Billy Martin’s 1972 Heroes a Forgotten Bunch

The Tigers came out of spring training in Lakeland confident of their hitting. Their lineup was rich with veteran bats and some young ones. The offense didn’t figure to be a problem.

But oh, what about that pitching!

The pitching caused some of the so-called experts to make a face that was consistent with biting into a lemon. There were a couple reliable arms but after that, you might have wanted to pray for rain, a la the old Boston Braves of Warren Spahn and Johnny Sain.

Then a funny thing happened. The offense was slow out of the gate, and the pitching—surprise, surprise—actually became the team’s saving grace.

Chalk another one up against the supposed wise baseball minds.

Sound familiar?

It should—if you’re over 45 years old.

If you thought I was speaking of this year’s Tigers, you’re forgiven. You should also be heartened.

This is the 40th anniversary of the 1972 Tigers—who often are nothing more to people’s recollection than the team that came four years after the heroic 1968 Tigers.

But the ’72 Tigers came within a whisker—pun intended—of making the World Series. And the formula they used was the opposite of what was forecast for them.

The Tigers of 1971 were a power-laden team, filled with those same heroes from 1968.

Norm Cash, still raising the right field roof at age 36.

Jim Northrup, another dangerous left-handed bat.

Bill Freehan, still the league’s best catcher.

Willie Horton, always a big bopper.

Al Kaline, another 36-year-old veteran who made the All-Star team in 1971, as did Cash and Freehan.

Off the bench was Gates Brown, who, if he had been born five years later, might have been the greatest designated hitter in history, let alone just for the Tigers.

Then you had the role players, like Mickey Stanley, Aurelio Rodriguez, Tony Taylor and Dick McAuliffe, all of whom could reach the seats more than occasionally.

So it was understandable that the Tigers felt comfortable with their offense coming out of spring training in 1972; the 1971 team had won 91 games and finished a strong second to Baltimore.

On the mound, the Tigers rotation was anchored by veterans Mickey Lolich (lefty) and Joe Coleman (righty), but after that it was a crapshoot. Lolich and Coleman each won 20-plus games. Then you did a rain dance.

The offense bulled its way to the 91 wins—that and the magic of manager Billy Martin.

Martin was, in a way, the perfect manager at the perfect time for the Tigers in those days.

It’s the tenet of hiring and firing coaches and managers in sports that you replace the fired guy with his polar opposite.

If the fired guy is too nice and too much a “player’s manager (or coach),” then you get a tough guy to take his place.

If the fired guy is too strict, you bring in an old softy who the players can “relate to.”

If the fired guy is quiet, go get a loudmouth. If the fired guy has loose lips, hire a clam with lockjaw.

And so on.

The 1970 Tigers played uninspired baseball for manager Mayo Smith, a hands-off skipper whose laissez-faire ways worked in 1968, to the tune of a World Series championship.

But by 1970, the Tigers were cranky and filled with the distraction of Denny McLain, whose escapades often went unchecked by the passive Smith.

As the ’70 season closed, it was terribly apparent that the Tigers needed a swift kick between the back pockets.

Enter Martin, one of the most celebrated butt kickers of all time.

Martin was still a raw manager in 1970, having guided the Minnesota Twins to the 1969 AL East pennant as a rookie skipper. Martin fought the umpires and his own players on his way to glory. A celebrated incident with pitcher Dave Boswell occurred in the alley behind the Lindell AC in Detroit. Martin gave the term “giving the pitcher the hook” a whole new meaning, as he KO’d Boswell after a night of drinking.

Minnesota fired Martin after one winning but notorious season in what would become a career trend for him.

After the 1970 season, the Tigers dismissed Smith, who on his way out of town claimed the baseball fans of Detroit couldn’t tell the difference between a ballplayer and a Japanese aviator. Smith’s words.

GM Jim Campbell brought in Martin, a manager Campbell admired from afar, and a former Tigers player (1958).

Campbell figured—rightly, really—that Martin was just what the coddled Tigers needed in order to awaken their talented roster.

Martin barged in and ruffled some feathers, but also coaxed 12 more wins out of the team in 1971, challenging the Orioles for much of the year.

All this was the back story as the Tigers opened the 1972 season, 40 years ago.

Well, you know what happened—the hitting went south (.237 team BA) and the pitching outperformed the expectations. And Martin’s veteran team managed to stay in the race all summer.

Campbell brought in some graybeards like lefty Woodie Fryman, who was the 1972 version of Doug Fister (2011) and Doyle Alexander (1987); catcher Duke Sims; and slugger Frank Howard.

The season’s final weekend pitted the Tigers against the Boston Red Sox in a three-game series in Detroit. Thanks to a spring training players strike that cut into the regular season, the Red Sox would end up playing one fewer game than the Tigers.

The Tigers took the first two games of the series, and thus clinched the division pennant. The Red Sox finished one-half game back—thanks in part to playing one fewer game.

The offensively-challenged Tigers, who drastically underperformed with the bats, used surprisingly good pitching and their two veteran starters (Lolich and Coleman—1972’s Justin Verlander and Fister), along with Fryman and some unexpectedly strong bullpen arms, to nip the pack at the finish line.

In the ALCS, Oakland beat the Tigers, 3-2 in a heartbreaking series.

A year later, Martin became too much for the Tigers to handle, so he was canned and replaced by his opposite—the more easygoing Ralph Houk.

The 1972 Tigers were the last Detroit playoff baseball team until the 1984 heroes.

Forty years ago. It hardly seems it—if you can remember it to begin with.

Ramon Santiago: Tigers’ Newest Elder Statesman

He is the most senior of Tigers, with the cashiering of Brandon Inge a couple weeks ago. He played for Luis Pujols and Alan Trammell. He experienced 43-119 as a starter and the World Series as a bench warmer.

He has, at times, enjoyed the same kind of popularity that the Lions’ backup quarterback has over the years—i.e. it’s sometimes better to be on the bench than in the game. You look more appealing to the fans that way.

He hits from both sides of the plate, as so many players like him do. But he doesn’t necessarily hit from either side terribly well, also keeping with his brethren.

He scores about 30 runs a year and drives in roughly the same amount. He hits a home run every full moon. Though he did once lead the league in…sacrifice hits.

He’s slick with the glove and let’s face it, that’s why he’s stayed in the big leagues every year since 2002.

