Just a reminder to join me LIVE tonight during Game Five of the Stanley Cup Finals as I, once again, Twitter during the game from the press box at Joe Louis Arena. I’ll also post live blogs here and at www.GregEno.com during the first and second intermissions.
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Hey, all you sports night owls!
Join Big Al of The Wayne Fontes Experience, and yours truly for another LIVE episode of “The Knee Jerks” on Blog Talk Radio.
No, really.
Last night we had major technical issues with BTR, and after ten minutes of on-the-air, off-the-air, we called it a night and deleted the debacle from the server.
It happens at 11:00 p.m. ET, and Al and I will be joined, in “Take two!” fashion, by Bleacher Report’s premier Red Wings writer, Keith Shelton, to talk Wings-Blackhawks.
Hope to have you tune in tonight!
Remember, if you miss the live broadcast — an expanded, 90-minute version, by the way — then you can always download the show at your convenience!
We’ll also hit on the Tigers, Lions, and do our usual, wildly popular regulars: Word Association and Jerk of the Week.
Don’t miss it!
Programming note: “The Knee Jerks”, my weekly radio broadcast (soon to be a former blog chat) with Big Al of The Wayne Fontes Experience, will go LIVE at 11 p.m. ET tonight.
Click here for more details, including download info and how to call in live.
Hope to have you along!
We don’t have theme music. Yet.
Al needs a less squeaky chair. And a new microphone.
But the first episode of “The Knee Jerks”, online radio version, is in the books.
We had a blast, Big Al and I, taking our weekly text chat to the next level, i.e. Blog Talk Radio.
Our next show will be next Monday, May 11, at 11:00 p.m. ET.
This will likely become a weekly thing, phasing out the Thursday text chat altogether.
You can listen live next Monday night (don’t worry, we’ll remind you) and even call in to talk to us, or you can download the episodes and listen to them at your leisure.
Either way, you can check out our BTR page here.
Hope you can join us, live or via download!
“LeBron James needn’t have had his jersey laundered after any of the matches. Why waste the water and the soap, when he didn’t even break a sweat?”
So how do you eulogize a team that’s been on life support for most of the season?
What can you say about the Detroit Pistons and their feeble effort against the Cleveland Cavaliers in the first round of the playoffs?
I had the Pistons six feet under two months ago, so I’ve already said my piece about their demise. Though I had no idea it would come with the resistance of balsa wood.
Right now, the Pistons’ death as Eastern Conference elitists should be treated like the death of a despised relative: with courtesy but not much else.
President Joe Dumars’ bunch annoyed me all season, and I confess that I didn’t watch but a few minutes of the four games. I refuse to call it a series anymore because it really wasn’t. That gives the term “playoff series” a bad name.
No, I didn’t watch the Cavs’ dismantling of their once rivals, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how gruesome it was.
I wasn’t a witness to the Manson Murders, but I have a pretty good idea how that went down, too.
So the end of the Pistons’ “era”, as we like to put it, came with nary a whimper. Rasheed Wallace didn’t get kicked out of the game. The fans were too apathetic to boo or even jeer.
The kings are dead; long live the King
This was about as much of a non-playoff set of games as you’ll ever see in the NBA.
Even the dregs of the league usually win at least one game in these No. 1 vs. No. 8 seed set-ups.
But a series never broke out. The teams played 192 minutes, and I’m guessing–by the scores and by the reports from those who drew the short straws and had to cover the games–that the Pistons were competitive for maybe 25 percent of those minutes.
LeBron James needn’t have had his jersey laundered after any of the matches. Why waste the water and the soap, when he didn’t even break a sweat?
The Pistons’ last “big” playoff effort came in last year’s Game 2 of the Final Four, when they put forth a gutsy performance in beating the Celtics in Boston. The series looked like it might go their way; the Celtics, remember, were 0-6 on the road in the playoffs.
But instead of taking control and keeping that seed of doubt firmly planted in the Celtics’ heads–the one that said, “You’ll never win on the road…NEVER!”"–the Pistons let them off the hook with a curiously uninspired day’s work in Game 3 in Detroit.
It’s only gotten worse since then.
