, you may as well have people who can do it properly.

Funny, but Thomas was ejected in the ninth inning last night, after disputing a called third strike.

“I’m probably the only one to hit his 500th homer and get ejected,” Thomas said afterward.

I can think of hundreds of pitchers who wish they had that power.

Frank Thomas has hit 500 homeruns — and counting. Every one of them, I believe, was smacked and pummeled out of big league ballparks without the benefit of foreign substances introduced into his bloodstream, or spread onto his skin.

“This means a lot to me because I did it the right way and I’ve busted my butt since college. I always worked hard in that weight room to be strong. I’m a big guy and I’ve been blessed with this talent,” Thomas said of his accomplishment.

Hall of Fame, indeed.

Read Between The Lines: Ozzie Under The Guillen-tine

We may be rid of the scourge that is Ozzie Guillen, after all.

Guillen, the manager of the Chicago White Sox, seems to have his neck placed squarely under the executioner’s razor-sharp blade, the basket handy to catch his lopped off head. And wearing the black mask is GM Kenny Williams.

Uneasy should lie Guillen’s head under the Chisox crown

“I’m tired of watching this,” Williams uttered over the weekend as the Sox dropped to an unsightly 13 games under .500. The AL Central figured to be a four-horse race this summer. Hardly anyone suspected the Sox would pull up lame two weeks before the All-Star break.

“Changes will be made,” Williams continued, and it would be a surprise if those changes don’t include the manager. Guillen might have been cute and cuddly to White Sox brass when the team was winning, despite his propensity to stick his cleats into his foul mouth. But now that the Chisox are ten games under .500, 12 games behind the Tigers and looking moribund — despite a three-game sweep of equally inept Tampa Bay — it would seem that Guillen’s time is drawing to a close.

Not that baseball would miss him. Ozzie Guillen’s pugnaciousness made him a terrific ballplayer and probably a delight to manage. But his antics and words — too many to consolidate here — don’t wear well as a field boss. He’s like Billy Martin that way, but Martin was a winner everywhere he managed, and only twice finished below .500 in 16 seasons as a manager.

So far, no changes have been made, that Williams has promised. There would seem to be enough talent to produce much better than a 32-42 record.

Dust off the hot seat, open up the books in Vegas, and start the countdown. Tell the f0lks at ESPN to make the “Who Will Replace Ozzie?” graphics, ready to be flashed on the screen at a moment’s notice. Create the Internet polls, with a choice of successors. Ozzie Guillen may not be the manager of the Chicago White Sox when the teams reconvene after the All-Star break. If Kenny Williams keeps his word and makes changes to shake up his ballclub, and replacing Guillen isn’t among those changes, then much of his talk will be just that.

“I’m tired of watching this,” Williams said.

Then may as well get rid of the person who hasn’t been able to do anything to stop it.

One Is The Loneliest Number: Portland Hasn’t Always Gotten It Right

It was said the other day on ESPN, maybe during the “Road to the Countdown to the Preview of the Hoopla to the NBA Draft.” And it was probably the smartest, most accurate thing uttered.

“One thing’s for sure: the #2 overall pick is going to be the easiest pick in the history of the NBA draft.”

Not-so-sloppy seconds is what awaits the Seattle Sonics, after the Portland Trailblazers make their selection, #1 off the board. And even the Blazers don’t figure to screw this one up.

Greg Oden or Kevin Durant. Two big men of the “Rolls Royce” nature, to steal from Dickie Vitale’s lexicon. Both kids — and they ARE kids still — should grow up to be a dominant big man for a long time. Hard to go wrong. But the comment about #2 being so easy is, Seattle will simply take who the Blazers don’t. No analyzing. No hand-wringing. No comparing of notes. No last-minute looks at tape. If Portland takes Oden, Seattle takes Durant. And vice-versa.

But Portland hasn’t always had good luck with drafting big men. Sometimes they’ve been very silly, in fact.

In 1972, Portland used the #1 overall pick to draft LaRue Martin, a 6-foot-11 beanpole from Loyola University in Chicago. He was going to inject hope and life into the third-year franchise.

In four NBA seasons, all with Portland, Martin averaged 5.3 ppg.

Martin (left) and Bowie: Together they made a decent benchwarmer, kinda sorta

In 1974, the Blazers tried again — but this time their choice wasn’t much of a stretch. Choosing the center Bill Walton from UCLA didn’t require a lot of basketball sense. Of course, knowing he’d have an injury-plagued career would have been difficult. So would have imagining him putting America to sleep as a TV analyst. But Walton did lead Portland to its only NBA title, in 1977.

In 1984, Blazers management got their wires crossed and snapped Sam Bowie off the board, from Kentucky. They apparently didn’t think as much of the jewel from the other basketball factory — Michael Jordan from the University of North Carolina.

Now the Blazers have a chance to go 2-2, when they pick either Oden or Durant. They seem to be leading toward Oden. I think I’d lean that way, too — but regardless, the Seattle Sonics will indeed have the easiest pick in NBA draft history. And they can basically grab immunity from criticism — for who can possibly vilify them, even if Durant/Oden busts? NOBODY is suggesting they draft anyone other than who the Blazers DONT.

In 1980, there were two sleek, superstar-destined running backs that were sure to go very high in the NFL draft. One was Charlie White, old #12 for USC. The other was high-stepping Billy Sims, #20 from Oklahoma. White won the Heisman Trophy in 1979; Sims won it in 1978. The Lions would have the #1 overall pick in 1980, thanks to a 2-14 record in 1979. The ‘79 season would be their first of many forays into double-digit loss seasons over the ensuing three decades.

As the draft approached, speculation ran rampant: would the Lions select the reigning Heisman winner, White — or the winner two seasons ago, Sims? White or Sims? Sims or White? It seemed to be quite a quandary.

The Lions, of course, chose Sims. And despite a career cut short by injury, Billy Sims was a far superior NFL running back than Charlie White, who went to Cleveland.

And sometimes you get the easiest pick in the history of the NFL draft, too. Such was the case in 1989, when Green Bay passed on Barry Sanders to take the performance-enhanced hulk from MSU, OL Tony Mandarich. Even the Lions couldn’t botch that one up.

So tonight we’ll find out. Oden or Durant? The Portland team is the only one that can make the big mistake here. If they pick Oden, and Durant proves to be the better pro, then you know what’s gonna happen. If Seattle’s pick disappoints, then the Sonics are victims of bad luck — not a team that has pointed a shotgun at its foot and pulled the trigger.

No. 2 can, indeed, be a better position than #1.

As Three Dog Night so rightly noted, “One is the loneliest number.” They also said that “Two can be as bad as one.” But not quite as bad.

Tuesday’s Feature: The Straightaway

(every Tuesday, Out of Bounds features “The Straightaway,” NASCAR commentary from Brazil-based Siddy Hall)

THE STRAIGHTAWAY

by Siddy Hall

TOO MANY TEAMS (50), TOO MANY RACES (36), A SHORTAGE OF TRACK DATES AND HOW TO FIX IT

Every week about 50 teams are trying to fill 43 slots. After spending millions of dollars these 15 non top-35 teams have their fortune decided by a two-lap solo dash in non-racing conditions. It’s like a golf tournament field being decided by a “Longest Drive” contest. Anybody considering an entry into the NASCAR game right now probably just slammed a fifth of whiskey. You’d have to be out of your mind. Just ask Bill Davis or Team Red Bull.

Meanwhile the Busch Series continues to flounder along in its mysterious ways. The races are shown on TV and only the teams and their nearest relatives seem to care.

There’s a way to solve this and a host of other problems in NASCAR. I’m about to propose a way to make the Chase more exciting, the races better, the teams happier, and the track owners happier. It’ll be a happy fest after the “Siddy Hall Fix NASCAR Game Plan” is initiated.

STEP 1: Franchise the teams. The days of a “Team Elliott” rising through the ranks from an outback, small-town garage to the pinnacle of NASCAR is long gone. As beautiful of a story that it is – a guy or a group of people building a car in their own garage and taking it to the top – this is folklore from the past that will not repeat itself.

Franchise the teams and let them plan on racing each week. Allow teams to develop a driver without fear of being outside the Top-35 in points. In total, franchise 72 teams. Yup, 72.

STEP 2: Split the 72 teams into two groups of 36. (For now, we’ll call these groups the Gordon group and the Earnhardt group.) Each group races on its own. So you would have two separate standings with 36 cars each.

STEP 3: Shorten the season to 30 races. After 20 races the top-20 from each group forms a new group of 40 cars and the Chase begins similar to the current rules. Voila !! You now have a Chase where every car on the track is competing for the championship. Who’s not happy?

Please notice that even while reducing the race schedule, we are also adding race dates. There are now 50 race dates. Races for everybody! Rockingham step right up, you get two. Kentucky, help yourself!! Iowa, you’re in luck! Ontario, yes Canada, you finally receive the race dates that you deserve. O. Bruton Smith, you get your second Texas race date! Everybody is happy!

See? Boss Hogg, er, O. Bruton is happy!!

Under Siddy’s plan, more of THIS will be seen

STEP 4: Base the starting grid for each race on the inverse order of the point standings. The points leader starts in the back. Sure, you could argue that the points leader should start in front, but what’s the fun in that? It’s more interesting to watch these cars battle their way to the front. And the lesser teams get some airtime at the start of the race. Everybody is happy!

OTHER BENEFITS: By reducing the number of cars to 36 (or 40 for the Chase) the short track races will improve. Am I alone in believing that Bristol has suffered since allowing 43 cars in the race? The track is too congested. There’s a breakout of Yellow Fever at these races from all the cautions. Reducing the cars will increase the racing. Plus. NASCAR could actually hold three races at Bristol. One for the Gordon group, one for the Earnhardt group, and then one for the Chase.

Gordon’s wife, Ingrid Vandebosch, is on board with the Hall proposal (can’t ya tell?)

Earnhardt, Jr.’s sister Kelley, spotted giving her OK of Hall’s idea to brother Dale

Currently there are about 50 teams. Assuming that each team would be awarded a franchise, this allows room for 22 more teams. By setting a 2010 deadline, more teams could get organized and get on board. Certainly there would be some current and former drivers that would like a piece of this action.

Under this set-up, fans could enjoy two races each weekend that actually matter. One on Saturday night and one Sunday afternoon.

So long Busch Series!

(you can e-mail Siddy Hall: cityhall172000 at yahoo.com)

Hill’s Return To Pistons Would Be Poetic Justice

Call it “Homecoming — The Sequel”. But here’s hoping that it has the same results as “The Godfather, Part II,” as opposed to “Caddyshack II.”

The Pistons tried to play the nostalgia and emotion card last January, when they brought Chris Webber home to finally realize his dream of playing NBA ball in Detroit. And it worked, for a time — until Webber either became too old or too disinterested (or both), seemingly overnight. Now it’s questionable whether he wants to return for another season — retirement possibly looming. Maybe just as questionable is the team’s interest in bringing him back.

But there appears to be no questioning this: the Pistons would like to bring Grant Hill back to Detroit, forthwith. They’d like to throw him some mid-level bucks and let him do his thing off the bench next season. This, seven years after Hill pressed for his shipment to Orlando, in a sign-and-trade deal that brought the Pistons Ben Wallace and Chucky Atkins.

The Hill move was the first official transaction of team president Joe Dumars’s executive career. It wasn’t the best of scenarios for a rookie GM: the franchise player wants out — and the whole league knew it. Yet Dumars, displaying his uncanny knack for being a front office man, engineered a whale of a deal.

Now, it may be another move involving Hill that will again help define Dumars’s post-playing legacy.

This time, it would be the reverse — Hill leaving Orlando for Detroit. And he would leave the Magic as he left the Pistons: no playoff series victories, dreams dashed, hopes crushed.

It’s one of the most unfair of all NBA facts. Grant Hill, in 13 pro seasons — many played under duress and painful agony, some not really played at all — has never experienced winning a playoff series. He has not, simply, been anywhere near an NBA championship. And this about one of the classiest players the league has had the pleasure of calling its own in the last 20 years.

Hill, by all rights, should be in a television studio, trading barbs with Charles Barkley. Or maybe on the sidelines wearing a headset, telling Marv Albert what just happened, and why. Or maybe — just maybe — he should be carving his own niche as a front office man. Or a coach. Certainly none of us should have been surprised had that been the direction Hill decided to take.

This is because of his injury-ravaged ankles and legs, which have robbed him of almost two full seasons. Some say his decision to try to play on his mangled ankle in the 2000 playoffs for the Pistons contributed greatly to his subsequent problems. Then when he decided to opt out of Detroit, he was vilified, instead of praised for playing when lesser men would have sat on the bench in street clothes.

Hill’s time in Orlando lacked the magic he imagined

It brings to mind another local guy, Danny Roundfield from Central Michigan, Detroit born and bred. GM Jack McCloskey acquired Roundfield before the 1984-85 season, from Atlanta, to be the stud power forward the team had lacked. Roundfield had, in previous years, been an offensive force and a beast on the boards.

In the regular season, Roundfield was OK — not spectacular, but he wasn’t 23 years old anymore, either. The Pistons qualified for the second round of the NBA playoffs in 1985 for the first time in nine years. And they had pushed the vaunted Boston Celtics to a sixth game, to be played at Joe Louis Arena.

Roundfield dressed and played some minutes in the first half. But something was bothering him, physically, and when the teams came out of the dressing room for the second half, Roundfield joined his Pistons mates — in street clothes, the player’s version of a white flag. And their sign of a small heart. That summer, McCloskey shipped Roundfield to Washington, for Rick Mahorn. They didn’t call McCloskey Trader Jack for nothing.

The Piston Roundfield was nothing like the Hawk Roundfield

Hill would have none of that in 2000, against the superior Miami Heat in the first round. The Pistons, with Hill gamely leading them on his bad wheel, gave the Heat all they could handle in Game 2 in Miami. A win would have tied the best-of-five series at a victory each, with the next two games in Detroit. But then Hill was forced to the bench, the pain too great. The Pistons fell short, and their season — and Hill’s career in Detroit — was over two nights later.

There are strong indications that Hill would be very amenable to a return to the site of the birth of his NBA career. He would be, they say, happy to be a bench player. He could be another Lindsey Hunter — who left Detroit for a few winters, became an NBA vagabond, then returned in time to help the Pistons win a title in 2004.

When Grant Hill was drafted by the Pistons in 1994 — amidst GM Billy McKinney’s tears — the team was nothing much. Isiah Thomas and Bill Laimbeer had just retired. The Pistons won barely more than 20 games in 1993-94. They were sorry, pathetic former champions. The team Hill would return to in 2007 will be a championship contender — in some way, shape, or form. And it would certainly provide Hill with his first postseason series victory.