Ramon Santiago is 32 years old—33 in August—and he’s your new elder statesman on the Tigers, now that Inge has found work in Oakland.

Going from Inge to Santiago in terms of Tigers seniority is like when ABC went from Howard Cosell to Fran Tarkenton in the Monday Night Football broadcast booth.

 

Everyone talked about Inge. Everyone had an opinion.

Ask a Tigers fan about Santiago and you’ll have your question answered with another question.

“Santiago? What about him?”

If Ramon Santiago were a country, he’d be Switzerland. If he were a jacket, he’d be a 40 regular. If he were a bandleader, he’d be Tommy Newsom.

Santiago’s act has played in Detroit since 2002, with only a two-year hiatus in Seattle (2004-05) in which he had a grand total of 47 at-bats for the Mariners. Speaking of Seattle, the Tigers made a whale of a trade when they dealt Santiago to the Mariners; they got Carlos Guillen in return. Even Santiago would tell you that was a steal.

The Mariners released him after the 2005 season and the Tigers snatched him up—kind of like when you find that old pair of shoes in the closet that you could have sworn you had gotten rid of—the comfy ones that you’re glad to again have in your possession.

Santiago never showed flashes of brilliance with the bat as Inge did. In fact, Santiago doesn’t really show flashes of anything except attendance in the dugout. A typical Santiago year is to dress for almost all of the 162 games, play in about two-thirds of them and actually bat in half of those.

 

His role is that of defensive replacement, and with the Tigers infield in recent years, that can mean a whole lot of replacing.

Santiago will start maybe once a week and it won’t be memorable with the bat. But, he’ll catch just about everything and make a few nifty plays in the field and all he’ll get is a pat on the rump and be told to stand by until he’s needed again.

Such is the life of the big league benchwarmer.

When Miguel Cabrera, Prince Fielder or Austin Jackson arrive at the ballpark, they don’t even bother to look at the lineup card that’s taped on a wall near the Tigers locker room. Not only do they know they’re playing, they know where they’re batting.

It’s like the 1920s Yankees, who invented numbers on the backs of uniforms by virtue of where their players batted in the order, hence Babe Ruth being No. 3, Lou Gehrig No. 4.

Jackson bats leadoff, Cabrera third and Fielder fourth—every game.

When Santiago shuffles into the clubhouse, he could make a mint if he took wagers from fans, ushers and equipment kids on his way inside, as to whether he’s playing that night. But the odds would always be 1:3.

The most at-bats Santiago had in any given season was 2003’s atrocity, when he got into 141 games for the 43-119 Tigers, most of them starts at shortstop, and he registered 444 ABs. He still only scored 41 runs and drove in his 29 RBI, even with all the extra appearances. But he did lead the league with 18 sacrifice bunts.

 

For the next four years combined (2004-07), Santiago had a grand total of 194 at-bats. And it took him 102 games to get those.

Yet the next disgruntled word Santiago utters will be his first. He has shown as much emotion as he’s had playing time. I don’t know if he cusses, but I bet if he does, it’s the Spanish version of “Oh, darn.”

It has taken Santiago 10 years and over 1,800 at-bats to slug as many homers as Cabrera is likely to have by the end of August (25). But when “Santy,” as his teammates call him, knocks one out of the park, it’s a moment as rich with pleasant surprise as seeing a man win a fight with his wife.

If you’re a pitcher who’s surrendered a Ramon Santiago home run, it’s like being an adult duped out of a cookie by a toddler. Like the hare losing to the tortoise.

But it cannot be disputed that Santiago is the Tiger with the most seniority now. He’s the accidental elder statesman.

His teammates love him. They’ve gone on record. They rave about Santiago’s professionalism, his preparedness and his gentle, subtle mentoring of the younger Latin American players on the team.

At times in recent years, Santiago’s insertion into the lineup on a more regular basis has been suggested by a fan base frustrated with second base ever since the Tigers inexplicably let Placido Polanco walk away into free agency after the 2009 season.

 

As the team has tried the likes of Will Rhymes, Scott Sizemore, Danny Worth, Ryan Raburn and even Inge at second base, Santiago has been the backup and the fans have called for him—albeit in a “process of elimination” kind of way.

But the truth is that Ramon Santiago simply isn’t an everyday player. It wasn’t true when he was younger, and it certainly isn’t true as he approaches 33 years old. And there’s no crime in that.

This is Santiago’s 11th season in the big leagues and his ninth with the Tigers. He is the most senior baseball player in Detroit.

But I know what I’ll get if I ask you about No. 39.

“Santiago? What about him?”

Monday Morning Manager: Week 5

Last Week: 3-2

This Week: at Sea (5/7-9); at Oak (5/10-13)

So, What Happened?

The Tigers won a game they should have lost, lost a game they should have won, and split a series they needed to sweep.

Follow?

Well, all you need to know is that it was a 3-2 week for the Bengals (Monday’s game was washed out), and considering how things had been going, 3-2 looks mighty fine.

At least, to MMM it does.

But the weekend series with the White Sox at Comerica Park was almost a microcosm of the Tigers season so far: an opportunity wasted, a surprise win and inconsistency highlighted in Max Scherzer and Jose Valverde.

The surprise win was Friday’s walk-off one, thanks to Jhonny Peralta’s two-run homer. The Tigers looked moribund after another sluggish performance by the bats.

The opportunity wasted was Saturday’s, when Valverde surrendered a monster two-run homer to the rejeuvenated Adam Dunn in the ninth inning as the White Sox won, 3-2.

Valverde showed his inconsistency on Sunday, at times appearing to bounce back strong from Saturday’s debacle while also seeming to be on the verge of another meltdown—from batter to batter.

The Chicago ninth on Sunday went single, stolen base, strikeout, walk, pop up, then 3-0 on Gordon Beckham before fanning him.

More thrills and chills than an amusement park ride!

Scherzer turned in a wonderful performance on Saturday, but as usual with Max, you’re happy about it but also flummoxed by his inability to string more than one of these together in a row.

Earlier in the week, the Tigers split two games with the Royals, the offense again spotty after an outburst on Tuesday.

Oh, and Delmon Young returned to the lineup on Saturday after serving his seven-day suspension from MLB for his drunken stupor in New York.
Hero of the Week

The Tigers looked dead in the water on Friday night, sleepwalking through another home game, when Jhonny Peralta stunned the White Sox with a walk-off, opposite-field homer—a two-run shot to give the Tigers a 5-4 win.