Dumars was disgusted with the way his team capitulated in the fourth quarter of Game 6 of the Celtics series. He vowed changes. He spoke of how there were no sacred cows.
I can’t even imagine what he thinks today.
Dumars’s “Bad Boys” of 1991 showed some fire–albeit in a very unsportsmanlike way–when their reign of terror ended in the East. They sauntered off the floor, before time expired, walking right past the Chicago Bulls on their way to the locker room.
Dumars stayed behind, uncomfortable in participating in such a display.
Let’s see how uncomfortable he is in tearing Bad Boys Lite apart. He ought to feel very comfy and cozy about it, if you ask me.
The sooner you crack this nucleus and give it a makeover, the better.
“But 1984? Sparky was tormented, he wrote. How could the Tigers NOT win the whole thing after such a start? All season he gnashed his teeth and looked at the flagpole in center field, harboring ghoulish thoughts, apparently.”
It was the summer of 1984, and Tigers manager Sparky Anderson was musing, as usual. This time he had one of Detroit’s ink-stained wretches beside him.
“See that flagpole out there?” Sparky said, pointing to the famous, in-play pole deep in Tiger Stadium’s center field. “That’s where they’ll be hanging me, if we don’t win this thing.”
The 1984 baseball season was, in ESPN terms, an “instant classic” to the folks around Motown. It was fun. It was magical. It was a feel-good summer, capped off by a World’s Championship.
Fun for everyone, it was later revealed, except for Sparky.
He wrote it in his book, They Call Me Sparky. The Tigers zoomed out of the gate at a record-breaking pace – their won-lost soared to an almost unbelievable 35-5 after 40 games – and for ole Sparky, there was only one way to go. Down. Which meant that HE would go up – up on the flagpole, hanged. The feared hanging made it into the book.
The ’84 season, Sparky wrote, was among his least favorites. For the record, one of his most favorites came three years later, when the Tigers rose from the ashes of an 11-19 start and captured the AL East flag thanks to a wild, wonderful final week in which they overtook the Toronto Blue Jays – who held a 3-1/2 game lead on the Tigers with eight games to play.
But 1984? Sparky was tormented, he wrote. How could the Tigers NOT win the whole thing after such a start? All season he gnashed his teeth and looked at the flagpole in center field, harboring ghoulish thoughts, apparently.
It’s 25 years later, and what is it about us as a people that we fawn over the nice, round anniversary number? Last year was 24 years. Next year will be 26. Heaven forbid we recall the 1984 season at any other time than now – a quarter century later. The Silver Anniversary of the Tigers’ most recent World Series title.
Some random thoughts….
The Tigers gave it a good shot in 1983, but the Baltimore Orioles were too tough. The ’83 Tigers won 90 games and had the makings of being a contender for several years. But one smarmy, acerbic TV broadcaster was having none of it.
Acid Al Ackerman loved to smirk. He loved to sneer. And that was to the camera. You should have seen the looks he gave his interview subjects as he jabbed a microphone in their faces.
So the Tigers are trying to make a race of it in ’83, but during one treacherous streak, Acid Al gets sarcastic. He loved to do that, too. The Tigers finally won a game to break the losing spell, and Acid Al sneers, “Bless You, Boys!” in a manner that was hardly meant to be encouraging. He kept dragging the sarcastic expression out, whenever the Tigers would win one during the losing spells.
Bless You, Boys!
And Acid Al kept doing it, into the 1984 season. But by this time, the good folks in Detroit had taken Ackerman’s sarcasm and turned it around on him. People were saying “Bless You, Boys!” in the most supportive, fervent way possible: calling it from their car windows, yelling it to their neighbors across the street. Lance Parrish would hit a three-run home run, and you could almost hear a city’s baseball fans cry, in unison: “Bless You, Boys!” It ended up on bumper stickers. Hell, it practically became the team’s official slogan: Bless You, Boys!
Take THAT, Acid Al!
In this book, Sparky says he feared he’d be hanged if the Tigers didn’t win the 1984 World Series
More random thoughts…
It’s near the end of spring training, and the Tigers have a dilemma: too many position players, not enough beef in their bullpen. They have righty Aurelio Lopez, but his arm had gone kaput in 1983. There were other incidents of arm trouble for Senor Smoke in the past, too. The Tigers were a little nervous about who would close their games.