There’s still time for Grant Hill’s NBA career to have a happy ending — the ending that would make all the pain, rehabilitation, and heartache he’s endured worth it.

All the Pistons have to do, I think, is ask him.

Monday Morning Manager

(my weekly take on the Tigers)

Last Week: 6-0
This Week: (6/25-28: TEX; 6/29-7/1: MIN)

What a wild, wonderful, kinda wacky week for the Tigers.

Two sweeps on the road. A visit to the White House for Justin Verlander, including 20 minutes of face time with the Commander-in-Chief. A trade. Another trade. The return of Kenny Rogers. A couple of national TV games. Sean Casey’s first homerun of the season. Andrew Miller shining on ESPN.

That enough for you in one week?

Oh yeah — the Tigers took over first place, too. They’re two games ahead of Cleveland now, thanks to a brilliant 8-1 road trip that saw them bat around so often, it was like a Little League team run amok.

The team is in a zone now, and they’re 15-5 since the blowout in Cleveland on June 1, when Todd Jones turned an 11-7 lead into a 12-11 loss in the ninth inning. That’s what championship ballclubs do — they react to brutal losses with disdain and fury. How many of you thought the wheels were coming off after that June 1 debacle? At that moment, the Tigers were 4 1/2 games behind the Indians, a team they were 0-5 against. Their bullpen looked worn to the nub. No lead was safe. They had lost seven of eight. Only the most eternal of optimists could have predicted a 15-5 run at that juncture.

But the Tigers pulled it off, and in three weeks they went from the fading second-place team that couldn’t beat Cleveland to a charging first-place team that doesn’t look like it can be headed off.

The Blessed Boys are on some kind of run. They are, quite simply, overwhelming their opponents now. Their offense is like a twitching snake — you never know when it will strike. The other team’s pitcher — even someone like John Smoltz, for goodness sake — will seem to be cruising along, boring his way thru the Tigers’ lineup. Then SNAP — the snake strikes. Before the poor soul on the mound know what hit him, four or five runs have crossed the plate. They do this. Constantly.

How does this rotation sound? Jeremy Bonderman; Kenny Rogers; Justin Verlander; Andrew Miller; Nate Robertson.

Now how does it sound combined with the major leagues’ most potent offense?

Wipe that grin off your face.

This week, seven games at home — the start of a 13-game homestand. Texas and Minnesota here this week, Cleveland and Boston the week after. The Tigers have been kings of the road thus far in 2007. Time to establish something at Comerica Park, too. Just think how nifty the record will be after a successful homestand; we’re talking somewhere in the stratosphere of 53-34, 54-33. Then the All-Star break.

I said, wipe that grin — ahh, go ahead. I’m grinning, too.

When Ballot Stuffing Was A Literal Term

The last time I voted for a baseball All-Star team, we had hanging chads and we were thankful.

This may sound like the cranky whining of an oldtimer who thinks things were better in his day, and you’re right. When it came to All-Star voting, at least, it just wasn’t any better than when we punched ballots with pencils, inkpens, or toothpicks.

Children of the late 20th and early 21st centuries, turn your head. Go back to your iPods, BlackBerries, and live streaming video on the Internets. Surf the web, find your All-Star “ballot,” and click to your heart’s content. Whatever you do, just go away. This column is for the simpler baseball fan – the one who would blush at filling out more than one punch card, let alone click on hundreds.

I should have kept at least one for posterity. Gillette lent its name to the pale blue and white ballots in my day (the 1970s), and it was fitting – because the sides were razor sharp. They were about the size of a business-sized envelope, maybe 2 1/2” x 5”. One-sided, of course, which meant all the candidates were listed in almost agate-sized type – National Leaguers on the left, American Leaguers on the right, vertically.

And oh, those chads! There were about 8-10 names listed per position, and beside those names were the hallmark of the Gillette ballots. Tiny rectangular boxes that were so small they defied poking by finger. Hence the aforementioned writing instruments or toothpicks.

You voted for one player for catcher and the infield slots, then three for the outfield. That was it – unless you had a write-in candidate, and you were only allowed one of those per league, if memory serves. The bottom quarter of the ballot had spaces for the write-ins. It was a very tidy system. If your write-in was a second baseman, then you’d better leave that position blank, and punch the write-in chad. Failure to do this correctly would void your ballot. Don’t scoff at the notion of write-ins. Steve Garvey started the All-Star game of 1974 for the National League as a write-in at first base.

And we weren’t entrusted with voting for pitchers. Absolutely not. That was left to the manager.

The Gillette ballots were available at the ballpark, and select retail outlets. But perhaps the best part was what you did with them after you poked them. I did my voting at the stadium, and there it would be – the folded-together cardboard display with the simple slot sliced into it, the MLB and Gillette logos prominent on it. Into the box your ballot would go. If you couldn’t make it to the park, you could mail it in (with a stamp and everything), if you can imagine such a thing.

See the “Gillette” name on top?

Notice how I’m not using “ballot” in the plural. It was more honorable back then. Oh, you could take as many ballots as you wanted, but I only voted once per season, and somehow I think I wasn’t in the minority.

It all seems so archaic now. Imagine a bunch of crotchety stadium workers, whose job it was to empty the cardboard displays and gather the cards, then ship them off to who knows where, ostensibly to be sorted and put thru some sort of machine to be read. It was, essentially, a blend of the modus operandi of the U.S. postal service, the SAT people, and IBM.

It was a satisfying feeling, dropping my punched card into the slot at Tiger Stadium. It was the adolescent version of civic duty, it was. You voted, and somewhere somebody – or something – was counting it.

Space was limited, so who was actually on the ballot became an annual ritual of suspense. It wasn’t a given that every player from every team would appear as a candidate. By the end of spring training the names would leak out.

Maybe in 1973 the Tigers on the ballot were Norm Cash, Aurelio Rodriguez, Willie Horton, and Mickey Stanley. Certainly Bill Freehan, too. Or maybe not. Every year it changed.

Now a word about ballot box stuffing. First of all, it was a literal term. These really were multiple ballots being stuffed into the Gillette display slot. By today’s standard, “stuffing” consists of exponential clicks of a mouse on the appropriate website. In the Gillette days, one could stuff the box if one had the patience to poke chads for hours on end. And then sweep all the eensy-weensy rectangles off your floor.

The voting results were printed in the newspaper, as they are today, but if your guy was falling behind, you didn’t have the convenience of zipping off an e-mail to all your comrades, urging frantic clicking. Back to the ballpark you went, to grab a handful (if that was your thing; it wasn’t mine) of Gillette cards and start de-chadding them. And all you could do was hope that other Tigers fans were doing the same.

One thing the voting of yesteryear had in common with the nonsense that occurs nowadays is its occasional unfair results. The system may have been blissfully simple back then, but it was still a popularity contest – which meant that undeserving players, previous stars who were off to miserable starts, would nonetheless find themselves leading their positions. Nobody said it was perfect – but it WAS better.

You can still vote at the ballpark today, but the influx of online voting makes the ballpark voting practically irrelevant. It’s perhaps a gentle nod to greybeards like me, to provide an outlet for voting at the stadium. But we’re a disenfranchised lot, I’m telling you.

Sure, All-Star voting today is more convenient. How can it not be, when you can participate in baseball civics in your PJs and slippers? After all, who wants to drive down to the ballpark, grab a paper ballot and punch out tiny rectangles and place them into a cardboard box and vote only once?

I’m not the person of whom to ask that question. Because I’m wondering why anyone wouldn’t want to do that.

The computer was a great invention, but it wasn’t meant for everything.

I’m loathe to let go of the past. I still shave with a Gillette razor, to show you.

Rejecting The Orioles Once Unheard Of

I guess the Baltimore Orioles didn’t learn their lesson with Lee Mazzilli.

Mazzilli, the ex-Yankee, was Orioles manager for a mostly unsuccessful run in 2004-05.

Now another ex-Yankee is vexing them — but in a different way.

Joe Girardi said NO to the Orioles — rejecting their offer to manage their ballclub. This just a couple days after longtime executive Andy MacPhail said YES to the team — as their head of baseball operations.

MacPhail grew up around the Orioles. His father, Lee, used to be a team exec. Lee MacPhail, in fact, was the architect of the Orioles teams that terrorized the American League from 1966-71 — even though he left the O’s after the 1965 season.

But Girardi, last year’s NL Manager of the Year with the Florida Marlins, listened to the Orioles and apparently didn’t like what he heard. Either that, they say, or he’s waiting to be Joe Torre’s heir apparent in New York.

Regardless, Girardi rejected the Orioles, and that’s quite a change, for the managerial job in Baltimore was once considered a jewel in MLB. But the Orioles haven’t sniffed playoff contention in quite some time — certainly the longest stretch of ineptitude since the team moved from St. Louis (Browns) to crab country in the mid-1950s.

It’s not known whether the Orioles have a Plan B for their manager vacancy. Maybe there’s no Stan Van Gundy waiting in the wings, like the Orlando Magic had when Billy Donovan abruptly changed his mind about leaving the Florida campus to take over their team.

Just another unsolicited opinion from another know-it-all blogger, but the Orioles might want to take a look at Kirk Gibson, biding his time in Arizona as the D-Backs bench coach. The Orioles have my permission to talk to Gibby.

I heard a rumor floated that Tigers hitting coach Lloyd McClendon is on the Orioles’ radar.

But what IS known is that Joe Girardi will not be the Baltimore Orioles’ next manager. He turned them down, and I’m not sure if that speaks more about Girardi or about the Orioles. Suffice it to say that a rejection of the Orioles was once an unheard of proposition.

So maybe Girardi’s NO says more about the Orioles, after all.

Statues Of Bing, Lanier Overdue At Palace (Or Cobo)

Next Thursday, NBA folks will gather inside David Stern’s big top and hold the 2007 draft. The #1 overall pick will probably be the man-child Greg Oden, from Ohio State. Number two will likely be the other man-child, Kevin Durant from Texas. Slight chance it could be flip-flopped, but doubtful.

Nowadays, the order of drafting is determined by powerballs sucked thru a tube. The NBA lottery. The non-playoff teams get assigned a certain amount of powerballs, supposedly weighted so that the weaker teams have a greater chance of their, ahem, balls being sucked thru the tube. It all sounds rather obscene, but there you have it.

Back in the day, they used a different kind of a lottery. It was called a coin flip.

The Pistons and the Knicks were involved in such a game of chance, way back in 1966. At stake was the selection, #1 overall, of the pearl known as Cazzie Russell, who played at Michigan. The Pistons wanted Cazzie. Cazzie wanted the Pistons. Just the year before, the NBA had abandoned the old territorial pick, which enabled teams to choose one player from their geographic region without fear of that player being selected by anyone else. Had Cazzie Russell been available in 1965, he would have gone to the Pistons — no ifs, ands, or buts. And no coin flips.

The Pistons lost that coin flip in 1966. Or so they thought. The Knicks chose Russell, as expected.

The Pistons ended up with the consolation prize — othwerwise known as David Bing, the guard from Syracuse.

Guess who “won,” after all?

I bring up Bing, not only because of the upcoming draft, but also because I’d like to add to the Pistons’ to-do list this summer.

Plans should be underway — terribly overdue, by the way — to erect a statue of Bing in one of the main concourses of the Palace. Or maybe it would be more appropriately placed in the Cobo Convention Center, not far from the bust of former mayor Albert Cobo. Regardless, it needs to go up, and sooner rather than later. For if it wasn’t for Bing, there’s no guarantee that the Pistons would even have remained in Detroit, let alone them becoming three-time NBA champions in Motown.

Bing (left) and Lanier: they should have a date with bronze

While they’re at it, they might as well build one in Bob Lanier’s likeness, too. Lanier came along in 1970, and with Bing he helped bring the Pistons into the previously unexplored realm of respectability. The 1973-74 team won 52 games, to show you. And it took an angry, bitter, seven-game series loss to the Chicago Bulls to keep them from a possible berth in the Finals.

Bing was grace on the court, with a deadeye shot and slithering drives to the hoop. Lanier was the first great big man the Pistons ever employed. Maybe the only one, with apologies to Bill Laimbeer and Ben Wallace.

Both Bing and Lanier have been noteworthy citizens in their post-NBA playing careers. Bing, for a time, was considered a viable option as Detroit’s mayor. His investment in the city — both financially and emotionally — has been grossly overlooked by the folks in this town. Lanier now works for the NBA as a sort of missionary and orator — giving back to the youth around the world.

Of course, both have their numbers retired and raised to the Palace rafters. But that’s not good enough. You have to crane your neck to see them, first of all. Reminders of Bing and Lanier’s contribution to the Pistons franchise should hit fans square between the eyes as soon as they walk into the building. Or put the statues outside, if that suits your fancy.

By the way, tonight their old coach, Ray Scott, will receive a Brown Bomber jacket in a ceremony at Cobo, honoring him as part of the culmination of a week-long worth of activities celebrating Joe Louis’s becoming world heavyweight boxing champ some 70 years ago. Scott is also a recently-announced member of the Class of 2007 of the Michigan Sports Hall of Fame.

That’s an overdue thing, too.

Why Stop With Rod Marinelli Field?

So Rod Marinelli has a football stadium named after him. That’s nice; good for him.

Sadly for you readers, that got my creative juices flowing. Yes sir, my brain was like a basted turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Or something like that.

I got to thinking: if Marinelli should have a football stadium in his name, because of his dedication to the sport and because he’s probably Rosemead (CA) High School’s most famous alumnus — at least when it comes to sports — then what would Lions coaches of the past have their names lended to?

Cue the flowing juices.

The Harry Gilmer Sno-Cone Maker. Gilmer (1965-66) was pummeled by fans with snowballs after what would be his last game as coach, in December 1966 at Tiger Stadium. The Maker named after him comes without cones, as a tribute.

Joe Schmidt Field (in Minnesota). Yes, Minnesotans decide to give Schmidt, Marinelli-like treatment as they name a sandlot field near the Metrodome in his honor. Why? The Vikings went 11-1 against Schmidt’s Lions from 1967-72.

Mr. Forzano Head. This twist on the popular children’s plastic potato toy offers kids (and adults alike) the opportunity to insert different eyes, noses, ears, and mouths into Rick Forzano’s (1974-76) “head” — making him look anyway they’d like. The theory? Hardly anyone remembers what he looks like, anyway — so why not create your own image? Deluxe set includes Mr. Hudspeth Head, for equally-as-nondescript Tommy Hudspeth (1976-77).

Monte Clark Memorial Gardens. This quaint cemetery in southern California honors Monte Clark (1978-84) who once said to reporters, “See you at the cemetery” after a loss dropped his Lions to 1-4 in 1983 in Anaheim.