Had the Tigers lost, they would have fallen below .500, lost to a divisional rival, and would have lost 10 of their last 13 games.

Peralta made sure none of that happened.

Just as last week’s HotW, Drew Smyly, gave the Tigers a much-needed jolt with his outing in New York, Peralta earns HotW for his rescuing of a game Friday the Tigers had no business winning, nor did they look like winners through eight innings.

The homer was also Peralta’s first of the year—and for a guy with 20 home run potential, it was long overdue. For that, MMM gives Jhonny Hreo of the Week (misspelling intended).

Honorable mention: Miguel Cabrera, who had a seemingly quiet week but it was productive with RBIs and competent play at third base.

Goat of the Week

As much as the Tigers stole Friday’s game, they nonetheless led Saturday’s contest, 2-1, going into the ninth inning.

Then Jose Valverde struck.

It’s not fair, of course, for MMM to compare 2012 Valverde—or any year, for that matter—with 2011 Valverde. Last season’s 49-for-49 Valverde was very special.

This year’s Valverde is Todd Jones, redux. At least, so far.

Papa Grande blew Saturday’s game with a pitch to Adam Dunn that was so fat, MMM was surprised the seams weren’t bursting on the baseball as it was being delivered to the plate.

Dunn launched a rocket, well over 400 feet into the right field grandstands, and the two-run dinger rescued the White Sox, just as Peralta had rescued the Tigers the night before.

Valverde’s hiccup pretty much undid Jhonny’s work from Friday, and it robbed the Tigers of continued momentum, something they badly need.
Under the Microscope

As much as MMM would like to place Scherzer UtM now that he seems to be the only starting pitcher not performing consistently, it’s impossible to dismiss the return of Doug Fister to the Tigers’ rotation.

Fister will pitch Monday night in Seattle, for the first time since an injury to his side cut short his start on opening weekend.

If Fister, who says he is pain-free, can return to anything close to the form he showed after being acquired by the Tigers last summer, he will be, at this point, almost as impactful as he was as a new acquisition in 2011.

MMM is placing the tall, lanky right-hander squarely UtM, to see how he responds physically to being returned to the rotation.

Upcoming: Mariners, A’s

Oh, good Lord, look who we have to talk about yet again.

But first, the Mariners.

The Tigers make their first west coast swing of the year this week.

It starts in Seattle as the Bengals try to repay the Ms for their three-game sweep in Detroit a couple weeks ago. The good news? Felix Hernandez will not be pitching against Detroit this week.

The bad news? The Tigers have a devil of a time with Seattle, it seems, and the Ms are back to their losing ways and thus might be due to start winning again.

OK, MMM wants you to take a deep breath and slowly release it.

Done? Good.

Brandon Inge.

Sorry—had to be said.

Inge awaits the Tigers as a member of the Oakland A’s, who hosts our boys starting Thursday.

Guess who hit a homer and had four ribbies on Sunday for Oakland?

Yep—Mr. Inge.

But Inge aside, the Tigers face a crucial week. They are trying to put the Delmon Young thing behind them, they are getting Fister back, the offense is still trying to fine tune itself, and seven road games on the left coast face them.

MMM is a little scared of the mood he’ll be in when he files his report next week.

That’s all for this week’s MMM. See you next week!

Brodeur Still Chasing the Cup at Age 40

In your world or mine, a 40-year-old goalie nine years removed from his last Stanley Cup is probably wearing a suit and gabbing in between periods for one of the TV networks.

Or he might be coaching kid netminders somewhere, imparting words of wisdom about how positioning is everything and teaching the art of being stingy with rebounds.

Not in Martin Brodeur’s world.

In Marty’s World, the 40-year-old goalie is leading in the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs and already being credited with saving not only pucks, but his team’s bacon.

OK, so Marty Brodeur isn’t 40—yet. He turns it on Sunday.

Not that you’d know it with the way he’s playing these days.

Brodeur has his New Jersey Devils in front of the favored Philadelphia Flyers, 2-1, in their Eastern Conference semifinal series.

The latest win was an overtime thriller on Thursday night in Jersey. Brodeur was key in killing off two Flyers power plays in the extra session, enabling the Devils to stay alive long enough to pop in the winning goal with less than three minutes to play in the fourth period.

Brodeur is 17 years removed from the first of his three Cups, which he won over the heavily favored Red Wings in a four-game sweep—a series in which New Jersey employed their infamous trap, and Brodeur’s goaltending allowed the mighty Wings just seven goals scored in four games.

Marty was 23 back then, and at the time, he was almost more recognized for being the son of Denis Brodeur, a world-class hockey photographer whose work—mostly shot at the Montreal Forum—can be found in coffee table books the world over.

You know how many goalies have come and gone from the NHL since 1995?

I don’t, either, but it’s too many to keep track of.

Brodeur is closing in on playing in his 200th playoff game. Through Thursday’s contest, he’s logged close to 12,000 minutes between the pipes in the postseason alone. That’s 200 hours, or over eight full days of kicking, sprawling, butterflying, stretching, reaching and smothering—when the stakes have been the highest.

And here’s the thing: Marty Brodeur looks, pretty much, the same today as he did when he broke into the NHL in the 1991-92 season as a 19-year-old.

Still has the boyish, baby face. Still has the bright eyes. Still has most of his hair.

And judging by his numbers for this season, Brodeur still has the cat-like quickness, the reliable glove and the uncanny knack for placing his body between the shooter and the net, just in time.

Brodeur had 31 wins, a 2.41 GAA, three shutouts and a fine .908 save percentage in his 19th NHL season.

Oh, and about those shutouts.

There was a time, when talking about the seemingly unbreakable records in pro sports, you tossed Terry Sawchuk’s 103 shutouts into the mix. Given the relatively short careers of the modern-day goalie, Sawchuk’s shutout mark appeared untouchable.

For a while.

Then this baby-faced kid from Montreal won another Stanley Cup in 2000, then another in 2003, and all of a sudden, it was like you blinked and the 23-year-old, first-time Cup winner was a grizzled, three-time champion hoarding shutouts like a squirrel does nuts.

Closer and closer, Brodeur edged toward Sawchuk, who was widely regarded as the greatest goalie in NHL history.