So GM Bill Lajoie pulls off a stunner of a trade in late-March. He deals outfielder Glenn Wilson, never a favorite of Sparky’s, and catcher/first baseman/DH Johnny Wockenfuss, a fan favorite, to the Philadelphia Phillies. In return, the Tigers get first baseman Dave Bergman, who had a slick glove, and left-handed reliever Willie Hernandez.
With that move, Bill Lajoie simply wins the 1984 World Series for the Tigers.
Hernandez goes bananas as the Tigers’ closer, winning both the AL MVP and Cy Young Awards. Bergman plays stellar defense – he saved Jack Morris’s no-hitter in Chicago with his glove work – and contributes some key hits along the way.
More random thoughts…
It’s before a game against the California Angels at Tiger Stadium, and I, as a fill-in, cub reporter for the Michigan Daily, am on the field. I can’t help but notice that Reggie Jackson has broadcaster Joe Garagiola in stitches. I mean, Garagiola can’t stop laughing at whatever the heck Jackson is saying to him. I inch closer, trying to eavesdrop. Garagiola is laughing so hard his face is red and he’s practically convulsing. I edge closer. Then, Jackson catches me and glares me back to my original location. I still don’t know what he said to Garagiola to elicit such an uproarious reaction.
Some more…
The Tigers are playing the Indians at Tiger Stadium in late-April, and I’m downtown, too – watching the Pistons take on the New York Knicks in the decisive Game 5 of their first round playoff series, inside warm, humid Joe Louis Arena. It’s the series where the Knicks’ Bernard King goes bonkers, averaging over 40 points per game. And it’s the game where Isiah Thomas scores 16 points in the final minute-and-a-half, erasing an eight-point Knick lead and sending the game into overtime. The Pistons lose, and we go out for some pops afterward to drown our sorrows. I stumble into the house – it’s past 1:00 a.m. by now – and the Tigers are still on the radio. They’re engaged in a 19-inning affair with the Indians. The Tigers lose, too.
Oh, and I was in attendance for the World Series-clinching Game 5. And no, I’ll never forget what Kirk Gibson’s moon shot into the right field upper deck looked like from my spot in the center field bleachers. Nor will I forget the swatches of turf being tossed into the bleachers after the game, appearing over the rail like magic, from nowhere.
But it wasn’t until 14 years later, when Sparky’s book came out, that I learned how terrible the ’84 season was for him. Would they really have hanged Sparky from the flagpole if the Tigers didn’t win it?
Best not to ever know, I suppose.
“The Lions are now, officially, by fact, numbers and irrefutable evidence, the most dysfunctional team in the NFL.”
My, my — look who they’re letting into the Super Bowl nowadays. Have they lowered their standards in the NFL?
Another one of the league’s ugly ducklings finally made its transformation to swan. It only took them six decades, but they did it.
The Lions, by that measure, have ten years still to go. But there IS hope.
The Arizona Cardinals are going to the Super Bowl. In uniform and everything; I don’t mean as guests of the league in a private suite. They’re one of the last anomalies of nature: somehow, their metabolism slowed and came to a halt.
There is now one less member of the Never Been To The Super Bowl Club.
Sitting at the table now are the Cleveland Browns, New Orleans Saints, Jacksonville Jaguars, Houston Texans. Oh, and the Lions. In fact, the Lions are at the head of the table. They’re the chairmen of this board.
The Lions supplant the Cardinals now at the head — of the table, that is.
The Cardinals captured the NFC Championship yesterday, their first title of any kind since 1947. They did it with their third straight playoff win, all achieved against conventional thinking. The surprising Atlanta Falcons were supposed to run around, over, and through them. The Carolina Panthers, at home, were supposed to make mincemeat of the desert team who weren’t supposed to be able to win games played in the Eastern time zone. And the Philadelphia Eagles, battle-tested and used to these sort of situations, were supposed to put an end to this Cardinal Mania, for goodness sake.
None of that happened. The Lions are now, officially, by fact, numbers and irrefutable evidence, the most dysfunctional team in the NFL.