Darryl Rogers Park. Little-known municipal park in metro Detroit, where you can feed the pigeons. (Readers of “OOB” and devout Lions fans know the meaning behind this one).

The Wayne Fontes “What? Me Fired?” Game. In cooperation with MAD Magazine’s Alfred E. “What? Me Worry?” Newman, this board game has competitors trying to avoid landing on the “FIRED” space. The title comes from Fontes’s bizarre intrusion into Bill Ford Sr.’s press conference announcing Fontes’s firing, when the deposed coach said, “Fired? What do you mean I’m fired?”

“Coaching Football For Dummies,” by Bobby Ross. Actually, Ross ghost-wrote this book, in which the coach only teaches “good” things, and not turnovers, penalties, and botched plays. Born from Ross’s tirade when he famously yelled, “I’m a good coach! I don’t coach that stuff!”, following another mistake-filled Lions loss.

The Marty Mornhinweg Muscle Machine. This sleek, powerful motorcycle bears MM’s name, thanks to his famous “ride-off” on a motorcycle during his first Lions training camp, supposedly out of disgust.

Steve Mariucci Coastway. A bumpy, 100-yard long stretch of California coastline, named affectionately for Mooch and his beloved West Coast Offense. Visitors are forbidden from walking more than seven yards at a time, however.

BONUS: Let me know what should be named after president Matt Millen.

Unbeatable Records? Put DiMaggio’s Streak At The Top

It’s good fodder for the barroom. Add it to other great debates over a pop, such as who does and doesn’t deserve to be in the Hall of Fame.

The question, simply: Which of baseball’s records are least likely to be broken, if ever?

Now, some rules. I’m not talking about ridiculously unachievable marks, such as Cy Young’s 511 career victories. Actually, I’m not talking about longevity at all, really. OK, I’ll give it up: I’m talking specifically of one record, and one record only.

Nobody — repeat, NOBODY — will again hit in 56 consecutive games, as Joe DiMaggio did in 1941. No sir. If this blog were on paper, I’d tell you to print it in indelible ink. But not before having it notarized and placed into a time capsule. These words of mine, you can mark.

Casey Blake of the Indians recently had a hitting streak. Maybe he still has it, for all I know. Last I checked, Blake had hit safely in 26 straight games. Pardon me while I *yawwwwwn.*

No disrespect to Blake, but that’s still less than half of DiMaggio’s streak, and it’s still considered by many to be impressive. And, frankly, it is. Twenty-six games really are nothing to yawn at, despite my titter in the above paragraph. But that just illustrates my point. Nobody has come close, really, to placing DiMaggio’s streak in jeopardy. And were talking 66 years. And counting.

Pete Rose came the closest. His streak reached 44 games in 1978, before Atlanta’s Gene Garber struck him out to end it. Rose sneered afterward that Garber was “pitching like it was the seventh game of the World Series.” Sour grapes? Sure. But Pete was still 12 games shy of tying Joltin’ Joe. And that was 29 years ago.

I don’t have any scientific research or fancy numbers or DNA samples to prove my theory. It’s just a solid hunch. Funny how, in this world of expansion, “watered down” baseball where the pitching is far inferior to that which DiMaggio faced in 1941, that still no one has seriously threatened the 56-game streak. And nor did anyone before the ever-expanding media glare, which has been blamed for why certain records still exist today. When ballgames were played in relative anonymity — pretty much just for the paying customers — under the sun in the ’40s and ’50s, when media attention was limited to a couple of beat writers and a few radio announcers, no batsman took a run at DiMaggio. So maybe it’s not the ESPN generation after all.

Maybe it’s just too damn hard to do.

Think about it. Fifty-six games in a row. That’s more than a third of a season. What’s even more amazing is that the day after DiMaggio’s streak was stopped — and largely because of two outstanding defensive plays at third base by Cleveland’s Ken Keltner — the Yankee Clipper started another one. It lasted 17 games, I believe. So he hit in 73 of 74 games. Goodness gracious.

In fact, I’ll go one step further. I believe that if I had the choice between the two, I’d tell you that someone will hit .400 in a season before anyone hits in 56 straight games. Heck, I think you’ll see elephants rain down with beach ball sized hail before someone hits in 56 straight games. Ironically, 1941 was the last year .400 was reached, also — by Ted Williams, who didn’t win the MVP Award. Reason? DiMaggio and his streak — and his pennant-winning teammates.

So you can stop all the claptrap about who has the best chance to clip the Clipper. It ain’t gonna happen.

Just a hunch.

(you can vote on whether you agree with me, in the latest WHYGJG poll, elsewhere on this page)

No More Rogers For Lions, Please

It’s a good thing wide receiver Calvin Johnson’s last name isn’t Rogers. For if it was, I would have advised the Lions against selecting the high-class player from Georgia Tech with the #2 overall pick in April’s NFL Draft — no matter how much of a sure-thing he appears to be.

The Lions have never gotten much out of the Rogers name. Their current Rogers — “Big Baby” Shaun — is again trying management’s patience, this time combining his here-today/gone-tomorrow desire to play with criminal charges that he groped an exotic dancer against her will.

It began in 1985, when the Lions established yet another mark for ineptitude by hiring coach Darryl Rogers away from Arizona State University. Rogers never had the credentials to be a successful pro coach — mainly because he’d only coached in college, which has rarely been the resume of a winning NFL leader. Then Rogers compounded the problem by essentially bringing his entire ASU staff over to the Lions — and none of THEM had had any NFL experience. The result? A lame duck coach who counted pigeons on the Silverdome ceiling, wondering aloud, “What does it take to get fired around here?”

Then there was Reggie Rogers — that potentially-dynamo of a defensive lineman. This Rogers had all the tools, physically: he was strong, fast, and reckless. Unfortunately, he combined the last two of those in his automobile, and was tagged with vehicular manslaughter, ending his playing career before it really got started.

And, of course, Charlie Rogers — draft bust extraordinaire.

Four Rogers, four headaches — in their own way.

The first-name Rogers haven’t been that bad. Roger Zatkoff — ornery, mean lineman from the 1950s. Roger Brown — a very competent DL from the 1960s.

Well, at least the Tigers have Kenny Rogers. He seems to have done quite well with that surname.

Maybe we can get “Big Baby” to change his last name to Merriman? Then at least we can pretend.

Tuesday’s Feature: The Straightaway

(every Tuesday, Out of Bounds will feature “The Straightaway,” NASCAR commentary from Brazil-based Siddy Hall)

THE STRAIGHTAWAY

by Siddy Hall

JUNIOR + JEFF + JIMMIE = ANYONE BUT HENDRICK

Wow. One week after the announcement that Dale Earnhardt, Jr. was planning on joining the Rick Hendrick Victory Garage, I’m still left shaking my head. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

In Daytona during “Speedweek” – when Little E became a Big E, or A, depending on your viewpoint, by dropping his bombshell that he was seeking a controlling interest in DEI – I was pumping my fist like he’d just won a race. I was like, “That’s right Junior! Show ‘em who’s the real Boss!”

But it wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Because there was only supposed to be two options. Either he obtained DEI – in its entirety, hopefully – or he went to race for Richard Childress in the Black Number 3.

Rick Hendrick!!?? Why not Childress? What the heck happened? RCR has three good race teams and room for a fourth. From afar, it appeared that everything was perfectly in place for Junior to hop in the #3, or the #33, or the number #333 or whatever he liked.

Richard Childress has been oddly quiet and detached about the entire situation. It’s gotta hurt hearing that relationships played a big part in Junior’s decision and that his long successful relationship with Dale, Sr. was outweighed by Rick Hendrick.

Childress has been mum, but must have that “left out” feeling

This is strictly a guess, but I think having Jeff Gordon as a teammate may have played a larger role in Earnhardt’s decision-making than he’s let on. I recall Dale Sr. taking a strong liking to Gordon when the latter was enjoying his early success on the track. Dale treated Gordon more like a son than a rival. He regularly displayed a warmth toward Jeff that you rarely saw from The Intimidator. He never even punted Gordon into a wall.

Gordon (24) and Earnhardt, Jr.: Senior might have liked their new role as teammates

In spite of how “Earnhardt Nation” has fabricated a bitter rivalry between Earnhardt, Jr. and Gordon, it appears that this rivalry existed at least in large part in the imagination of the fans. Gordon has always shown class and respect toward the Earnhardts. And in the small bubble of NASCAR, that’s a bridge toward friendship that Dale, Jr. may be seeking on some level. Shocking as it may seem, he wants to hang out with his own kind and that kind may be none other than Jeff Gordon.

After years of bitterness that Junior fans have displayed towards Gordon’s “Kool-Aid Nation” it’s amusing to watch Earnhardt fans scrambling to justify the impossible contradiction of Little E sharing the same garage as the 24-Car. The most common justification is to invoke a sort of NASCAR version of patriotism. Any “true” Earnhardt fan will continue to raise their can of Bud to Junior regardless of the car owner.

But that is only one half of the equation. The other half is what to do about Jeff Gordon (and Jimmie Johnson). Do you still invoke the middle-finger salute as he drives by? I doubt that they will. Instead they may be forced to create some new arch enemy.

Personally, I never quite bought into the Earnhardt – Gordon rivalry. I’ve always liked both. If I were hard-pressed to choose one then I would go with Gordon. But I’ve happened to like both guys for the same reason. They’ve both displayed a lot of grace under pressure.

I disagree with critics that charge Gordon with being too robotic of a personality. He’s always come across to me as the real deal. A cool, classy dude that handles pressure well. And beneath the smooth exterior lies a thirst for winning that can’t be quenched. Part of his greatness is that he never gets bored with winning.

It’s always been about winning for Gordon

Likewise, Junior has handled a ridiculous amount of media glare and pressure with equal skill. It’s utterly amazing how much weight this guy carries on his shoulders. He really is royalty. He was born to carry NASCAR on his shoulders. He makes it easy to forget how tough a job that is.

So it’s actually fitting that the two kings of the sport (with apologies to Richard Petty) – Gordon and Earnhardt, plus the reigning champion, Jimmie Johnson – should become teammates in 2008. It has its own logic that extends beyond contract agreements.

If it’s high school again, the 3-J’s (Junior, Jeff & Jimmie), would be the ones surrounded by the pretty girls in the hallways. The Gibbs drivers would be a slightly lesser rival bunch. And the gang from Chip Ganassi and Felix Sabates would be skipping classes to work on new tattoos.

The Budweiser 25: Jr.’s car # in ‘08?

This is why in 2008, I say “Anyone but Hendrick’s.” Anyone but the 3-J’s. They’re too much. Individually, they are fine. Collectively, I can’t stand them. They make me feel like I’m cheering for the New York Yankees. They are supposed to win. And that ain’t no fun.

The Hendrick team, circa 1995

A note to Robbie Gordon: In 2008, fix your cross-hairs on those Hendrick cars. Juan Pablo Montoya (below), you’ll be my hero if you do the same. Because if there is anything that I cannot stand, it’s a group of people who are clearly better than the rest. Hendrick Motorsports has won six of the last 12 championships, plus perhaps this year’s. Now they’re adding Dale Earnhardt, Jr. That’s too much. I can’t stand them now.

(you can e-mail Siddy Hall: cityhall172000 at yahoo.com)

Monday Morning Manager

(my weekly take on the Tigers)

Last Week: 3-3
This Week: (6/18-20: at Was; 6/22-24: at Atl)

Much has been made over the Tigers’ come-from-behind, 7-4 win at Philadelphia Sunday afternoon. The focus has been on the five-run seventh, which turned a 3-1 deficit into a 6-3 lead.

But I contend that the victory was bigger for the bullpen than it was for the Tigers hitters.

Oh, did the bullpen need those three innings of one-run ball! A 3.00 ERA for the game, for a pen that has been on the wrong side of 5.00 for most of the season — and that has been causing manager Jim Leyland undo stress, even when his team scores seven, eight, twelve runs in a game.

They had their moments yesterday, did the Tigers relievers. They put some men on base. An error by Carlos Guillen taxed the already-fragile Fernando Rodney. But the bottom line is, the Phillies scored just the one run in the final three frames.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.

It’s very much up to conjecture as to whether the Tigers’ bullpen woes will iron themselves out by the time the July 31 non-waiver trading deadline passes. That’s but six weeks or so away. The key will be the rotation, coming back to full strength soon. Kenny Rogers and Nate Robertson will join Jeremy Bonderman, Justin Verlander, Andrew Miller, Mike Maroth, and Chad Durbin to give the team seven starters. More chances for the bullpen to not have to enter games in the fifth and sixth innings as often. The effect of fatigue can’t be overlooked when it comes to relief pitchers. The domino effect of Joel Zumaya’s injury has been felt for the past several weeks. It speaks volumes when your most reliable reliever is Tim Byrdak — who was not even on the radar in spring training.

The booming bats have been great, and it was wonderful to see them come to life in the late innings yesterday to help win the Phillies series. But when I watched the game unfold,I was very attentive to see how the bullpen would do. They needed that lead preservation more than the hitters needed the big inning.

Fun fact: tonight’s game in Washington is the Tigers’ first in the Nation’s Capital since September 8, 1971. No, Kenny Rogers wasn’t in the big leagues back then.

This weekend, we’ll be treated to another possible World Series preview: Tigers at the Braves. Should be fun. And another of Gary Sheffield’s former teams. This guy is like having Larry Brown on your side!

No Penalty Too Severe For Nifong

As far as I’m concerned, there’s not a book big enough, heavy enough, or covered with enough razor-sharp metal spikes that any court can throw at disgraced ex-District Attorney Mike Nifong to my satisfaction.

Nifong, the Durham County D.A. whose shameless rush to judgement indicted, tried, and convicted — in the court of public opinion — the Duke lacrosse players of a sexual assault that they did not commit, has so far resigned and been disbarred. Now the lacrosse players may be on the verge of legal action against him.

Good. Go for it — as much as you can. The resignation and disbarment, when I read about them, were gratifying, no doubt. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

Nifong: Don’t let up!

The laundry list of bad behavior by Nifong in the Duke case isn’t pretty. Lying to the court. Suppressing DNA evidence (Nifong says he was certain he gave defense attorneys everything; so at the very least he’s incompetent beyond belief), keeping it from the defense. Lying to the bar. Making inflammatory comments in public about the players — some even made when he was aware of evidence that suggested his case was crumbling.

Nifong should be hit with as many lawsuits and prosecutions as possible, because it’s downright scary to think that he was a D.A. and may have done this to others, in lower-profile cases. Read: the ones whose defendants weren’t white.