For a while.

Then Brodeur passed Sawchuk, in 2009, and now, it’s Marty who may never be caught when it comes to pitching shutouts.

Sawchuk was once in a class all his own, in many people’s eyes, when it came to NHL goaltending excellence. Today, it’s maybe even money: Sawchuk or Brodeur? Brodeur or Sawchuk?

This will hit a nerve in Detroit.

It’s a double whammy because Red Wings fans—if you talk to them about it—are still stinging from the Devils’ sweep of their team in the ’95 finals. I think they rue that series more than the seven-game loss to the Pittsburgh Penguins in 2009.

So you have that image of the 1995 Devils. Then you suggest that Marty Brodeur is, overall, a better goalie than Red Wings great Sawchuk, and you might as well be telling a six-year-old that there is no Santa Claus.

Yet here Brodeur is, playing some of his best hockey, leading another playoff series that his team is not even supposed to be competitive in, and you start to scurry to the record books.

What is the longest gap between first and last Stanley Cups won by a goalie?

If Brodeur’s Devils survive the Flyers and two more series after that, it will be 17 years between Cup No. 1 and this one for Marty.

I know that’s one too many “ifs” for some people’s liking, but would you feel comfortable betting against Brodeur right now?

And I’ll save you the scurrying; the 17 years would set an NHL record.

The New Jersey Devils, when Brodeur joined them, were, as Wayne Gretzky once famously called them, a Mickey Mouse organization.

The Devils have a lineage laced with infamy. While other franchises were taking slap shots, the Devils’ forefathers were engaging in slapstick.

The family tree begins in 1974 with the advent of the expansion Kansas City Scouts. They were awful, as most expansion teams of the 1970s were. The Scouts lasted two seasons before moving to Colorado and calling themselves the Rockies—some 17 years before the baseball team swiped that name.

The Colorado Rockies were lousy, too. Even the bombastic Don Cherry was brought in to coach them, and it was like Mike Ditka coaching the New Orleans Saints.

The Rockies moved east to New Jersey in 1982.

The New Jersey Devils were about as bad as the Scouts and the Rockies. They tripped over themselves for over 10 years before finally getting it right, personnel-wise.

Just about the same time that Marty Brodeur arrived to be the Devils’ goalie.

Funny, but in the 19 years that Brodeur has manned the net for Jersey, the Devils have missed the playoffs only twice.

If you think that’s a coincidence, then I have some swamp land in—where else—New Jersey to sell you.

The high-scoring Flyers, who play a video-game style of hockey and win games by scores like 8-3, were supposed to run roughshod over the 2012 Devils in this series—even in the playoffs, where if goal-scoring were a commodity, it’d be gold.

But, the Devils are leading the Flyers. They have another game in New Jersey to play before the series shifts to Philadelphia. By that time, the Flyers might trail, three games to one.

And Marty Brodeur will be a little closer to another Stanley Cup.

Not bad for 40 years old, eh?

Marty is no longer known as Denis’ kid; rather, Denis is Marty’s dad.

Brandon Inge and Ben Wallace: A Tale of Two Detroit Sports Careers

Two Detroit sports underdogs peeled off their uniforms for the last time as members of their respective teams, and they both did it on Thursday.

While that’s not where the similarities end, the endings couldn’t have been more different. The only thing the cessations of their careers have in common is that they happened within hours of each other.

At approximately 4:30 p.m. Thursday afternoon, Brandon Inge was called into the manager’s office, and he certainly must have known what was cooking. When Inge stepped into Jim Leyland’s lair and saw that GM Dave Dombrowski and assistant GM Al Avila were also there, the trio likely didn’t even need to say a word.

Inge was out, given the ziggy by his patient-to-a-fault bosses.

This wasn’t so much a release as it was a mercy killing.

Inge’s baseball career in Detroit had become that rabid dog in To Kill a Mockingbird and the trio of Dombrowski, Avila and Leyland had no choice but to shoot it dead.

Detroit doesn’t have the reputation of Philadelphia or other tough sports burgs when it comes to booing its athletes out of town. The Motor City sports fan has a lot of forgiveness in his blood, sometimes to a fault.

But when it comes to Inge, the much-maligned utility man, there’s no question that the people had spoken. The Tigers organization, like any responsible customer service-based business, had no choice but to listen.

Inge, along with his .100 batting average, was jettisoned after Thursday’s game against Seattle. He was the butt of a wry and mean-spirited joke.

“Who bats after Brandon Inge?”

Answer: the other team.

In the end, there were one too many pop-outs, one too many strikeouts and one too many mistakes in the field. And each was followed by the cascades of booing in Comerica Park usually reserved for the superstar Tiger-killers from other teams.

I believe that last weekend’s unmerciful booing of Inge is what sealed his fate with the Tigers.

As the Tigers dropped three of four to the vaunted Texas Rangers, and as the entire team struggled to match forces with the two-time defending American League champions, Inge was hardly the Lone Ranger—as Leyland would say—when he struggled to to scratch out a hit.

But no Tiger was booed as savagely as Inge was as one at-bat after the other of his ended badly. He was the dead man walking—or in his case, striking out.

There was a stirring and murmuring in the crowd every time Inge strode to the plate against the Rangers, kind of like there is in those courtroom scenes in the movies.

A weekend of this and the organization that shuns drama decided to put an end to it on Thursday.

In the end, watching an Inge at-bat was—as the late, great sportswriter Jim Murray would say—like watching a guy walk into a noose.

About three hours after Inge was cashiered, Ben Wallace slipped on his Pistons jersey and his blue headband, and took the floor for what is likely the last time in his 16-year NBA career.

Nine of those seasons were spent in Detroit.

Boos didn’t rain from the Palace, however; far from it.

Wallace, who started the game at the insistence of coach Lawrence Frank, was greeted with a standing ovation by the sparse but grateful crowd. A video testimony of his brilliance as an undrafted player from Virginia Union played during a timeout. His Pistons teammates all donned blue headbands in honor of the man they call Big Ben.

The Pistons won, blasting the Philadelphia 76ers out of the gym, 108-86.

After the game, the 37-year-old Wallace appeared noncommittal about his future. After vehemently declaring that retirement was imminent earlier in the year (via ESPN), who among us will be surprised when he hangs up his sneakers and headband for good?