The Cardinals used to be that team. Their drought since 1947 was liberally sprinkled with slapstick and foolishness. The owners are the Bidwill family, and that was once as knee-slapping as the Ford ownership in Detroit. The Cardinals tried Chicago, then St. Louis, then Arizona. They tried calling themselves the Phoenix Cardinals for a while, before deciding to indict the entire state.
Their players used to race to the bank, to cash their paychecks, before they bounced. This was the 1950s days of the Chicago Cardinals. They once hired Bud Wilkinson as coach, some 15 years after he coached his last game — in college. Their once-promising quarterback, Neil Lomax, broke his leg and was never the same. They had a player die in training camp of heat exhaustion (JV Cain). They would wear white jerseys at home against the Dallas Cowboys, forcing the ‘Boys to wear blue — thinking that the dark tops would function as the Cowboys’ Kryptonite. Their leading pass receiver was regularly a running back (Larry Centers). They tried Buddy Ryan as coach. Now THERE was some Kryptonite. They lined up against Barry Sanders, who was playing his first game in nine months, without any practice, and gave up a 17-yard run on his first carry.
They have been the league’s vagabonds, nudged out of two cities and a few time zones along the way.
But, the Bidwills have been a constant — the common denominator. Just like the Fords in Detroit.
So what did the Cardinals do right?
Well, they caught lightning in a bottle, which happens from time to time in the NFL. But beyond that, they made some shrewd personnel moves, and had some draft success.
I know, I know — that’s like saying Charlie Brown has a chance, too, if only he’d pick a different holder for his placekicks. And Bill Ford is the Lions’ Lucy Van Pelt.
But that’s what happened: acquisitions of Kurt Warner, Edgerrin James. The drafting of Larry Fitzgerald. And others. And that all-important intangible: getting hot at the right time.
The Cardinals, to be fair and square, were not a great football team all season long. In fact, they were downright awful at times. They might even have had trouble beating the Lions on some weeks. They went into the playoffs as arguably the least attractive girl at the dance.
Now they’ll be boogeying with the Pittsburgh Steelers.
There was a time when the Steelers were ragtag and the Keystone Kops of the NFL. Many of the youngens can’t fathom that; to them, the Steelers have always been good — strong championship contenders. But throughout much of their existence — from the late-1920s to the early-1970s — the Steelers were almost as comical as the Cardinals. Owner Art Rooney, thank goodness, lived long enough to see his team finally win the Big One in 1975.
The Cardinals and the Steelers, for the whole enchilada. Likely not a popular choice in Las Vegas back in September.
Then again, despite as bad as the Lions have been, how many thought they’d pull off the imperfection of 0-16?
It’s tempting and maybe even comforting to say that, if the Bidwills can make it to the Super Bowl, just about anyone can.
That’s pretty much what we’re down to in Detroit: living vicariously through other franchises.
“He expected to be a head coach someday, and now it’s here. 0-16 doesn’t faze him. We see a gooey, hideous mess. He simply sees a challenge.”
They put another coach in front of the firing squad today in Allen Park.
Jim Schwartz is the latest one to sign his own walking papers. That’s what you do, you know, when you sign on to be a head coach in pro sports. The clock starts ticking toward your eventual ziggy before the ink dries on your signature.
But that’s just so cynical of me, isn’t it?
First impressions of Schwartz, introduced today as the Lions’ new head coach: not bad. He sounded confident and relaxed. Like this wasn’t his first head coaching job. Like he wasn’t stepping into the doo-doo of 0-16 and a dysfunctional front office. Like he’s done this sort of thing before.
I didn’t get that impression with Schwartz’s predecessor, the beleaguered Rod Marinelli. From the get go, although I liked Marinelli’s military-like persona, Marinelli spoke like he was, well, doing this for the first time. His speech seemed too contrived, too prepared. I didn’t draw the comparison until I heard Schwartz talk, and he was very relaxed and “oh, by the way.”
Of course, Schwartz has been a defensive coordinator for some eight years. You’d expect him to be more polished, frankly. And he sure seems to be.
He even got off a crack.