Of course, it’s not as if you can toss Nifong into jail, dangle the key in front of him mockingly, and proclaim an end to maverick prosecutors for all time. But, by God, when you have a chance to unveil a new poster boy for such abhorrent behavior, you’d better do it.

Drew Sharp of the Free Press, while clearly anti-Nifong, also suggested that the Duke boys didn’t do themselves any favors by hosting such a morally-loose party with an “exotic dancer” to begin with. Maybe. But has he ever heard of a “bachelor party”? Kids/young adults have done this for years, and will continue to do so. It doesn’t mean their lives should be potentially ruined because of one man’s twisted, warped, self-serving sense of “justice.”

Count me among those who thought the Duke lacrosse players had been gotten dead to rights. I was looking at them as another cautionary tale of privileged athletes who feel that they are above the laws of decency and jurisprudence. I looked at them and saw a bunch of William Kennedy Smiths.

Now that the REAL facts have been out, and now that the spotlight of shame has been refocused, I look at Mike Nifong and I see something far more sinister than a William Kennedy Smith repeat.

I see evil. Evil cloaked in the sheep’s clothing of justice.

And I wonder, how many more like him?

Football For Lions Never Easier Than It Is In May And June

The rookie linebacker bounded into town from enemy territory – Columbus, Ohio. He wore Buckeye red in college, and for four years he helped represent all that was evil on the gridiron – to Michigan fans, that is.

But now he was a Lion, and he hadn’t traded the Ohio State scarlet in for Honolulu Blue for very long before he began to impress his teammates and coaches.

Chris Spielman was a beast in the weight room. He brought the art of the curls and the bench pressing to a level never before seen in Lions Land. His tireless work ethic had the veterans of perpetual losing raving.

“I didn’t come here to lose,” Spielman said then, in spring, 1988 – shortly after the Lions nabbed him in the second round of the draft, 29th off the board. He was very much used to winning as a Buckeye, and before that, as a high schooler in Massillon, Ohio. He was born, so appropriately, in Canton, Ohio – home of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. You half-wondered if his was pigskin.

One by one, those in the Lions’ inner sanctum grew wide-eyed when speaking of Spielman’s maniacal behavior in the sweaty, stuffy rooms in the bowels of the Silverdome.

Surely, they thought, this ethic has to rub off. And if it does, winning football will probably follow.

By the time Chris Spielman fled the Lions in disgust after an embarrassing playoff loss in 1995, his pro career had included five postseason games in eight years and one victory in those five.

“The wheels are coming off here,” he said on his way out of town.

Weight Room Football had failed, after all.

Spielman as a Buckeye, before the losing consumed him and spit him out

More fun in the mid-1990s. Bill Ford Jr. announces he and some of his minions are going to spend some springtime with the San Francisco 49ers, to see how winning football franchises go about their business. Never mind that the 49ers joined the NFL some 15 years after the Lions did. Team Ford comes back with their notepads full, awash with ideas that they feel confident can be implemented with the Lions. And maybe they, too, will be a model of success, as the 49ers were.

The note-taking must not have been too good.

I’ll give the Lions this, though: they’re an awfully good football team in May and June, when the players wear nothing but helmets and jerseys, and when the physical contact is limited to high-fives after a successful play run against phantom defenders. They have, perhaps, led the league in unbridled optimism in the year’s fifth and sixth month over the past 15 years or so. There’s been nothing that can stop them, until the pads are put on and the phantom defenders become real, live opponents.

Another May of mini-camps and “voluntary” workouts has come and gone, and now we’re midway through June. And again the Lions are up to their springtime tricks.

The wide receiver Calvin Johnson, the #2 overall draft pick in this year’s draft, is making his quarterback, his head coach, his offensive coordinator, and even some hypnotized members of the media ready to size him up for a bronze bust in Canton.

“He’s everything I thought he’d be, and then some,” quarterback Jon Kitna said last week after watching Johnson catch some passes without the annoyance of pads or defenders who were trying hard to stop him.

The quotes from those watching these contact-free exhibitions were auspicious in their exuberance for the rookie wide receiver.

Well, what did you expect them to say?

“This kid Johnson – what a waste of a draft pick!”

That’s my line, after all – and not until October, at the very latest.

Johnson CAN catch with defenders draped over him — but just not in May

Actually, Calvin Johnson has the goods to be everything we thought he’d be, and then some. And then some more. He is, in my mind, the closest thing to a sure bet for stardom as a Lions draft pick since the team picked the jitterbug Barry Sanders in 1989.

And that’s not just the giddiness of spring football talking.

But in years past, the Lions have pulled this act time and again. They speak of team harmony and attitude adjustments and how everyone is “on the same page,” all said while the footballs are rolled out before Memorial Day.

Unfortunately, the NFL doesn’t allow mini-camp touchdowns to count for real.

Yes, it all seemed to be the same old springtime bleatings, until the news broke that threatened to disrupt the smooth sailing of June football.

Shaun Rogers, the hulking, sulking defensive tackle, was accused this week of unwanted groping by a local exotic dancer. This is the same Rogers who attended one of head coach Rod Marinelli’s mini-workouts last month and spoke to the media while wearing some rose-colored glasses that surely were custom-made for his growing head.

“Their (the coaches’) expectations are high, and I plan on fulfilling those expectations,” Rogers said in May, before the unexpected groping.

Rogers: somebody should have told him “no contact drills” applies to strange women, too

Rogers’ nickname is “Big Baby.” There are so many jokes in there, it’s like one of those puzzles where you have to come up with 32 words from one.

Just how much Rogers’ alleged misbehavior – apparently designed to remind us that “no contact drills” only applies to the springtime football field – will affect the Lions’ springtime harmony is anyone’s guess. But some of those who write about the team are encouraging the Lions to jettison Big Baby. How can you, they ask, build a team around a player who’s talented but devoid of character?

Football, the Lions have proven every year on schedule, is an easy game to participate in during the barbecue and fireworks seasons. The offense looks sharp when there are no defenders. The esprit de corps rises. The glass is always half full.

Then that damn regular season comes along. Better find someone to grope – with their consent, of course.

John Hiller: The Tigers’ Most Flexible Pitcher Ever

What I’m about to tell those of you who have only been following baseball since the 1990s is going to certainly sound like a fable — something constructed from the mind of a loon.

But there was a time when pitchers actually wore several hats — those of starter, middle reliever, set-up man, closer. Whenever you needed their arms, they were ready to take the ball.

One of my favorite Tigers of all time is John Hiller. There’s so much to like about Hiller it’s hard to know where to start. There we go — let’s talk about starts.

Hiller could start. He was a lefty with a high leg kick and a whip-like arm who could strike out guys like the Nolan Ryans and Randy Johnsons of the world. In fact, on my fifth birthday (as it turns out) — on August 6, 1968 — Hiller struck out the first six Indians to face him. That’s still a team record, and might be close to an MLB record as well. For his career, Hiller made 43 starts, completing 13 of them (not a bad pct. for a spot starter). Of those 13 CG, six were shutouts.

Hiller could relieve. That much we know more than anything. But he could relieve anytime. He wasn’t just a closer. He had a nice and tidy career ERA of 2.83, with 125 saves. His penchant for throwing strikes and racking up the Ks served him well in the bullpen, too. He could get a single out in the ninth inning, or give you five innings of long relief to save a tired bullpen.

Oh — and there was the whole heart attack thing, too.

A trimmer Hiller, post-heart attack

Hiller was a chubby dude until January, 1971, when he suffered a heart attack at age 27. His career figured to be over; why wouldn’t it? It was a freaking heart attack.

But it wasn’t over — not by a longshot.

Hiller came back at the end of the 1972 season, thinner but not any less effective. I’ll never forget the image of him in the Tigers locker room after the team clinched the AL East crown. Mocking his heart condition, Hiller stuck a fan under his jersey to simulate an over-active heartbeat.

The next season, Hiller came back with a vengeance. He set a then-record with 38 saves in ‘73. Granted, a few were generous, recorded before baseball made a rule change to make saves a little tougher to get. But only a few were that way. Most were under the same pressure-packed situations the closers of today face.

I’m sure Hiller was a favorite among his managers, too, for his flexibility. Think about today’s pitchers. How many would you entrust to start one week, set up the next, and close the next? Or even within the same week? But Hiller was that trustworthy — year after year. AND he was lefthanded — a bonus.

He quit suddenly in 1980, at age 37. His last game pitched was on May 27. There was nothing wrong with him. He just didn’t feel he had the competitive fire in him anymore.

He walked away, and the last great, flexible Tigers pitcher walked away with him.

If The Cavs Are The East’s Best, Then Revoke The Conference’s License

Am I the only one who can’t believe that the Pistons lost to the Cleveland Cavaliers FOUR times?

Goodness gracious.

The Cavaliers surely put on one of the most embarrassing displays in recent NBA Finals history in getting swept by the San Antonio “Dynasty” Spurs. And when I say “recent”, I mean “ever.”

I’ll say it again: the Pistons would NOT have taken down the Spurs, the NBA Team of the 21st Century. But sheesh — they would have certainly done the Eastern Conference prouder than the Cavs. If the East torch has been passed, as I suggested it had been a couple weeks ago, and if the Cavaliers are the best the Eastern Conference has to offer, then that conference deserves every bit of criticism and disrespect that it gets.

Sometime in the third quarter last night, the Cavs managed a one-point lead after a mini-flurry. It was their first second half lead in the entire series. That’s disgraceful, at that level of basketball.

Where was Boobie Gibson and his annoying three-pointers? Where was Donyell Marshall from the corner? Where was Zydrunas Ilgauskas’s 15-foot jumper? Where was Drew Gooden? And where was LeBron James, most of all?

The only thing that carried over for the Cavs from the Pistons series was the flopper Anderson Varejao, who spends so much time on his back on the basketball floor that you might as well emblazon his chest with the Quicken Loans Arena logo. Varejao had one last flop in the tank when he drew an undeserved offensive foul on Tim Duncan in the fourth quarter, when Cleveland was still threatening to make it a game.

But Varejao’s theatrics weren’t nearly enough to make the Cavaliers competitive in one of the most lopsided Finals they’ve played since Dr. James Naismith nailed a peach basket up for his incorrigible gym students.

The more I watched these Finals — and I couldn’t stomach very much, believe me — the angrier I got. I wasn’t sure if I was mad at the Pistons, or the Cavs, or the world. All I know is, the Pistons lost four times to those shmucks, and they too should feel embarrassed.

The East could have fed the Spurs the Atlanta Hawks and I don’t know if the end result would have been all that much different. Brutal.

If losing in a Finals is supposed to be a learning experience and a prep for bigger and better things in the near future, then this series was to the Cavs what molecular biology would be to a kindergartener. I saw nothing on the floor that suggested James’s team was merely cutting its Finals teeth, readying itself for a successful encore next season, or the year after. Instead I saw a basketball team stuck in the headlights of a freight train. They were Bobby Brady on that episode of the “Brady Bunch” when he was struck mute during a game show appearance.

The San Antonio Spurs are NBA champs and all hail them. They are truly the class of the league. It’s just a shame that the Wizards, Nets, and Pistons let such impostors as the Cavaliers overtake them to represent the East.

Shameful.

You Had To See Them (and be there) To Believe These

Many of you who have graced me with your cyber presence might know one thing about me: I’m loathe to give sports talk radio much of a wide berth. I’m much more likely to break out the Haterade than toss bouquets in their direction. And no, it’s not because I think I should have MY own show (but I kinda do).

But I have to give them some props, because yesterday, in the afterglow of Justin Verlander’s no-hitter Tuesday night, WXYT asked listeners to contribute their candidates for all-time great individual performances in Detroit sports history, while at the same time trying to determine where Verlander’s ranks.

Not a bad idea.

Only, I highly suspect that a vast majority of those moments phoned in were NOT actually witnessed by the callers in person. So I’d like to take it one step further and list, in no particular order, the greatest individual feats that I’ve seen — live, at the venue. None of this “heard of it,” “read about it,” or “saw it on TV” nonsense.

1. Kirk Gibson cooks Gossage’s goose. Officially, the Tigers became world champs in 1984 when Tony Gwynn’s lazy flyball to left field settled into the glove of Larry Herndon for the final out of Game 5. But to me and and the rest of the packed Tiger Stadium crowd on October 14, 1984, the moment the Tigers became the best baseball team in the world was when Gibson rocketed Goose Gossage’s pitch deep into the upper deck in right field, turning a precarious 5-4 lead into a soul-sucking 8-4 margin in the bottom of the eighth inning. My first Detroit championship (too young to remember 1968).

2. Oh, Isiah! I’ll never forget how steamy hot and muggy Joe Louis Arena was on that April night in 1984. I also remember my 1978 Camaro pooping out in a drive-thru lane that afternoon, and me scrambling to get it fixed in time so I could get to the game. It was the deciding Game 5 of the first round of the NBA playoffs: Pistons vs. Knicks. It was played at JLA because the Silverdome was otherwise engaged. It was a great game BEFORE Isiah Thomas’s antics. And all he did was score 16 points in 90 seconds at the end of regulation, forcing overtime. Three-pointers. Steals and layups. Turnaround jumpers. Slithering drives thru the lane. Isiah did it all, and then some. We screamed ourselves hoarse. The Pistons lost in overtime, but Thomas’s performance was absolutely amazing. I’m maybe most proud of having been at this one.

3. Morris’s near no-no. OK, it wasn’t like he carried a no-hitter into the late innings, but in July, 1990, Jack Morris — in an otherwise dismal year for him, and the Tigers — pitched the best game I’ve ever seen. It came against Kansas City. He gave up a one-out single in the first inning. That runner was promptly erased by a double play. Then Morris set down the next 24 men in order — as close to a perfect game as you’re gonna see. I still have the scorecard. I kept track of pitch count, too — and found when I checked it that Morris threw 117 pitches — 67 for strikes. The Royals didn’t hit too many balls hard that evening, if I recall. Nor were there any defensive gems that stand out. It was just a bitch of a pitcher at his best.

4. Stevie Y. steals a game by himself. Funny how some of these occurred in regular-season, seemingly meaningless games. It was early in the 1991-92 season. Blackhawks in town, and they hold a one-goal lead late in regulation. There are less than ten seconds left, and a faceoff in Chicago’s zone. Yzerman wins the faceoff, but he wins it to himself. Eschewing his teammates’ help, Yzerman shoved the puck toward the Chicago goal, disregarding the multiple defenders, and kept jamming at it until it fluttered over Ed Belfour’s shoulder. Tie game with seconds left. Then he wins it in overtime with a goal. As exciting as an NHL game can get in October.