Inge and Wallace both arrived in town around the same time—Inge in 2001, Wallace the year prior.

Both were blue-collar players in their respective sports with less talent than most of their brethren, but with work ethics that dwarfed most.

Both were, at times, the face of their franchise.

You have now reached the end of the Similarity Zone.

Inge never left Detroit to play elsewhere, even when his bosses tried to show him the door. Wallace, on the other hand, grew mystified by coach Flip Saunders and took his act to Chicago in 2006 via free agency.

Ben Wallace and Chicago weren’t a good match. Just two years after inking a deal with the Bulls, Wallace was shipped to Cleveland. It didn’t work out very well with the Cavaliers, either.

By 2009 Wallace was back in Detroit, yet another prodigal son welcomed back by the sports faithful here.

Meanwhile, Inge was a loyal Tiger. Even when the team replaced his star with the likes of Ivan Rodriguez, Miguel Cabrera and, by proxy, Prince Fielder, Inge was like a warped Dickens character.

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

Both Inge and Wallace made All-Star teams playing in Detroit, but while that may appear to be a similarity, it really isn’t. Inge’s All-Star year (2009) was an aberration, while Wallace was a multiple-time All-Star who was Defensive Player of the Year four times.

Then there is the end of their respective careers in Detroit.

Inge was driven out of town, done in by poor performance and customer dissatisfaction. Wallace was lauded and cheered, all the way until he disappeared into the tunnel leading to the Pistons locker room.

But there is one more similarity.

Both Brandon Inge and Ben Wallace wore their team logos as if branded onto their heart. Even though Wallace fled via free agency, it wasn’t anything personal against the city or its basketball fans. It was hardly a surprise when Big Ben returned in 2009.

Inge, for his part, could have done a money grab last summer when the Tigers designated him for assignment. Yet he chose to stick it out, serve his time in the minors and hope for a call-up, which he got.

It’s ironic that this final similarity did nothing to diminish the extreme disparity of how Inge’s and Wallace’s commitment to their team and their city influenced their exits.

Detroit vilified Inge, but portrayed Wallace as a hero.

Go figure.

Monday Morning Manager: Week 3

Last Week: 4-3

This Week: SEA (4/24-26); at NYY (4/27-29)

So, What Happened?

The Tigers did what they needed to do in Kansas City and then scuffled at home against the buzzsaw that is the Texas Rangers.

The Royals and Rangers are two teams going in completely opposite directions, and the Tigers’ results reflected that: a sweep in KC, and a 1-3 record against the Rangers in Detroit.

The Rangers are a bunch of mashers who put more pressure on you than a pop quiz. They hit, they run, they steal, they milk pitch counts, they pitch and they field. Other than that, they’re not much of a team.

In between games of a DH on Saturday, the Tigers optioned maligned and struggling LHP Daniel Schlereth to Toledo and purchased the contract of RHP Thad Weber, who had a 0.75 ERA in 12 innings with the Mud Hens.

Schlereth needed to be put out of his (and the fans’) misery, with a 10.29 ERA this season as he pitched batting practice every time out. MMM would agree, as Schlereth was last week’s Goat.

On Sunday, Terry Foster of the Detroit News suggested that another player be put out of his misery as well. MMM will give you one guess who that is!

On Monday, a certain ace’s pitch count became an issue (more on that in a few sentences).

Hero of the Week

In what is sure to be a constant theme, MMM is going with Justin Verlander, who has already had to play the role of Tigers’ stopper—winning over the Rangers on Saturday (Game 2) in a game that felt like the “must win” variety, even though it was just April 21.

Were it not for JV, who also won on Monday in KC, the Tigers would have been swept in four games by the red-hot Rangers.

For whatever reason, Saturday’s game two felt like desperation for the Tigers, who were outclassed by Texas by an aggregate score of 20-6 in the series’ first two games.

Enter Verlander, who labored through six innings (115 pitches) of annoyingly patient and hard-working Rangers bats, allowing just one unearned run and doing what an ace does: shut down the opposition when it’s badly needed.

On Monday, Verlander pitched a complete-game, 131-pitch epic match to notch his first win of the season.

That outing sent Tigers Nation all atwitter, literally and figuratively. The phones lit up the switchboard of talk radio like a Christmas tree with folks debating whether manager Jim Leyland was either reckless or fearless in leaving JV in for all those pitches.

The final pitch, a 100 mph strike at the knees and on the black, froze Alex Gordon with the bases loaded.

MMM, for one, loved the drama and thinks all the hand-wringing is for naught.

Honorable mention: rookie LHP Drew Smyly, who had two strong outings and survived a blistering line drive right between the numbers on the back of his jersey in Kansas City.

Goat of the Week

MMM would love to give this award to Schlereth yet again, but why speak ill of the dead?

Instead, MMM’s vitriol is reserved for last week’s UtM designee, Brandon Inge.

Inge, as Foster accurately wrote, seems to be letting the fans’ treatment get to him. He has one hit this year (albeit a game-winning HR) and his at-bats continue to be laced with pop-ups and strikeouts. Even his supposedly reliable glove was suspect last week, committing errors and making poor decisions.

We could be seeing the first drumming out of town of a Tiger by fan treatment and pressure since Jason Grilli.

It’s a perfect storm: Inge’s already polarizing presence; his poor hitting; his shaky glove; and the fact that, sans Schlereth, there really isn’t another Tiger who the fans are angry with.

Under the Microscope

MMM is tired of putting Inge here, so this week’s UtM designee is Rick Porcello.

MMM is putting Ricky UtM because of MMM’s curiosity re: how Porcello will respond to his first awful outing of the year: Saturday’s one-inning, 8 ER, 10 hit debacle.

Entering Saturday, Porcello had pitched 14.2 innings and allowed just three earned runs.

His ERA jumped from below 2.00 to over 6.00 in one start.

So just when you thought Porcello might be ready to take the next step toward being a reliable starter, he craps the bed against the Rangers. Granted, Texas can mash, but MMM is worried that Saturday was more indicative of who Porcello truly is, rather than what his first two starts showed.

We’ll see come Thursday, when Porcello toes the rubber against Seattle.

Upcoming: Mariners, Yankees

Just like last week, this week features a warm up act prior to the main event.

Last week it was the Royals before the Rangers; now it’s the Mariners before the Yankees.