“If I had known it was going to be this cold here, I would have asked for more money,” he said as the media types laughed.
Hey, if he knew what he was getting himself into, truly knew, he’d ask for a Brinks Truck.
The Lions must have listened to me, for a change.
I implored them to find someone who comes from a winning pedigree, and at the very least from a coordinator’s role. Well, Schwartz would seem to qualify; he learned from Bill Belichick early on, and Jeff Fisher later. He coordinated the Tennessee Titans defense, and did alright. The Titans’ defense was consistently among the best in the NFL. So that’s good.
It remains to be seen, of course, how Schwartz will react once it sinks in: that he doesn’t appear to have as much say-so in personnel matters as many NFL head coaches possess. Also, once it sinks in that tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum, aka Martin Mayhew and Tom Lewand, are really the ones in charge. Hopefully, Schwartz won’t become mystified. Check back come draft time.
The Lions’ new head coach, Jim Schwartz, in happier days
But for now, it’s all about Schwartz hiring a staff and beginning to evaluate what he has in Detroit. It’s not much, and he said as much on Monday, when he was propped up before the media as part of his interviewing process. He politely said there were “some holes” in the roster, but was quick to add that many teams have such holes. That wasn’t an easy thing to buy.
When the Lions hired Steve Mariucci, some six years ago already, they created a humongous stage on Ford Field’s turf and Mooch made the long walk from the tunnel, flanked by Matt Millen and Bill Ford Jr. Even Mariucci himself, once he saw what the Lions had created, spectacle-wise, said simply, “Wow.”
Too bad Mooch never lived up to that stage.
This time, Jim Schwartz held a simple, rather brief gathering — in the same spot where Lions coaches speak to the media every week. His demeanor was casual, belying the gravity of the moment. He talked of his growing up as one of nine kids in Baltimore. Not exactly a hard-scrabble life, but certainly not with a silver spoon in his mouth, either. He said his dad would have been disappointed in him if he didn’t take this challenge, because the Schwartzes never shrink from challenges. He talked a little about making his defense all-purpose: able to quell the run and the pass, if need be, based on the opponent. He spoke of becoming big and strong on the football field.
Then, just like that, he was pulled away, after a few innocent questions.
But that’s OK. All intro press conferences of coaches are alike, mostly. But I was still taken by Schwartz’s casualness, and his lack of awe. He expected to be a head coach someday, and now it’s here. 0-16 doesn’t faze him. We see a gooey, hideous mess. He simply sees a challenge.
The grass on the Lions’ side of the fence never looks as brown and as full of manure as we see it from the inside.
So good luck to Mr. Schwartz. For the record, I’m OK with this.
His last name doesn’t begin with M, for one.
It’s a start.
I know the title of this blog is dedicated to one of my favorite Tigers of all time, Johnny Grubb, but there are a few others who I’d like to place that “Where Have You Gone” prefix in front of, as well.
1. John Wockenfuss. ‘Fuss was Brandon Inge without the defensive chops: a versatile player who could catch, play the outfield, first base, DH, and jack an occasional ball out of the park. No. 14 was as blue collar and hard-working as the city in which he played.
2. John Hiller. My favorite Tigers pitcher. Hiller could do it all: start, long relieve, situational relieve, close — you name it. And he often did it all within a week. A lefty with a wicked strikeout ratio. All this, and he did it after suffering a heart attack in 1971. I never thought Hiller got enough national recognition for what he accomplished after he was stricken at such a young age. If Fergie Jenkins is the best right-handed pitcher from Canada of all time, then Hiller’s got my vote for best Canuck lefty.
3. Tito Fuentes. The Tigers’ first free agent signing, in 1977. Tito was just here to play 2B until Lou Whitaker was ready to take over, but Fuentes gave us his best year — at least in terms of BA (.309; the only time he ever hit .300). Not a great fielder, but a flamboyant, hot doggy player who I emulated when I was a 14-year-old Little Leaguer. The old-timers will remember his little bat flip he did at home plate before every at-bat.
4. Fred Scherman. I don’t know what it was about Scherman, but I just liked him. He was pretty effective as a situational lefty and part-time closer in the early-1970s, until he slammed his fist against a wall in anger one day. He was never the same after that.