5. Kevin Jones runs wild. Obviously another meaningless game, since this is the Lions we’re talking about this time. But Jones was special on this December Sunday against the Cardinals in 2004, his rookie season. He ran over, through, and around the Cardinals to the tune of nearly 200 yards in a Lions win. But this wasn’t one of those Barry Sanders-like 200-yard days, when 160 of them came on two carries, as was Barry’s wont. Jones carried about 30 times, and he combined brute power with speed and elusiveness that day like no Lions running back I’ve seen — before or since. And that includes Sanders and Billy Sims.

6. Gibson again. But this came the year before his ‘84 display. Boston Red Sox in town, and the crowd is still buzzing about Gibby’s homerun over the right field roof when he steps to the plate in the late innings. He gets on base with a single. Then someone — can’t remember who — drives a ball into the gap. Gibson is intent on scoring. VERY intent. He rounds third like a freight train, and the ball and he arrive at home plate at the same time. Poor Rich Gedman, the Red Sox catcher. For Gibby plows into Gedman, knocking him senseless and the ball loose. Gedman somehow recovers and tags Gibson, who has already skipped across home plate. But Boston manager Ralph Houk loses his mind, saying that Gibson missed the plate and that the umpire, who Gibson also knocked off balance, was out of position to make the call. Houk gets tossed, the run stands, and the Tigers win. A typical game for Gibson, who played every one with fury.

I’d love to hear yours. Drop me a line! gregger63@gmail.com.

Verlander Had Help In The Booth, But He Didn’t Need It

If there’s such a thing as someone feeling lonely when tens of thousands of people are screaming on your every move, then I suppose it would have to be a pitcher working on a no-hitter.

Even when the TV announcers refuse to acknowledge the feat, as FSN’s Mario Impemba and Rod Allen did last night, describing Justin Verlander’s no-no at CoPa. Not once did the words “no-hitter” escape either man’s lips. Instead, they let the crowd — and strategically placed shots of the ballpark scoreboard — tell the story.

Filthy. Nasty. And ridiculous.

Not so 23 years ago, when Jack Morris hurled the last Tigers no-hitter in the season’s first weekend, at Chicago’s old Comiskey Park.

It was the NBC “Game of the Week,” — that Saturday afternoon staple. Vin Scully was behind the mike, and he continually broke baseball’s axiom of not mentioning a no-hitter while it’s in progress. From about the fifth inning on, Scully wasn’t shy to say “no-hitter” in waxing descriptive about Morris’s performance. It was so incessant that when the final out was recorded — a strikeout of Ron Kittle — and Scully yelled, “And he HAS his no-hitter!,” I thought, “No, Vin — he has YOUR no-hitter!”

Morris defied Scully’s rules-breaking and the yammering of a loudmouth White Sox fan, who kept trying to jinx Morris by mentioning his gem-in-progress every time the pitcher returned to the dugout. After the no-no was in the books, Morris spotted the fan and said, “I got it, you #$!#!”

True to the rules, third baseman Brandon Inge said that “not a word was spoken (about the no-hitter) all night.” Verlander concurred, saying that nobody sat next to him in the dugout.

My favorite rules-breaking story involves Don Larsen and his perfect game in the 1956 World Series. In a documentary I saw on television, Larsen’s voice provided the narrative as highlights from the game flickered in black-and-white on my set.

“Nobody would look at me. Nobody would talk to me,” Larsen says as we see him strike out guys and mow the Dodgers down. “I felt like the loneliest man on earth.

“Finally, around the seventh inning I went up to (Mickey) Mantle and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be something if I threw a no-hitter in the World Series?’ He just looked at me like I was insane and moved away from me.”

I think it’s a riot that Larsen himself broke the rules, at his own risk.

Verlander, probably, could have endured various attempts at jinxing last night. He had “great stuff”, those all-encompassing words for when a pitcher can do little wrong. He was “filthy,” “nasty,” and “ridiculous” — if you listened to or read what the Brewers’ hitters had to say after he handcuffed them and threw away the key.

In retrospect, I, perhaps, was a rules-breaker myself last night.

I wasn’t watching the game — not at first. I had ceded the TV to my wife, and was sitting with her in the front room when my cell phone caught my eye. Too lazy to walk into the computer room and check the score on the Net, I opened my phone’s web browser and went to MLB scores. Tigers 3, Milwaukee 0, 7th inning. I highlighted the game and pressed SELECT. There was the line score, in tiny but powerful type: MIL 0 0 0. One out in the seventh inning.

“Justin Verlander has a no-hitter in the seventh!,” I said.

“Wow,” my wife said — and kept watching her program.

I followed the game via cell phone until I could take it no longer. But I had a choice to make: Verlander hadn’t needed my help for seven innings. Would I screw him up by tuning in for the eighth and ninth?

Damn the baseball rules — I wanted to see history!

I sweet-talked my way into taking over the TV. And so I saw the last two innings of Verlander’s brilliance — including the amazing play made by Neifi Perez to both steal a hit and start a double play in the eighth.

I was standing throughout the ninth — which thankfully didn’t take all that long. Verlander did indeed have “nasty stuff” — stuff that easily overwhelmed any bad karma my late arrival might have wrought.

We can say it now with impunity: Justin Verlander has a no-hitter going!

No-hitter now complete. Done. In the books.

That’s the best thing about pitching a no-hitter, I would think: when it’s over with, the void of loneliness is filled over with love and support from your fans and teammates in a bursting through that certainly can’t be topped by much else.

It’s another thing that only the athlete himself can truly understand. We can only imagine.

Verlander Got Some Help In The Booth, But He Didn’t Need It

If there’s such a thing as someone feeling lonely when tens of thousands of people are screaming on your every move, then I suppose it would have to be a pitcher working on a no-hitter.

Even when the TV announcers refuse to acknowledge the feat, as FSN’s Mario Impemba and Rod Allen did last night, describing Justin Verlander’s no-no at CoPa. Not once did the words “no-hitter” escape either man’s lips. Instead, they let the crowd — and strategically placed shots of the ballpark scoreboard — tell the story.

Filthy. Nasty. And ridiculous.

Not so 23 years ago, when Jack Morris hurled the last Tigers no-hitter in the season’s first weekend, at Chicago’s old Comiskey Park.

It was the NBC “Game of the Week,” — that Saturday afternoon staple. Vin Scully was behind the mike, and he continually broke baseball’s axiom of not mentioning a no-hitter while it’s in progress. From about the fifth inning on, Scully wasn’t shy to say “no-hitter” in waxing descriptive about Morris’s performance. It was so incessant that when the final out was recorded — a strikeout of Ron Kittle — and Scully yelled, “And he HAS his no-hitter!,” I thought, “No, Vin — he has YOUR no-hitter!”

Morris defied Scully’s rules-breaking and the yammering of a loudmouth White Sox fan, who kept trying to jinx Morris by mentioning his gem-in-progress every time the pitcher returned to the dugout. After the no-no was in the books, Morris spotted the fan and said, “I got it, you #$!#!”

True to the rules, third baseman Brandon Inge said that “not a word was spoken (about the no-hitter) all night.” Verlander concurred, saying that nobody sat next to him in the dugout.

My favorite rules-breaking story involves Don Larsen and his perfect game in the 1956 World Series. In a documentary I saw on television, Larsen’s voice provided the narrative as highlights from the game flickered in black-and-white on my set.

“Nobody would look at me. Nobody would talk to me,” Larsen says as we see him strike out guys and mow the Dodgers down. “I felt like the loneliest man on earth.

“Finally, around the seventh inning I went up to (Mickey) Mantle and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be something if I threw a no-hitter in the World Series?’ He just looked at me like I was insane and moved away from me.”

I think it’s a riot that Larsen himself broke the rules, at his own risk.

Verlander, probably, could have endured various attempts at jinxing last night. He had “great stuff”, those all-encompassing words for when a pitcher can do little wrong. He was “filthy,” “nasty,” and “ridiculous” — if you listened to or read what the Brewers’ hitters had to say after he handcuffed them and threw away the key.

In retrospect, I, perhaps, was a rules-breaker myself last night.

I wasn’t watching the game — not at first. I had ceded the TV to my wife, and was sitting with her in the front room when my cell phone caught my eye. Too lazy to walk into the computer room and check the score on the Net, I opened my phone’s web browser and went to MLB scores. Tigers 3, Milwaukee 0, 7th inning. I highlighted the game and pressed SELECT. There was the line score, in tiny but powerful type: MIL 0 0 0. One out in the seventh inning.

“Justin Verlander has a no-hitter in the seventh!,” I said.

“Wow,” my wife said — and kept watching her program.

I followed the game via cell phone until I could take it no longer. But I had a choice to make: Verlander hadn’t needed my help for seven innings. Would I screw him up by tuning in for the eighth and ninth?

Damn the baseball rules — I wanted to see history!

I sweet-talked my way into taking over the TV. And so I saw the last two innings of Verlander’s brilliance — including the amazing play made by Neifi Perez to both steal a hit and start a double play in the eighth.

I was standing throughout the ninth — which thankfully didn’t take all that long. Verlander did indeed have “nasty stuff” — stuff that easily overwhelmed any bad karma my late arrival might have wrought.

We can say it now with impunity: Justin Verlander has a no-hitter going!

No-hitter now complete. Done. In the books.

That’s the best thing about pitching a no-hitter, I would think: when it’s over with, the void of loneliness is filled over with love and support from your fans and teammates in a bursting through that certainly can’t be topped by much else.

It’s another thing that only the athlete himself can truly understand. We can only imagine.

Tuesday’s Feature: The Straightaway

(every Tuesday, “Out of Bounds” will feature “The Straightaway” — NASCAR commentary from Brazil-based Siddy Hall)

The Straightaway

by Siddy Hall

BORING SEASON HAS BEGUN

The June Pocono race came and went, which means one thing: Break out the hammock and tie it to your two favorite trees. In the north, it’s summertime. But it’s more than that. It’s also the official start of the Boring Racing Season. It’s the pre-Silly Season nap session. You’ll likely take mucho siestas in your hammock while following the Chase.

Check it out. Starting with last week’s Pocono race, the next 10 races includes two each from Pocono and Michigan, two road courses and Loudon. That’s seven races out of ten.

“Gentlemen, start your alarm clocks!”

So maybe you enjoy road courses. It provides a change of pace. Here’s what else could provide a change of pace: dirt tracks and bullrings. Let’s see some machines rolling around with tire marks on their side. Let’s see some cars with their roofs missing and their engines exposed on a rough day.

What else is there? Daytona, Chicago and the Brickyard. I’m not a fan of the Brickyard. But, hey, with 36 races, why complain about having one in the Shrine of Motorsports. Especially with so many in attendance. But a long drag race leading into a corner with no banking? I need to go hop in my hammock.

The Brickyard: rife with history, devoid of much creativity

The good news is that the tracks serving the fans in the northern U.S. and Canada finally get served. It’s their turn to party. It’s their chance to re-paint their refurbished school bus into a NASCAR party on wheels. Alcohol is the fuel for these Mad Max-like war machines. Their collective motto could be supplied by the singer, Andrew W.K.’s “Party ‘Til You Puke.” The mayhem is best filmed and uploaded to YouTube.

Because of pre-race hijinks with themes like THIS….

….buses like these are sometimes best viewed (and smelled) from a distance

Speaking of boring tracks, guess where Race # 26 will be held? California. Just two weeks after the second Michigan event. California will host the final race to determine who makes the Chase. Then two weeks after California, another dose of Loudon. It’ll be mid-September by then, folks. Time to put the hammock away and send the kids to school.

To recap: 14 races. One-half (seven) will be at either Pocono, Michigan, Loudon, or California. Plus two road courses. Yee-haw.

MEMORIES OF MICHIGAN: My home track was Michigan. I’ve attended races at three tracks: Michigan, Atlanta, and Daytona. What was great about Michigan was camping out for days in advance in a field across the service drive that runs next to MIS. About eight families would park their RVs on Wednesday, forming a large courtyard for all of us to enjoy. The rest of us would pitch tents, trying to stay away from the noise of the generators.

Neighbors would wander over and hang out, especially at night when the live music would begin. Songs about Dale Earnhardt. Arguments over drivers. In the daytime when walking around you spotted your camp by the #3 and #9 flags hanging high on a flagpole.

You can’t do that anymore. Too much success for NASCAR put a squeeze on space. Now the cars are crammed together like a housing project. Is it worth the trouble to battle traffic for this? I guess, but it just ain’t the same.

One of the unique things about NASCAR is its sounds. The one that stands out for me was walking to the track from our campsite at Michigan as qualifying was being conducted. To hear the sound of a single car turning into Turn #4 from outside the track left me spellbound. What on God’s earth could create that kind of noise?

FACTOIDS: Name the only two drivers in the top-35 in points who have failed to land a top-10 finish this year.

Name the only driver who would currently qualify for the Chase without a top-5 finish this year.

Answers: Tony Raines and Sterling Marlin have no Top-10’s. Clint Bowyer has no Top-5 but would make the chase.

HARD TO BELIEVE: After Race 2 from California, David Ragan (below) was ahead of Jeff Gordon in money winnings for the year.

(you can e-mail Siddy Hall: cityhall172000 at yahoo.com)

Vote For Placido!

OOB friend Scott Warheit is upset that the Tigers’ Placido Polanco continues to trail the Yankees’ Robinson Cano in All-Star voting. So he’s launching a campaign among his fellow bloggers — and fans — to help Polanco leapfrog Cano and be the AL’s starting second baseman.

Scott writes:

In response, I’ve started a “Go to the Polls for Placido!” voting campaign @ my blog (http://swarheit.blogspot.com/2007/06/go-to-polls-for-placido-all-star.html) and I was hoping that if we were able to spread the word through our various blogs, encouraging people to vote, either on-line or at Comerica Park, we can get Tigers fans behind the campaign.

Consider the word spread, Scott!

Monday Morning Manager

(my weekly take on the Tigers)

Last Week: 4-2
This Week: (6/12-14: MIL; 6/15-17: at Phi)

The Tigers are averaging an obscene 8.65 runs in the month of June — and that includes Friday night’s shutout at the hands of the Mets. And by the looks of things, they’ll need to keep that pace up — unless the bullpen trades its gas can in for a fire hydrant.

I like Jason Grilli. I like him as a person, and I like him as a reliever. When he’s reliable, Grilli can be the everyman in the bullpen. He can pitch long relief, as he did in Texas when Nate Robertson couldn’t get an out in the first inning last week. He can be a sort of set-up man. He can get crucial outs in the late innings.

But Grilli hasn’t been reliable. He’s taken a couple steps forward, then slipped back — and this has gone on all season. He went back into “gas can mode” yesterday, facing three batters and not getting an out, enabling the Mets to creep closer. The Tigers pitching, from 1 thru 12, has been riddled with injury and under performing. The team ERA is 4.61, and that’s largely because the bullpen’s figure is well above 5.00.