Seattle was the victim of a perfect game on Saturday by Chicago’s Phil Humber. The Mariners are offensively challenged, the perfect game notwithstanding, as that can happen to anyone.

But the Mariners can pitch a little bit, and last year in an early-season series in Detroit, the Ms swept the Tigers, and they took two of three in Seattle in April, too. So they’ve played the Tigers tough lately.

But the Mariners’ offense is pitiful; the leading hitter among regulars is batting .275 and many of the starters are below .250 with no power. Even 1B Justin Smoak, who has terrorized the Tigers recently, is scuffling at .203 with two homers.

Ahh, but then it’s the Yankees, in New York.

Another early season litmus test, MMM thinks.

You can’t overstate the importance of games with teams like the Yankees, who the Tigers don’t play very often. This will be their only trip to New York—in the regular season.

The Yanks are off to a fine start and that includes aging SS Derek Jeter, who’s hitting above .360. Curtis Granderson had a three-homer game last week and has six taters overall.

They famously came back from a 9-0 deficit on Saturday in Boston, scoring 14 runs in the seventh and eighth innings to win, 15-9.

The Yankees also remember all too well that their season ended on their home turf last year at the hands of the Tigers, with Alex Rodriguez swinging and missing in Game 5 of the ALDS.

Should be a blast in the Bronx!

That’s all for this week’s MMM. See you next Monday!

Abandoned, Undrafted Night Train a True Underdog Tale

The fact that no one wanted the football player from Scottsbluff Junior College—that’s in Nebraska, by the way—and thus never drafted him turned out to be par for the young man’s course.

No one wanted Richard Lane, from the moment he was born. Literally.

Twenty-five years before showing up at the Los Angeles Rams’ training camp, looking for a job because the one he had at an aircraft factory was unfulfilling, baby Richard was taken in as an abandoned infant in Austin, TX.

True story.

The woman was named Ella Lane, and she raised Richard as her very own.

Richard Lane grew up with an athlete’s body: gangly arms and a long torso. No one wanted him at a four-year university, so he played a year for Scottsbluff JuCo.

The theme of no one wanting Richard Lane was a running one.

Lane was a defender and a receiver for Scottsbluff, but football didn’t really grip him. So it was off to the Army for four years, serving in that brief peacetime between WWII and the Korean War.

Lane got a job at an aircraft factory during the Korean conflict. That didn’t really grab him, either.

With his resume thin on experience in anything else, Lane decided to give football another shot.

So he shows up as a walk-on at the Rams camp in 1952, and the coaches look at him and think he’s got a receiver’s body: tall and lanky with those long arms.

The Rams were the NFL’s glamour team back then. They scored on the field and off it. The quarterback, Bob Waterfield, was married to knockout actress Jane Russell.

Lane even took a receiver’s number, 81, in anticipation of joining the Rams’ talented pass-catching corps.

It was the number he wore into Hall of Fame status—as a defensive back.

Richard Lane didn’t impress so much as a receiver, but he took to practicing with the defense, and it was realized that those long arms and that size could be just as useful in defending passes as in catching them.

The Rams had a receiver, Tom Fears, and he liked playing a popular song of the day on his phonograph (that’s right): “Night Train,” a jazzy number by Jimmy Forest.

The Rams players levied the nickname “Night Train” on Richard Lane because of the ferocity with which he tackled. Richard didn’t care for it at first, but the moniker grew on him.

It grew on him partially because one of his vicious tackles was described in print in the L.A. papers as “Dick ‘Night Train’ Lane derails Charlie ‘Choo Choo’ Justice.”

Just like that, Richard became “Dick” and “Night Train” in one fell swoop.

Night Train’s whistle didn’t alert ball-carriers nearly soon enough before they were leveled by a favorite Lane defensive method: the now-illegal clothesline tackle.

It became Lane’s signature move. He rarely made a tackle below the jaw line.

They even had a name for it: The Night Train Necktie.

Lane could tackle, yes, but in 1952, in his rookie season—the walk-on made the team as a DB with flying colors—Night Train set a league record for interceptions, with 14.

It was a 12-game season in 1952. And today, some 60 years later, with the NFL playing a 16-game season since 1978, Lane’s single-season interception record still stands. It hasn’t really been threatened in years, in fact.

Lane was traded by the Rams to the Chicago Cardinals in 1954. He played six seasons for the Cards before being dealt to Detroit. By that time—1960—Night Train was the unquestioned premier cornerback in football.

Lane played the secondary but tackled like a middle linebacker. He was feared for what he could do with the football in the air and with it tucked under a receiver’s arm.

Night Train made All-NFL in his first four seasons with the Lions. He had a tight end’s size and the countenance of a bear awakened early from hibernation.

After Lane retired from the Lions in 1965 at age 38, the defensive back position became less about brawn and more about elegance and style. Rules changed. The clothesline tackle was out, for example. Being physical with receivers didn’t earn respect, only penalty flags.

The position became dominated by players like another Lion, Lem Barney, and Mel Renfro of Dallas and Herb Adderley of the Packers—smaller finesse guys with catlike quickness.

And they wore numbers in the 20s, not 81.

And they were all drafted. And presumably not abandoned shortly after birth.

It’s not talked about a whole lot, but I wonder if Night Train Lane’s 14 interceptions in 1952 will be eclipsed someday. Today’s players have four more regular-season games to work with than Lane had, yet they still can’t touch his record.

Night Train died over 10 years ago, in January 2002. After his playing days, he became a champion of Detroit’s inner city kids, working especially closely with the Police Athletic League. With PAL, he tried to give drugs and gang life the Night Train Necktie.

Richard Lane comes to mind as we move closer to another NFL Draft.

The undrafted player is, at the very best, only the 225th-best college football player in the country, theoretically. Thirty-two teams, seven rounds, and that makes 224 drafted kids.

But when you consider how many young men play college football—including all the NCAA Divisions and the junior colleges—being no. 224 ain’t bad.

But it still isn’t likely to equal winning a job in the pros.

As for the undrafted players?

Vegas wouldn’t touch their odds.

Richard Lane probably wasn’t calculating odds or consulting polling experts when he showed up at Rams camp in 1952 as an undrafted, unfulfilled aircraft factory worker.

He just wanted to try football again.

Assessing the skills of college players in 1952 didn’t involve nearly the due diligence we see these days. But could even today’s NFL personnel gurus miss out on a Night Train Lane, with all their bells and whistles of preparation and surveillance?