5. Champ Summers. I share with Big Al my liking of Summers, the left-handed hitting slugger whose swing was built for Tiger Stadium’s short porch in right. He had a terrific HR/AB ratio, and even though he had an iron glove, his offense turned Detroit on in the early-1980s. Supposedly had a contentious relationship with manager Sparky Anderson, dating from when they were both in Cincinnati.
6. Alex Johnson. Detroit-born Johnson was a head case, but he finished his career with the Tigers in 1976. A former batting champ, Johnson once accused Angels teammate Chico Ruiz of pointing a loaded gun at him in the clubhouse. Brother of NFL running back and U-M grad Ron Johnson.
7. Dalton Jones. Jones was a pinch-hitting specialist, and one day he lost a home run (maybe it was even a grand slam) because he lost track of himself and passed the first base runner on the base path.
8. Kevin Saucier. “Hot Sauce” had a brilliant season in 1981 as the Tigers’ closer, posting an ERA of well under 2.00. His act involved jumping up and down excitedly and slapping his glove after the final out, shaking anyone’s hand that he could grab. Retired abruptly the next season, fearing his sudden loss of control would result in him hurting someone.
9. Chris Pittaro. The kid that was supposed to be so good, Whitaker was going to have to move to 3B to make room for this second sacker phenom. Not so fast.
10. Darnell Coles. His first term with the Tigers was punctuated by the night that he threw a ball out of Tiger Stadium in disgust of the fans’ treatment of him. Playing 3B, he just whipped the baseball over the roof on the third base side during between-inning warmups. No joke.
So there are ten for now — ten Tigers who I’d like to know the whereabouts of. For one reason or another, they stuck to my psyche.
You got any?
The list of famous wives of Detroit Tigers players isn’t very long, I will grant you that. It’s also not something that normally springs to mind when thinking about the team.
But the Tigers have added, by one, to that tiny list with the signing of backup catcher Matt Treanor yesterday. Treanor is the considerably less famous spouse of Olympic Gold Medalist and pro beach volleyball player Misty May-Treanor.
Misty now joins Nancy Lopez as famous Tigers wives. After those two ladies, the pickings are pretty slim as far as spouses go. And this isn’t to belittle the community and charitable efforts of Tigers wives throughout the years; I only mean famous in terms of name recognition.
Lopez, the retired pro golfer, is still married to Ray Knight, who played for the Tigers in 1988. And it’s another example of the better half nudging out the man for media attention. Knight even served, for a time, as his wife’s caddie on the LPGA Tour.
Knight, these days, works as a TV analyst for Washington Nationals games. Not sure what transgression he committed to get that gig, but there you have it.
Knight came to the Tigers a couple years after his biggest moment in baseball: the ‘86 New York Mets’ improbable comeback in Game 6 of the World Series against Boston. It was Knight, who had singled in the ninth inning, who can be seen giddily racing home with the game-winning run after Mookie Wilson’s dribbler somehow eluded first baseman Bill Buckner. It’s easy to read Knight’s feelings as he’s being mobbed at home plate: namely, “I can’t believe we just pulled this off!”
Knight then went to the Orioles in 1987, and was signed by the Tigers as a free agent in time for the ‘88 season. Tigers manager Sparky Anderson knew Knight from managing him in Cincinnati. Knight’s swan song in Detroit wasn’t anything to write home about, but for a year the Tigers had a player who was arguably less famous than his wife.
Now, just imagine this photo with Misty in a Tigers jersey
Treanor comes to the Tigers from Florida with a good attitude and some knowledge of the current roster. Treanor played with Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis and Nate Robertson while with the Marlins. He says he’s excited to be with a team that he feels is capable of winning. And for the record, Treanor says he is very proud of his wife and her volleyball partner Kerri Walsh.
“I get emotional talking about it, because I know how hard she (Misty) worked for it,” Treanor told the Free Press. “Those women are very inspirational to me.”
Nicely said. And what’s also nice is that the Tigers have settled their catching situation in the past week, inking Treanor after trading for starter Gerald Laird. So at least that’s under control.