Manager Jim Leyland is frustrated.

“It’s hard when you don’t know what you’re going to get,” Leyland told reporters after yesterday’s 15-7 win over the Mets.

Poll every one of the 30 MLB managers, and I’d be surprised if it wasn’t unanimous: a manager prefers to outpitch his opponents, not outslug them. The 8-7, 15-7, 3 1/2-hour game isn’t a big league manager’s cup of tea — mainly because the bats can’t always be relied on to bail out the arms. Leyland acknowledged as much in his postgame comments. He said if the Tigers keep relying on their impressive offense exclusively, “we’ll be nowhere to be found” at the end of the season.

The Tigers, this morning, have an offense that is averaging a shade over six runs per game. It’s not inconceivable that they could score over 1,000 runs this season (a 6.2 avg), but as awesome as that is, let it be said once again: pitching will determine the AL Central race, not hitting.

So it’s kind of ironic and maybe even fitting that the team’s most reliable reliever is a dude that few had even heard of when the club frolicked in the Florida sun last March.

Tim Byrdak is fast becoming a lefthanded Joel Zumaya — not in terms of pitch velocity (although he can bring it), but in how he comes in and absolutely slams the door shut on most opponent rallies. He’s one of the few earning his fireman’s hat in the pen currently. It’s gotten to the point where I root for Leyland to call Byrdak’s name, and feel genuinely secure when he enters the ballgame. Feelings I once had for the injured Zoom Zoom Zumaya.

Kenny Rogers looks close to returning — and the impact of that news can’t be overstated (though all of us will try). Insert a healthy, productive Rogers into the rotation, and all of a sudden the bullpen’s load decreases instantly.

***********************************************
WHYGJG friend Scott Warheit is trying to rally his fellow bloggers — and the fans — into helping Tigers second baseman Placido Polanco leapfrog past the Yankees’ Robinson Cano in All-Star voting. Polanco still trails Cano by about 9,000 votes in his bid to be the AL’s starting second sacker.

Scott writes:

In response, I’ve started a “Go to the Polls for Placido!” voting campaign @ my blog (http://swarheit.blogspot.com/2007/06/go-to-polls-for-placido-all-star.html) and I was hoping that if we were able to spread the word through our various blogs, encouraging people to vote, either on-line or at Comerica Park, we can get Tigers fans behind the campaign.

I have also added a thread publicizing the campaign at website Digg.com (for those unfamiliar, people post stories on Digg and as visitors and readers “Digg” the story, it becomes more popular, and is more prominently displayed on the site) so you can encourage your visitors to visit Digg to help hype up the story as well. That address is http://digg.com/baseball/Help_Elect_Placido_Polanco_to_the_Major_League_Baseball_All_Star_Game/

Consider the word spread, Scott!

Unlike McCloskey, Dumars Has To Retool AND Satisfy — All At Once

Which of these statements is most true?

a) The Cleveland Cavaliers are finding out the hard way that, in the NBA Finals, these aren’t the Pistons they’re playing.

b) The San Antonio Spurs are finding out, to their delight, that in the NBA Finals these aren’t the Pistons they’re playing.

OK, it’s actually a trick question. They’re BOTH true, and therein lies the enigma wrapped in a riddle that is the summer 2007 edition of the Detroit Pistons.

Watching the Finals, I couldn’t help but think that the Pistons would never have fallen behind by 28 freaking points in the first half, as the Cavs did in Game 2 last night. Yet I also acknowledge that the Pistons, by the end of the Eastern finals, were outclassed by the Cavs and didn’t deserve another trip to the NBA Finals. Weird, huh? But also true.

Again, let me reiterate my point from Friday: there’s no way the Pistons beat the Spurs in a Finals rematch from 2005. Absolutely not. But they sure as heck would have put up more of a fight than the Cavs have for seven of the eight quarters played thus far.

Oh well — too bad, so sad. Water under the bridge, that ship has sailed — all that.

But what does it say about a basketball team in the NBA when both of the above A & B statements can be true — at the same time?

Dumars leads a pit crew; McCloskey operated a garage

This promises to be one of the most intriguing off-seasons the Pistons have experienced since the days of Trader Jack McCloskey, when the grizzled GM was forever burrowed in his laboratory every summer in the 1980s, trying to find the right concoction that would thrust the Pistons into title contention.

A little Dan Roundfield here. Oops, lose the Roundfield and add some Rick Mahorn. Toss in some William Bedford. Wait — ixnay the Bedford — too volatile and I think it’s making the elixir turn sour. Inject some John Salley and Dennis Rodman — two little-known secret ingredients. Too much Kelly Tripucka; get rid of it and give me that Adrian Dantley over there. Hmmm — still not quite right. What say we jettison the Dantley and replace it with Mark Aguirre?

BINGO!

But current team president Joe Dumars doesn’t necessarily have the luxury of time, as McCloskey did, when Jack took a team at expansion-like status in 1979 and used most of a decade to turn it into a serious championship threat. Dumars, stung by some recent personnel decision hiccups, must retool on the fly, attempting to manage that tricky balance between respectability and lottery in the process. He might have to take one step backward, so to speak, to take two steps forward. While McCloskey tinkered, it was largely shrugged off. The Pistons had never been truly good. The Tigers were a division contender every year. And the Red Wings, led by Jacques Demers and their young captain, were beginning to fascinate again during the winter months. So it was easy to smirk and shake your head while McCloskey worked behind the big blue curtain inside the Silverdome.

No such luck for Joe D nowadays. His Pistons are in a pitstop — not on a hoist in a garage, as McCloskey’s Pistons were. Dumars has to change tires, check for backfires, and keep the engine fueled — and he has to do it in 30 seconds, comparatively speaking.

Perhaps never before has the Detroit basketball club been more aptly named than now. Pistons wear out over time, as you know — unless some are replaced.

Hey, Hey … Hockeytown?

The Stanley Cup is gone – absconded and spirited away for another year, and again it’s been shanghaied by a warm weather city unworthy of ownership.

Or so says Alan Meyer.

My friend Alan isn’t a native Detroiter. He isn’t a denizen of Hockeytown – that self-proclaimed title Detroit fans have given their city, as undisputed reverends of Canada’s game. I’d dearly love to see the reactions of the folks of Montreal whenever Detroit is referred to by that branding. But I digress.

Alan is an old college friend who re-established communications with me, out of the clear blue, last year. Seems that writing for magazines and on the Internet will occasionally make one’s name auspicious.

Alan’s not a Detroiter, but he’s got a lot of Midwest about him. He’s an Ohio guy, actually – and I knew that when I met him at Eastern Michigan University, back when the school’s teams were called Hurons. I assure you that I didn’t hold his Ohio nativeness against him. Still don’t.

But he’s in California now, work dragging him to the left coast. And he rocketed an e-mail to me last week less than 24 hours after the Anaheim Ducks captured their first Stanley Cup, disposing of the Senators in five games. The Sens play in Ottawa, a more Cup-worthy city, according to Mr. Meyer.

“It’s a shame that Ottawa or cities like Detroit or Montreal or Toronto – great hockey towns – didn’t win,” Alan wrote.

Forget the cities. This year the Cup was won by a bunch of Ducks. Last year it was a group of Hurricanes. The Cup before that, Lightning struck.

No Red Wings. No Rangers. No Canadiens. No Maple Leafs. Not even any Flyers, Oilers, Flames, or Islanders. These were once the keepers of the Cup. The Canadiens were the biggest and most consistent offender. They played keep away with the trophy throughout most of the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s. They won four in a row from 1976 to ’79, then the New York Islanders followed that up with four straight of their own from 1980 to ’83. Not to be outdone, it was then the Edmonton Oilers’ turn to reign supreme. They captured five Cups in the seven years between 1984 and 1990.

Montreal. Long Island. Edmonton.

Cup-worthy, all of them. Why? Well, occasionally the outdoor temperature is known to dip near or below that of the ice on which the game is played, for starters. In the Cup-worthy cities, fans hustle into the arena to warm up. In non-Cup-worthy cities, fans hustle into the arena to cool off.

But there was more from Alan than just tears of empathy for the Cup-worthy towns. And it was the most sobering point of all.

“The (Cup) victory really does nothing for the general population of Anaheim or Orange County in general,” Alan huffed. “Outside of the 17,372 people at the final game, there probably aren’t too many people here who really give a *bleep bleep* about winning the Cup. It’s really unfortunate.”

So there you have it – intelligence from the Pacific coast. The Stanley Cup has again been awarded to a city whose citizens wouldn’t recognize it if they tripped over it.

Yeah, but how will it play OUTSIDE the arena, Scott?

This is what NHL commissioner Gary Bettman wants, though. To him, the winning of Cups in Tampa, Raleigh, and Anaheim is validation of his Johnny Appleseed method of marketing: plant franchise seeds where they have no business operating, and declare it a success if the teams win Cups – even if 90% of the general populace of those metropolitan areas don’t know a Stanley Cup from a coffee cup.

“For hockey’s sake,” Alan opined, “at least here in California, the only hope is that maybe this Stanley Cup victory will plant a seed of increase in popularity of the sport. But I really doubt it, though. Professional sports here are really a diversion to a way of life.”

The day that winning an NHL championship becomes a “diversion” in Detroit or Montreal is the day before Armageddon hits.

But that’s what it is to southern Californians, according to my Midwest-at-heart pal Alan.

“The departure of the (NFL’s) Rams and the difficulty in obtaining a replacement franchise” is the bi-product of the notoriously laid-back attitude of sports fans near the beach, Alan says. “For the most part, the baseball stadiums here empty out beginning in the seventh inning.”

One of those stadiums, it should be pointed out, houses the Dodgers – one of baseball’s most storied franchises. And they can’t keep the interest of the paying customers till the last out is recorded? Yet, say hello to the new bearers of your Stanley Cup for the next 12 months, at least.
Things were in proper order until 1999, when the relocated Stars of Dallas won the first Cup for any city south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Any hopes that that Cup was an anomaly have been shattered by the recent captures by the Tampa Bay Lightning, Carolina Hurricanes, and now Anaheim Ducks.

Tampa is a beach town, too. They have those “let’s go to the game and cool off” fans. Carolina is tobacco country, and basketball rules the sporting landscape – along with NASCAR. Anaheim is Disneyland and a city full of late arrivers and early departers. These balmy areas have won the last three Stanley Cups, and if you think such victories have done wonders for hockey popularity in those towns, then you’re Gary Bettman’s kind of person – a dum-dum.

But the games are played on the ice, not according to geographic location of the combatants. Detroit, Montreal, Toronto and the rest are Cup-less this summer because their teams weren’t good enough to get the job done, plain and simple. And now look what’s happened. Another shanghaied Cup.

“In Detroit, for most fans,” Alan concluded, “professional sports ARE a way of life.”

Told ya – not bad for an Ohioan.

Yes, Virginia, It’s True: Billy Drew Out Of A Hat

The lineup wasn’t working — at least not the way it was being penned by the manager. Four straight losses in a muggy August when the divisional race was turning into a four-horse affair.

Time to shake things up — literally.

On August 13, 1972, Tigers manager Billy Martin actually did do what legend says he did. The story is not apocryphal, nor an urban legend. He really did it — drawing his batting order out of a hat, desperate for a victory.

I wonder what the fans at Tiger Stadium were thinking when PA announcer Joe Gentile read this over the speakers:

1. Norm Cash 1B
2. Jim Northrup RF
3. Willie Horton LF
4. Eddie Brinkman SS
5. Tony Taylor 2B
6. Duke Sims C
7. Mickey Stanley CF
8. Aurelio Rodriguez 3B
9. Woodie Fryman P

Obviously, Martin didn’t have the guts to put Fryman’s name in the baseball cap.

When you look at that lineup, some pieces would have made sense to the fans — like Northrup and Horton at #2 and #3, and the #6 thru #9 slots aren’t that wacky. But Cash batting leadoff and Brinkman hitting cleanup is a hoot. And Taylor would never have batted fifth in a normal lineup, either.

Cash singled to start the bottom of the first against the Indians that Sunday afternoon. After Northrup grounded into a double play, Horton homered. The Tigers ended up winning, 3-2.

I wonder when the method to Martin’s madness was revealed. I was only nine years old and a week, so I don’t recall the coverage of the game.

But it’s true — Billy Martin drew a batting order out of a hat in a sign of desperation. He never tried it again, which is odd, because it wasn’t like Billy to quit while he was ahead.

source: www.retrosheet.org

The NBA Finals? Who Needs ‘Em — When Failure Is Guaransheed?

OK, Pistons fans — did you REALLY want a piece of the San Antonio Spurs?

Didn’t think so.

I think the grief over not making it to the NBA Finals isn’t so much that there’s a groundswell of opinion that the Pistons could have taken the Spurs out. Rather, it’s more of an “if the Spurs are gonna kick someone’s ass in the Finals, then it’d better be OURS” kind of a thing.

Seriously — Timmy Duncan’s team is the class of the NBA, the Dallas Mavericks notwithstanding. They are, in the 21st century, what the Bulls and Lakers and Celtics were during various times in the 20th.

Last night the Spurs put a licking on the Cleveland Cavaliers that was hardly surprising. The Spurs are what the Pistons used to be, only better. It would be a minor miracle if the pesky Cavs can do much more than shove the series to five games.

LeBron James was harrassed into a 4-for-16 shooting night, and this time there wasn’t enough Boobie Gibson or Drew Gooden or Zadrunas Ilgauskas to save the day. And there won’t be, for the Cavs will find that the Spurs’ defenders make the Pistons look like San Antonio Lite.

To San Antonio’s credit, they’re saying all the right things about James and his potential to go off at any moment, like an un-defused time bomb. And James might, before the series is done sometime next week, break out for 30 points or so. But mostly the young King will be getting on-the-job training about what the NBA Finals are all about. And it will make him stronger, and better, in the long run. Not a pleasant thought for the rest of the NBA East.

In Game 1, Tony Parker had 27 points. If that comes close to happening again, forget what I said about the series being extended beyond four games. In fact, I’d be tempted to pick a four-game sweep in three matches — if that were possible.

No, the Pistons wouldn’t have had much of a prayer against the Spurs. Perhaps they could have been a better match for the Spurs than Cleveland will be — mainly because of experience and the revenge factor. But the Pistons would have needed seven games to eliminate the Cavs, and a rested San Antonio club would have loomed — on the road — a few nights later.

The way I figure it, the only thing the Pistons missed out on by not doing away with the Cavs was the ignominy of losing to the Spurs twice in three seasons for the whole enchilada. And we’d still be wringing our hands over Joe Dumars’ offseason moves.