Undrafted free agents flood NFL training camps every summer. Few make their respective teams. Even fewer become stars.

Richard Lane’s life before pro football was something ripped from a dime store novel.

Abandoned as an infant. Played one year of football for a junior college. Took four years off from the sport to serve in the Army. Arrived uninvited to the day’s most glamorous pro team’s camp. Tried out at receiver but was moved to cornerback. Set a new record for interceptions in one season, as a rookie. Became a Hall of Famer and was named the best defensive back of all time for the NFL’s first 50 seasons.

Wonder what Vegas would have given those odds.

Will there be another Night Train Lane, left unchosen at this year’s draft?

Well, there hasn’t been one in 60 years, so why should the streak end now?

Verlander’s 131-Pitch Outing Great Theater, But Much Ado About Nothing

A pitcher’s start on April 16, unless it results in a no-hitter, ought not have the kind of buzz, scrutiny, debate, outrage and hand-wringing as Justin Verlander’s did, Monday against the Royals.

Yet it did.

That’s what throwing 131 pitches will do around these parts.

The trouble with Verlander is that he’s a freak—a pitching specimen not seen around Detroit since the ball was dead and there weren’t any numbers on the backs of the jerseys.

And because Verlander is a freak, we don’t really know what to do with him.

He’s strong enough and durable enough to zing 130+ pitches into the catcher’s mitt, many north of 95 mph. Yet he’s also important enough that if he were to be lost for any significant amount of time, the Tigers might as well forfeit.

So we want to see Verlander finish what he started, because he is, in a way, his own de facto closer. You can make a case that a Justin Verlander, after 100+ pitches, is still your best bet in the ninth inning of a save situation—better than even the man who saved 49-of-49 attempts last season, Jose Valverde.

Manager Jim Leyland gave Verlander a shot at the now elusive complete game last week against Tampa. That didn’t go so well, if you recall. But the men who followed JV to the mound didn’t do him any favors, either.

But that game against the Rays was another freakazoid outing by Verlander: eight innings of one-hit ball, with not even 90 pitches thrown.

A “no brainer,” as Leyland said, when it came to running Verlander out to the mound in the ninth inning.

Monday night in Kansas City wasn’t a no-brainer, not at all.

Verlander had eclipsed 100 pitches, yet went out to finish what he started, with a 3-1 lead. The one KC run came way back in the first inning, which in a Verlander start might as well be last week, for the way that he can distance himself from early damage.

Personally, I thought it was great baseball theater, watching Verlander struggle and put men on base and allowing the second Royals run to cross the plate.

Will Leyland take him out, or leave him in?

After the second runner was placed on base, Leyland chugged out of the dugout.

But he didn’t remove Verlander. He didn’t even look at the bullpen. It was marvelous.

The bases became loaded after a hit batsman—the no. 9 hitter—and leadoff hitter Alex Gordon could have won the game with a simple base hit.

But nothing is simple against Justin Verlander, not even in the ninth inning after over 125 pitches.

Maybe especially in the ninth inning, after 125+ pitches.

Gordon’s at-bat was as heart thumping and exhilirating as any you will see in a game played in Kansas City on a Monday night in mid-April. Or in New York in late September.

I loved it. I loved the drama. And I loved the ending: a 100 mph fastball at the knees and on the black, taken for strike three.

With no margin for error, Verlander had thrown the unhittable pitch.

So who cares if it was 131 pitches? Who cares if it might have seemed reckless? Who cares if 29 of the 30 managers wouldn’t have done what Jim Leyland did?

It was great theater and Justin Verlander will be just fine and all the scuttlebutt is much ado about nothing.

Monday Morning Manager: Week 2

Last Week: 3-3
This Week: at KC (4/16-18); TEX (4/19-22)

So, What Happened?

The Tigers lost a player, added a lightning rod to the active roster, saw two starting pitchers make their 2012 debuts (one a MLB debut), watched in stunning horror as they lost a game started by Justin Verlander, and are trying to ride out a 0-for-17 slump by one of their superstars.

It was quite a Week-After-Opening Day.

Outfielder Clete Thomas was lost to the Minnesota Twins via waivers, and on Saturday the Tigers activated IF Brandon Inge from the DL.

Drew Smyly lasted four innings in his maiden MLB start but pitched pretty well. Adam Wilk started Saturday and did OK.

But it was Verlander’s shocking loss, midweek, that had Tigers fans everywhere buzzing.

Taking a one-hit shutout into the ninth against Tampa, JV got away from what had been working, got over excited, and was tagged with four runs as the Rays beat him, 4-2.

A 5-0 start for the Tigers looked imminent when Verlander strode to the mound to start the ninth, but it didn’t take long for the Rays to kick up their heels in a half inning that seemed to last forever (actually, over 35 minutes). When the dust settled, the Rays scored four runs off Verlander, Daniel Schlereth and Jose Valverde.

Count MMM among the stunned.

But the Tigers bounced back with a win the next day to go 5-1 on their season-opening home stand.

Hero of the Week

MMM likes Rick Porcello, who made two terrific starts last week: 14.2 IP, 3 ER. He salvaged a game in the White Sox series, after taming the Rays on Tuesday.

Porcello, if he can pitch like this, will be an enormous lift to the Tigers’ cause. MMM doesn’t expect results quite this good, but the starts were nonetheless encouraging for a kid trying to find consistency in his performance.

MMM was gleeful, watching Ricky-Por turn the White Sox bats into limp noodles. How many tappers back to the mound did Porcello induce? Seemed like 10.

Honorable mention: backup catcher Gerald Laird, who had three hits (including a home run) filling in for Alex Avila during Sunday’s win.

Goat of the Week

As mentioned above, Cabrera is 0-for-17 lately, but MMM just can’t name him GotW.

That dishonor goes to southpaw Schlereth, who can’t seem to get anyone out this year—not even lefty batters.

Mark’s kid poured gas on Verlander’s start, and just hasn’t been very good. At all.

Frankly, MMM is losing patience with Mr. Schlereth, because if he can’t retire lefties, then what good is he?

Under the Microscope

Oh come on; you need MMM to tell you?

Why, Brandon Inge, of course!

MMM isn’t crazy about naming Inge, either, because of fatigue over the Man You Hate to Love.