Gives us one more week with the Tigers, as far as I’m concerned.

Sheffield May Not Be 100% Right, But He’s 100% Truthful

Gary Sheffield thinks he has a handle on why there aren’t more African-American baseball players at the big league level. He said as much in the latest issue of GQ magazine.

My take? The black major leaguers must be where all the black GMs and black managers are.

Baseball hasn’t been a forerunner of civil rights, that’s for sure. Doesn’t mean that its been against them, of course, but nor have they been a standard bearer.

MLB missed out on some pretty darn good players in the 1920s and 1930s — black sluggers and pitchers who surely would have found their way into Cooperstown as big leaguers, had more than just the baseball been white, back in the day.

Even after Jackie Robinson’s debut in 1947, baseball took its sweet time, as other teams responded to the Brooklyn Dodgers’ groundbreaking move like tortoises moving uphill. The Boston Red Sox didn’t employ a black ballplayer until the 1960s were almost upon us, for goodness sakes. When Hank Aaron was on the verge of breaking Babe Ruth’s career homerun record, the treatment he received from his fellow Americans was hideous.

Today, there are two managers, out of 30, who are of color: Ron Washington (Texas) and Willie Randolph (Mets). There’s one GM, out of 30, who is black: Kenny Williams (White Sox). This isn’t an anomaly; MLB has always been this way. Never have the numbers ever been much different than they are currently.

Sheffield, I can tell you, is all about the truth. He’ll patiently talk, even when he’s hitting .120, which he was when he and I spoke for 15 minutes at his locker before a game in April. He doesn’t go into hiding when things aren’t going well on the field. He doesn’t say things to make headlines or because it’s good copy. He says it because he believes it.

For example, when I asked him what his initial thoughts were upon finding out he’d been traded to Detroit, he didn’t give the stock, “Oh, it was great because they’re the defending AL champs and it’s a great baseball city, blah-blah” reply.

“My first thought was that it wasn’t a good fit,” Sheffield told me.

No?

“I asked my agent, ‘Where am I gonna play?’ They already had a starting outfield. And I didn’t want to be a first baseman again,” Sheffield said, referring to his ill-fated stint at first last season with the Yankees.

It was only after manager Jim Leyland soothed Sheffield’s concerns about being a DH that the slugger grew to like the idea of being a Tiger in 2007.

There’s no bullshit about Gary Sheffield. What you see is what you get. He gave us his ideas about why MLB isn’t all that black-friendly. Not all of it do I agree with, but the facts are there: the percentage of black players and managers and executives are shamefully low.

And the problems pre-dated straight shooters like Sheffield, by decades.

But they’re not all that closer to being solved. Not by a longshot.

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BTW, if you’re wondering why baseball is given the short shrift at “OOB”, it’s because I write about it exclusively at my other blog, “Where Have You Gone, Johnny Grubb?” Check it out sometime, if you haven’t already!

Donovan’s About-Face Recalls That Of Stanky’s

For about a week in 1977, the Texas Rangers’ managerial job was treated like a hot potato, as it was tossed about four times in eight days.

I got to thinking about the Rangers and their bizarre managing carousel for two reasons: the Tigers are playing in Texas currently, and I was bemused at University of Florida basketball coach Billy Donovan and his decision to quit the Orlando Magic after a weekend as their “conflicted” coach.

Actually, the first person I though of in the Rangers’ debacle of ‘77 was Eddie Stanky. “Stinky,” they called him, and “The Brat” (NOT short for bratwurst, either; Stanky was a pest as a player).

Stanky as a Boston Brave; doubt there are too many photos of him as a Rangers manager


The Rangers fired manager Frank Luchessi with a not-so-bad 31-31 record in late June, almost 30 years ago to the day. Then they turned to Stanky, who hadn’t managed in the big leagues in nine years — but who also had a winning overall record in a career that included parts of eight seasons with the Cardinals and White Sox.

June 22, 1977 — according to Retrosheet.org. That was the day Stanky managed his first — and only — game for the Rangers. His team was in Minnesota, and despite falling behind 4-0 in the first inning, the Rangers ended up winning 10-8.

But almost immediately after the game the 60-year-old Stanky began feeling homesick. He didn’t mess around; he quit the Rangers the next day, unbeaten as their skipper.

Next, the Rangers tabbed Connie Ryan, whose only managerial experience had been a 27-game stint as the Braves’ interim guy in 1975 (he went 9-18). Ryan went 2-4 with the Rangers, but parted ways with the team when he announced he would not be interested in the job beyond finishing the ‘77 season.

Manager-hunting for the third time in a week, the Rangers hired Billy Hunter (no pun intended). Hunter had even less experience than Ryan: he had none at all. Yet he was the most successful of the Rangers’ managing quartet, going 60-33 and bringing the team in second behind the Kansas City Royals. And Hunter did what Ryan would not: commit to managing the team in 1978 — which he did, until being fired with one game left in the season.

But it’s Stanky that came to mind as I followed Donovan’s odyssey the past couple of days. The Brat missed his family. Donovan feared he would miss his, too — his college family. Of course, Billy Donovan said “no” to a lot more money than Stanky did back in 1977.

Fun fact: Willie Horton was on that 1977 Rangers team. He batted cleanup in Stanky’s only game. He went 0-for-3. Maybe Stanky figured the team wouldn’t do much if he couldn’t get Horton to hit!

Donovan Saved Magic, Himself From Certain Failure

If only Jerry Tarkanian had second thoughts. Or John Calipari. Or Rick Pitino — twice. Lord knows where the Pistons would have been had Dick Vitale not had his non-glass eye set on their coaching job — shameless campaign thru the newspapers and all.

The Orlando Magic — ownership, players, and fans alike — may not feel like it right now, but I figure they’re some of the luckiest people on earth right now, in the wake of Billy Donovan announcing he’d like to avoid the long lines at Disney World and stay at the University of Florida.

Ironically, I doubt it was a sudden realization or appreciation for the pro game’s history of failed college coaches that dissuaded Donovan from fulfilling his signed contract with the Magic, just a couple days after the ink dried. He cited being “conflicted” between his desire to enter the NBA as a coach and his love for UF.

Actually, it’s sort of like when someone gives up their ticket on a plane to someone else, only to see it crash. Fortuitous, but hardly planed.

Donovan, barring his emotional duress, would have boarded that plane — the rickety one that flies college-to-pro coaches to their career deaths — while so many of us would have been left on the ground, screaming, “For the love of God, don’t do it!”

Psych!

Why, oh why do college coaches think they can make it in the pros — in every sport? And why do they continue to think so, despite overwhelming evidence that the chances of success are abysmal at best and nil at worst?

From little-known dudes to overrated blowhards to legitimate big-name guys, it just doesn’t happen when the switch is made from books to bucks.

Have there been exceptions? A few. But there’s been snow in May, a White Sox world championship, and moments of dead air on a Bill Walton-occupied broadcast, too — but I wouldn’t be running to the betting window to wager on any of them happening again anytime soon.

The other funny thing is listening to the observers making a laundry list of why Donovan would stay. Vitale, who should know, was pontificating into a telephone the other night on ESPN.

“He has a university who loves him. An athletic director who loves him. He has a great situation. He has happiness. Like (former coach) Jim Valvano used to say, ‘DON’T MESS WITH HAPPINESS.’”

Well, yeah — but don’t most of them who flee the campuses have all of what Donovan has at Florida? I’ll answer my own question: Yes, they do. Yet they leave anyway.

Look, I understand about wanting new challenges and succeeding where others have failed and all that. So it’s not the coaches I find culpable — for if they’re offered, who am I to tell them they shouldn’t go?

So I guess my cross eyes should be aimed toward the owners and management of those pro teams who are, right on schedule every so often, dipping into the college ranks for their next hotshot coach. The Red Wings were one of the early cautionary tales, hiring Ned Harkness right from Cornell University in 1970. At least they learned their lesson and never tried it again.

“Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.”

Ahh, but the owners and GMs aren’t forgetting the past — they’re ignoring it. They’re defying it. They’re spitting into the teeth of its wind. And time and again, they’re ending up with saliva on their puss.

“A pro fool and his college coach are soon parted.”

I made that one up myself.

Of course, the coach still ends up with the money in the end. So he’s not the fool, after all.

Tuesday’s Feature: The Straightaway

(every Tuesday, “Out of Bounds” will feature “The Straightaway”, NASCAR commentary from Brazil-based Siddy Hall)

THE STRAIGHTAWAY

by Siddy Hall

TRUEX 1st TIME WIN THE FLIPSIDE OF MEARS

Dover Downs is a great racetrack. It’s possibly my favorite on the circuit. Dover was the scene of one of my favorite off-track skirmishes. It involved Derrike Cope, Ernie Irvan and Irvan’s crew chief, Larry McReynolds, back in the mid-1990s.

Ernie Irvan was the quickest car that day and somewhere in the first 100 laps he was about to put Cope a lap down. When Cope failed to show the ‘proper’ courtesy to the race leader within say, 0.005 seconds, Ernie lacked the proper patience and tapped Cope, sending both cars reeling. Tow trucks were required and Irvan’s seemingly bright day was finished.

As the cameras followed Cope through the garage area, suddenly Larry McReynolds blasted through, blabbering away, wanting a piece of Cope. How dare a jalopy like Cope’s not get out of the race leader’s way!! Roll out the red carpet, Derrike. It’s Ernie Irvan!! The bewildered Cope failed to repond with what I believed was proper vengeance. To this day I’m still mad that Derrike didn’t deck McReynolds on the spot.

NASCAR/WWF, circa 1997: McReynolds (right) played Bobby “The Brain” Heenan against Cope (left), on behalf of Irvan (below)

Yesterday’s Dover race lacked these types of fireworks. Instead we witnessed single car domination. Martin Truex, Jr., your first win was a beauty. It was the day you were King with no ifs, ands, or buts. It was the flipside of last week’s first time race winner, Casey Mears.

Mears victory was more like a rabbit trick. We watched the cars go around for over four hours and suddenly the race winner was not a stallion but a llama. But Mears’s win was fun and surprising, and of course, a win is a win. In Truex’s case, the only question was whether his equipment had a slight fade in it. Many times the best car all day becomes an average car at the end. Truex somehow grew stronger.

The final re-start began with 40 laps remaining. It took 20 laps before the Bass Pro Shops machine was lapping respectable cars. By the end of the event he had opened up a seven second lead. There was no good fortune or strategy required here. This was a good ole fashioned serious butt-kicking.

THAT ZEN MOMENT: The funny thing about auto racing is that it can take some time to realize that you are witnessing greatness. This is the major difference between driving hard, NASCAR-style, and driving hard, NBA-style.

Recently, in the NBA playoffs, LeBron James scored 29 of his team’s final 30 points in leading his team to a double-overtime win. The domination was obvious and it registered quickly. The greatness that Martin Truex and his team displayed at Dover took longer to understand. It was one of those moments of Zen.

The Autism Speaks 400 was a clean race. Not until Tony Stewart and Kurt Busch battled on lap 271 was there any real drama. The cars ran a crisp pace in a good, clean race. The kind of good, clean racing that over two hours can lead to a trance-like state for the viewer. Throw in a little nap in the middle and by lap 250 you may be in a state of meditative boredom. Until as Jim Morrison once said, “You break on through to the other side.”

Stewart: As usual, he provided some drama

That’s how it was for me. For 250 laps I was watching … then napping … watching … then napping. Finally, I was about to give up. I was going to get off my couch and go do something useful, when that Moment of Zen arrived. “The Attainment of Awakening.”

“Ohmmmm…”

I finally realized, “Hey, this is actually a pretty good race. Martin Truex, Jr. is kicking ass!!” And the endless circles being driven suddenly made a whole lot of sense.

MY CRAZY IDEA: Has any track builder ever made a track in the shape of a figure-8? I imagine this configuration with no intersection. One end of the track would be elevated 20 feet higher than the opposite end. So, there would be an uphill and a downhill slope to the track. I think it would be cool. Right turns and left turns. I believe that my new track, the Siddy Hall International Speedway, should receive two races.

BASS PRO SHOPS: One reason why I’m happy for Team Truex is that Bass Pro Shops is one of my favorite car sponsors. And I don’t even fish. I just enjoy seeing that Bass on the hood of the One-car. And why can’t I fish? I’ve never liked worms. They’re gross.

How can you NOT like a race car that features a BASS?

BRAZIL TV: Watching the race from Sao Paulo, Brazil has its own unique challenges. The race is broadcast in Portuguese. The announcers seem like they are really into the action. However, I don’t know what they are saying. They don’t have their own pit and garage reporters. While the announcers interpret what’s being said, I’m left wondering.

For instance after the Kurt Busch – Tony Stewart melee, Fox interviewed Busch. I noticed that Kurt seemed to talk for quite a while. I can only imagine…

Fox: Kurt, what happened out there?
Busch: Well, we had a good car today. The Miller Lite Dodge wasn’t quite as good as Ryan’s but we felt like we had a top-Ten car until that #@!^%&* 20-car made his &^$%^^% car too wide and had to act like his %$@* pumpkin-mobile is the %^^$$$# King %^&% of the track. Payback is a &&(*%&@!^&&*%$ fatboy.

Am I right?

CONGRATULATIONS DEI: So Junior’s leaving and you can stick a fork in DEI, right? That’s what I’ve been saying. After recent talk about how DEI will continue on and be strong, I gotta admit that I was rolling my eyes and smirking while saying, “Let me show this amazing swamp property that I’ve got for sale. You’ll love it.” Besides those teams that face the pressure of trying to make races each week, no organization is under more pressure than DEI. Great job, Teresa, Max and everybody from Team Truex.

Teresa Earnhardt: Rumors of DEI’s death are greatly exaggerated

(you can e-mail Siddy Hall: cityhall172000 at yahoo.com)

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BILL JR STORY: Here’s a link to an outstanding story on Bill France, Jr. The story appeared in the New Yorker in 2003.

Nothing A Slam Dunk When There’s Playoff Disappointment

The Pistons will offer Chauncey Billups a fat contract, he’ll hem and haw for a few days, then he’ll sign it. Rasheed Wallace will be brought back, as many in the organization close their eyes. Tayshaun Prince returning is a no-brainer. Chris Webber returning isn’t. Rip Hamilton can be used as trade bait. So could the draft picks. Antonio McDyess will never see a championship — in Detroit. Jason Maxiell is the real deal — keep him for sure. Sign Grant Hill. Give Lindsey Hunter a job in the front office.

Right?

The above scenario, or a combination thereof, will be bantied about for the next few weeks, while the sting of the Pistons’ loss to Cleveland in the conference finals dissipates. It’s anybody’s guess how much of that first paragraph will come to fruition.

We can debate all of that till the cows come home, but the only real move that matters is whether Billups returns to the Pistons. And that’s no slam dunk.

Don’t snicker. How many of us believed Ben Wallace would flee last summer?

It’s the same question as was handled last year, when the pros and cons of bringing Wallace back were being weighed.

I may be in the minority, but I’m not one who believes bringing Chauncey Billups back to the Pistons is necessarily the best thing for the team.

That doesn’t mean I’m AGAINST bringing him back, either. Far from it. If the Pistons ink Billups, then that’s just fine. But consider for a moment if he flees. The Pistons will be forced, then, to go into a different direction, and with a point guard who isn’t shackled to the past, and who seems to be in denial that the team needs overhauling. They will have lost two big stars in two consecutive summers, but they will perhaps have gained a future.

It’s clear, of the crystal variety, that the Pistons need a makeover. Jettisoning their star point gaurd may seem like an awfully drastic way of doing it, but the Edmonton Oilers traded Wayne Gretzky, for goodness sakes, and two seasons later they won another Stanley Cup.

The Pistons need to get younger, quicker, and they need, most of all, a mindset transfusion. Letting Chauncey Billups go might not guarantee the fulfillment of such needs. But signing him is no certainty of it, either. Not at all.

Monday Morning Manager

(my weekly take on the Tigers)

Last Week: 3-4
This Week: (6/5-7: at Tex; 6/8-10: NYM)

It’s funny how the memory works. Saturday morning, after the Tigers blew a four-run lead in the ninth Friday night in Cleveland, John Lowe wrote in the Free Press that it was the first time the Tigers had blown a lead of at least four runs in the ninth inning — on the road — in almost 21 years.

And I knew EXACTLY which game that was, back in 1986.

After double-checking on the best website on the planet, Retrosheet.org, I found it.

August 29, 1986: Tigers at California. I remember watching that game, and that the Tigers had a huge lead, and blew it. Boy, was I right. They went into the bottom of the ninth with a 12-5 lead — and lost, 13-12.

Yep — eight runs in the bottom of the ninth, culminating in Dick Schofield’s grand slam off Willie Hernandez. I remember catcher Mike Heath slamming his helmet in the dugout as the Angels fans went bonkers. It was a time when Hernandez was giving up homers and blowing leads, and was being booed out of town just two years after his MVP/Cy Young year.

Today’s Tigers showed me a lot — rallying to win the last two games of the Indians series, after the Friday night debacle made them 0-5 against the Tribe.

Lost in the series was the fact that the Tigers smacked around the Indians’ pitching pretty good all weekend, even in the losses. 2-5 against Cleveland should have been 3-4, so I guess that’s not too bad.

Sorry to see Jose Mesa get released. As I wrote here last month, I was hoping Mesa — with his experience and savvy — could be a great help in the bullpen, after coming off the disabled list. It never happened — his fastball a few mph slow and his movement not all that good.

He’s 41, and unfortunately throws with his right arm. Not being a lefty might mean his career is over.

This week the Tigers get Fernando Rodney back and invade Texas to take on the struggling Rangers. Already the vultures are out, picking at the carcass. First baseman Mark Teixeira can be had, they say. Now I hear that the blabbermouths on ESPN say closer Eric Gagne — frequently injured lately — could be Detroit-bound if the Tigers’ bullpen woes continue.

And don’t forget the Mets! They come to town this weekend. Now THAT should be some fun! The World Series that almost was, in 2006.

Two Near The Dugout, Please

I wonder what happened to Eric the ticket taker. He could have moved, with the rest of them, to Comerica Park in 2000, but somehow I doubt it. There aren’t as many windows at CoPa as at old Tiger Stadium, after all. Now the windows are manned, or womanned, by younger whippersnappers. In Eric’s day, it may not have been a prerequisite that one be over 40, and overweight and male, but that didn’t stop ‘em.

Eric was an enabler for a hooky player and bored bachelor, back in the day. I’d check out of work early – or maybe I didn’t go in at all, if it was a day game (something was the matter with me for 24 hours) – and squeeze my car into a space at the business lot on Abbott, near Trumbull. A small hike to the ballpark, and if you made it without any of the bums looking for some spare change, then you almost wanted to go back and do it again, for that must have been a fluke.

I can’t remember when I began using Eric to finagle seats for me by the visiting team’s dugout, but once I did, there was no stopping me. Other than Eric himself, of course.

I was on TV back then, on cable downriver hosting a bi-weekly sports call-in show. One day – this is circa 1991 – I made a solo trip to Tiger Stadium. Back then, before wife and kid, it wasn’t unusual for me to make a sojourn to the ballpark to take in the Tigers game, or to Joe Louis Arena to catch the Red Wings – all by my lonesome. I’d eat dinner out and prowl downtown, too on occasion, sans accompaniment. Probably a bi-product of being an only child.

So I’m standing in line, waiting to buy a ticket, and Eric is in the window – not that I knew his name at the time.

“I know you,” he said.

Beg pardon?

“You’re Greg Eno. ‘The Sports Guys.’”

That’d be me, but how do you know THAT?

Well, he watched the show – fancy that. Lived in Taylor, if I recall.

I didn’t ask for any special treatment – just a good seat, and one, please. Amazing the good folding chairs that can be found when you’re looking for a single.

Amazing, too, what can be dug up when the ticket taker sticks his thumb into the pie.

“Here’s a good one,” he said that first time. Then his head swiveled back and forth and his voice got low. “Close enough to game time. Visitor’s dugout.”

Pleased with my good fortune, I also understood him clearly: if you get to the stadium not long before the first pitch, old Eric can set you up with prime seats – the ones not being used by the mucky-mucks that day.

That first game, I was enamored. Eric had me so close to the dugout that I could put my pop on it in between foamy sips.

I tried it again, a few weeks later. I looked for Eric’s window, and sidled up to it a few minutes before game time.

“Whaddya got?,” I may have said.

This time I was more observant, and he – and I’m not making this up – literally backed away
from his counter and looked below it, as if he had lost a contact lens. He withdrew a ticket.

“Here you go.”

I’d pay my $20 – and actually I think it may have been shortchanging Eric – and settle myself into the hard blue plastic as the Tigers were taking the field.

Sometimes it was later than that. Perhaps a couple of outs had already been recorded by the time I took my spot near the opposing dugout. He’d even ask me to come back to his window in 5-10 minutes, on occasion. Aside from blemishing my scorecard, that was totally acceptable, considering where Eric was placing me.

One evening, I took my friend John Nixon, testing the Eric process. Could he do for two what he had been doing for one?

He could. The Indians were in town.

The Indians were awful then – losing about twice as many games as they were winning. Nixon started talking to pitcher Greg Swindell, who was sitting at the end of the dugout, his back against the wall, his head bobbed over the side that was open to the fans. And Swindell talked back. The Indians manager was John McNamara.

“How’s Johnny Mac?,” Nixon asked Swindell.

Swindell spoke out of the side of his mouth, as if he was letting us in on a little secret.

“He’s losing it,” Swindell said of his manager. “He’s losing it.”

A few weeks later, McNamara was fired. He had, indeed, lost it.

The replacement was Mike Hargrove, one of the coaches. When Hargrove was a player, he went through so many rituals, gyrations, and maneuvers in the batter’s box, between every single pitch, that he had a nickname: The Human Rain Delay. He’d back out of the box. He’d unstrap his batting glove and re-strap it. He’d tug on his jersey. He’d adjust his helmet. He’d stretch his arms and rotate his shoulders. He’d dig his foot back into the dirt as if he was planting himself. He did this between every pitch.

So after the game, which the Tigers won, I waited for Hargrove as he walked back to the dugout from the coaching box.

“Hey, RAIN DELAY!,” I yelled in his direction.

He looked up to see from where the cry came. The nickname was still stuck to him, even as a coach.

One day, an afternoon game against Texas, I sympathized with Rangers outfielder Gary Pettis, a former Tiger. Eric had me in what was becoming my usual location, near the Rangers dugout. In this series, the Tigers had won the first two games in their final at-bat. And on this afternoon, they did it to Texas again. Three straight walk-off wins.

As the crowd cheered, Pettis trudged in from centerfield. He happened to look up and we made eye contact, perhaps 25 feet away from each other. I gave him a slow head shake of empathy. He nodded and shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms up. Translation: What are ya gonna do?

I stopped going to Eric after the 1992 season. I was married and no longer was it as fun to go to ballgames alone, knowing that my lovely bride was by herself. Besides, by then Mike Ilitch had bought the team and the word was that a lot of the old guard was being weeded out – the ushers, ticket takers, etc. In some cases, that was a good thing, considering the Tigers employed some pretty surly, sour folks back then.

So I doubt Eric was even with the team when the Tigers left Tiger Stadium after the 1999 season. Probably just as well. Today, the Tigers sell out just about every game. Even Eric probably couldn’t set anything aside nowadays.

It was fun while it lasted.

Granderson’s Level-Headed Thinking Being Put To Test Now

Times were good. The Tigers had just smacked the Los Angeles Angels, 12-0, to move to 12 games over .500. It was their 17th win in 23 games. The bats were hot. The pitching was in a groove. They were in, ahem, first place.

So when I approached Curtis Granderson after the slaughter of the Angels and asked him about the upcoming seven games with the then-second place Cleveland Indians, he spoke with the cool, level-headed mind of the player, while the fans and media wanted to talk otherwise.

“I think it’s a lot of talk, mostly,” Granderson told me. “I think to the people on the outside — like the fans — it means a lot. To the players on the inside, it doesn’t mean as much.”

Then this — more level-headedness: “If I’m not mistaken, last year [when we played the White Sox] they took it to us at the beginning of the season, but toward the later part of the season, we kind of took some wins from them.

“If a team (in these Tigers-Indians games) goes 5-2 or 6-1, from the fans’ standpoint, they might think, ‘Oh, our team isn’t as good as we thought.’ But as players, we always know we’re one pitch, one swing away from winning the series or winning that particular game.”

Granderson’s words come to mind now, because the Tigers are on the verge of being the team on the wrong end of that 5-2 or 6-1 record — and their fans will certainly ask the question that Granderson proposed in his analysis.

Namely, IS our team not as good as we thought?

Well, maybe not now — but it’s also not as healthy as we thought, either.

Last night’s 11-5 loss to the Tribe was not an anomaly. These Indians, as I had said they would be during the offseason, aren’t going anywhere this season. They are the class of the division. Their bullpen isn’t rotten, like last year’s.

But the Tigers, at this time in 2006, were the class of their division, too. Their bullpen wasn’t rotten, either. They were healthy, for the most part. They were winning games in all sorts of ways — and many that they had no business winning. They cobbled together a lead that reached double digits in games by the middle of August.

Then they had to play the last 50 games — during which they went 19-31. And they lost the division that they had all but sewn up.

There’s a reason the MLB schedule is 162 games. Rarely will it produce paper champions, or emperor-less clothes.

The Indians are the class of the AL Central as the calendar turns to June. But there is 2/3 of a season still to play. Doubtless that fact is not lost on Curtis Granderson or any of his teammates.

It’s our job, after all, to do the worrying and second-guessing. And we’re quite good at it, I might add.

The King And HIS Court

Another playoff night, another chance for an oldtimer to recall the days of yore.

It was inevitable, to me, that my mind should wander to Eddie Feigner as I watched LeBron James put the Cleveland Cavaliers on his broadening shoulders, leading them to a double-overtime victory in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals. And when I say leading them to victory, I mean it how tomatoes are the leading ingredient in ketchup.

The vinegar had fouled out, one by one, but the juicy LeBron tomato was still plump and robust. By now you’ve heard the numbers — Marv Albert made sure of that: 29 of the last 30 Cav points scored, including the final 25 (and the last 11 field goals). No Cleveland player had managed to put the ball into the bucket since there was about eight minutes left — in regulation, some 18 minutes before the game ended.

So who the heck is Eddie Feigner and why is he relevant this morning?

Feigner actually just passed away a couple of months ago. He led The King and His Court, a barnstorming softball team that consisted of pitcher Feigner and a handful of fielders, placed strategically across the diamond and outfield. But they were hardly necessary, because Feigner would pretty much strike everyone out. And he’d do it from second base, blindfolded, between his legs, you name it. He’d strike out major league ballplayers in exhibitions — easily.

The basketballer James, nicknamed The King, owned the court last night. He didn’t need his fouled out comrades, after all. One really can beat five in the NBA — if the game remains close and comes down to single possessions. And, if that one is unconscious and “in a zone,” as Pistons coach Flip Saunders said afterward with chilling understating.

The Cavaliers are poised to win this series and leap into the NBA Finals because the Pistons once again lost their mojo at the most crucial of times. Their killer instinct, which has vanished long ago, was a mere memory as they turned the ball over several times late in regulation, after they’d gone on a 10-0 run to forge an 88-81 lead. Let it now be said, and with more than a hint of truth: the old Pistons wouldn’t have blown such an opportunity. They wouldn’t have let their feet off the Cavaliers’ throats. And they’d be up, 3-2, going to Cleveland. And they’d end the series there.

This is MY time!!

But here’s the rub: these AREN’T the old Pistons. Haven’t been for quite some time. And nobody wanted to admit that, but now there’s no denying it. The Cavaliers are the new beasts of the East now — perhaps a year earlier than most of us thought. I’m still not sold on them being much more than a titular emperor wearing the clothes, but there you have it. Frankly, neither of these East survivors will be a worthy opponent for the San Antonio Spurs in the Finals. And that’s no great crime, for the Spurs are the best team of this era — the Lakers and Bulls of modern times.

It’s highly unlikely, in my mind, that the Pistons can do anything more than maybe give the Cavaliers a good game for 40 minutes or so tomorrow night, falling with a thud after such high hopes. They’ll talk bravely (they already are) of “being here before” and of all their experience and how they never make it easy on themselves and all that rot.

It will, unfortunately, be all talk. The wistful blustering of a former champion who, for whatever reason, has lost its magic. Maybe the legs and the bodies and the shooting eyes aren’t keeping up with the calendar. The Pistons have played an awful lot of basketball over the years.

Last year, when the Cavs won three straight over the Pistons in the conference semifinals, Antonio McDyess sat numb on the bench, and left the Palace without taking off his uniform. He was, at the time, seeing his championship dreams slipping away.

McDyess was ejected late in the first quarter (a horrible call, by the way). He probably had his uniform off well before the game ended this time. But the feelings inside were no doubt the same — and maybe worse. He’s a year older now, too — and wasn’t around for the party in 2004.

The King owned his court last night. It’s only a matter of time before he owns the league’s.