But MMM would be derelict in his responsibilities if he didn’t name Inge, coming off the DL and ready to play, for better or worse.

You know the drill. Inge plays, Inge enrages, Inge comforts, Inge smirks, Inge is defiant.

Rinse. Repeat.

He was the DH on Sunday (hold the jokes) but figures to rotate at 2B with Ramon Santiago and Ryan Raburn. A three-headed monster at 2B? As of now, yes.

Upcoming: Royals, Rangers

A three-game set at Kansas City is this week’s opening act.

The REAL excitement should be at CoPa, when the two-time defending AL Champion Texas Rangers invade on Thursday for four super-charged games.

What an early season treat!

MMM can’t wait to see this ALCS re-match.

Verlander will go on Saturday, in case you were wondering. He opens the Royals series tonight.

As for the Royals, the Tigers ought not overlook them. KC is brimming with young, up-and-coming talent, and MMM feels that finally, the Royals are getting it right.

That’s all for this week’s MMM. See you next Monday!

Coaches Izzo, Petrino On Opposite Sides of Moral Spectrum

Two college coaches stood at their respective podiums recently. I don’t need a program listing to tell me which is taller.

The images couldn’t have been starker in comparison.

First, there was Bobby Petrino, the morally bankrupt coach of the Arkansas Razorbacks football program, looking every bit the pathetic fool that he is, addressing the media with his scratched, cut-up face and wearing a neck brace.

Had Petrino been in that condition because a group of Alabama or Auburn fans set upon him and beaten him to smithereens, then that’s a different kind of pathetic.

Instead, Petrino was the kind of pathetic that makes you feel embarrassed for him and even more so for his family, particularly his humiliated wife.

Petrino was, as it turns out, spewing lies as he spoke of the motorcycle accident that (fittingly) occurred on April Fool’s Day.

Petrino was lying to the press, to the university, to his boss, to the police, to Arkansas football fans and—again, worse—to his family when he said that he was alone on his bike when he careened off a highway.

Thankfully, Petrino said, a Good Samaritan in the form of a 25-year-old woman named Jessica Dorrell happened along and offered a ride to the hospital.

It didn’t take very long for that version of what actually transpired to be folded, spindled and mutilated.

Petrino was actually in the company of Dorrell—she was his passenger—when Bobby wiped out. And she wasn’t a hitchhiker.

Turns out Dorrell, an Arkansas football staffer, had been carrying on with Petrino, 26 years her senior, in the form of what Petrino finally admitted was an “inappropriate” relationship. Basically, she was his mistress.

Anyone surprised that Petrino’s tale unraveled faster than a cheap wool sweater maybe played football—or rode a motorcycle—without a helmet.

Let’s wind the clocks back to the fall of 2007, shall we?

Petrino was in his first year as coach of the NFL’s Atlanta Falcons, having been hired away from the University of Louisville by owner Arthur Blank. The Falcons had played 13 games and were having a rough go of it under the rookie pro coach with a 3-10 record.

One day in December, the Falcons players arrived to their lockers to find a brief, typed out letter in their respective stalls. It contained all of four sentences.

It was a notice, put out by Petrino, informing his players that he had quit the Falcons and was about to take the job at Arkansas.

Signed, Bobby.

It was a dash into the night, one coach’s impersonation of the Baltimore Colts skipping out to Indianapolis back in 1984.

Petrino didn’t have the guts—hell, the common courtesy—to speak to his football team in person. And this after he promised owner Blank that despite the rumors to the contrary, Bobby wasn’t about to abscond to Arkansas.

Shortly after giving Blank that assurance, Bobby banged out his four-sentence letter, made photocopies and hopped onto a plane for Arkansas.

His players, after finding out that their coach had the integrity of a marked deck of cards, flew into a rage. They let Petrino have it, to the media. The Falcons’ season was spiraling out of control and the coach had fled.

Petrino sacked his team with a blindside hit, but he had the temerity to sing the Razorbacks fight song mere hours after his photocopies cooled.

Blank was seething, like the Falcons players. The man who Blank showed confidence in by giving him his first pro coaching job turned out to be a gutless liar and a phony.

So I wasn’t surprised at all when details of Petrino’s lies and the subsequent facts about the voluminous number of text messages and cell phone calls that pocked his relationship with Dorrell, were made public.

Not at all.

The second coach to take the podium this week was MSU basketball wizard Tom Izzo.

Izzo was the antithesis of Petrino: He was dressed casually, but looking very professional, and serious as a heart attack, as he talked to the press about senior player Derrick Nix’s arrest on suspicion of DUI, which occurred April 3 and resulted in Izzo kicking Nix off the team, albeit temporarily, as it turned out.

It was temporary because after Nix pleaded guilty to a reduced charge, Izzo rescinded the suspension. But that’s far from the end of the story.

Nix spoke before his coach and sobbed as he apologized to those who he disappointed and let down. Tears rolled down his very sincere face.

Then Izzo spoke.

The coach said that it was still too early to determine Nix’s ultimate fate as a Spartan hoopster. Izzo said he had met with his coaching staff—and presumably Athletic Director Mark Hollis and university President Lou Anna K. Simon—and kicked Nix’s future around, so to speak.

What kind of challenges does Nix face now, both academically and as a person? Does the kid have it within him to recover from this and be a productive member of society, let alone of the basketball team?

Those were the kinds of questions, Izzo said, that he discussed with his inner circle.

And, last but not least, what kind of further discipline will Izzo mete out?

“There is gonna be issues that I’m gonna have to determine yet,” said Izzo to the media on Thursday, “depending what he does this summer, depending on how he acts.”

And through it all, one couldn’t look at Tom Izzo, standing mere feet away from the repenting Nix, and not see a coach in total, complete control of his program—and with the integrity and credibility that goes with that.

Compare that to the image of the fool Petrino, looking like Wile E. Coyote after another go-round with the Roadrunner. How can Petrino ever guide young men again?

It’s been a rough year for the institution of the college coach—pro coaches, too, for that matter.

It’s been a year of shrinking leaders and emperors wearing no clothes.

But watching Tom Izzo discuss Derrick Nix, in front of Derrick Nix, was a silver lining to a cloud.

At least somewhere, there’s a college coach who won’t embarrass his school, his AD, his president, his players or his alumni supporters. Ever.

So take some heart in that.