Oh, and if you’re a Red Sox fan, don’t look, but here’s the Buckner/Wilson/Knight play from 1986:
There’s a wonderful book that’s been out for quite some time, written by Richard Bak, called Cobb Would Have Caught It, which is a historical look at the Tigers.
Jim Northrup would like to, I believe, write his own book one day and title it, Flood WOULDN’T Have Caught It.
I saw Northrup, the former Tiger who played on the 1968 World Series championship team, signing books at the Borders book shop at Oakland Mall over the weekend. And it reminded me of a conversation he and I had about ten years prior.
At the time, Northrup and I were an unlikely pair, trying to make a TV show work. I was co-producing it, a local cable show where Northrup and Oakland Press sports writer Jim Hawkins went on the air and tried to sell baseball memorabilia to the viewers. It wasn’t a very good show, but it enabled me to pick the Gray Fox’s brain in between rolling tape.
Inevitably, the discussion turned to Northrup’s famous drive in the seventh inning of Game 7 that sailed over the head of Cardinals center fielder Curt Flood. The clutch hit was a triple that drove in two runs and sent the Tigers on their way to victory. And since Flood plainly stumbled as he went back for the ball, it was widely believed that it was Flood’s misstep that enabled Northrup’s hit to go uncaught.
That belief clearly has Northrup steamed — at least it did when he railed at me back in 1998.
“There’s no way Flood would have caught that! Take a look at it again. That was a rope!”
That’s the G-rated version of what Northrup said after I brought up the hit and the notion that it was Flood’s stumble, not Northrup’s power, that opened the floodgates.
You could tell that history’s version of Northrup’s smash off Bob Gibson rankled the Fox to no end. His face literally turned red and you could almost see his insides clench.
Of course, I’d seen the play countless times prior to Northrup’s rant, and I confess to buying into the version that says Flood would have caught it had he not stumbled. But now when I see it, I try to look at it from Northrup’s point of view. Trouble is, the only available video accounts of the hit don’t really enable the viewer to see the ferocity with which the ball was driven. All you pretty much see is Flood going back. Yet Northrup, of course, would know as well as anyone how hard he hit the ball, and on what sort of line. And he’s absolutely convinced that Flood didn’t have a prayer — stumble or no stumble.
Here’s the play (good luck trying to verify Northrup’s assertion. But I will say this: don’t EVER argue the matter with him):
So Jim Leyland says we shouldn’t talk about the white elephant in the room. He’s certainly not, he says. Uh-uh. None of that talk in 2009. It’s all about baseball and winning games for his Detroit Tigers.
But Leyland conveniently left out that it was he, Jim Leyland, who placed that white elephant in the room to begin with.
The white elephant is Leyland’s contract situation. The manager is signed only thru 2009, and not one day beyond that season. It’s often referred to as a “lame duck” scenario — and one that supposedly invites dissension as dog doo-doo invites flies.
First, that’s not always true. Managers and coaches have worked the final years of contracts since time immemorial and have done just fine, thank you — and so have their teams. The players have even behaved themselves; imagine that.
Second, tough cookies. Leyland is lucky to have a job.
Leyland says shut up and let him manage; will he follow suit?
I’ve written it before here — that Jim Leyland did absolutely nothing to warrant an extension beyond his current contract. He and GM Dave Dombrowski were the Mutt and Jeff of the Tigers, and that’s not a compliment in this instance. Both had miserable 2008s. Both are on the hot seat.
Leyland, some say, is unhappy and disappointed that the Tigers didn’t extend him. Again, tough. Where does it say that a manager or coach has to be signed beyond the upcoming year? And all this stuff about “lame duck” is a bunch of hooey. As Leyland himself finally admitted this week, if a manager is to be fired, he’ll be fired — no matter how many years he has left on his pact. And I’ll say it again: Dodgers manager Walt Alston worked over 20 years on one-year deals. Wanna question those teams’ success rate?
Here’s a sampling of Leyland’s comments about the matter, published in the Free Press.
“That’s [contract] not an issue. It’s very simple: If we do well, I’ll probably still be there. If we don’t, I won’t. But I’m not going to make that a subject all year long, talking about things that aren’t important, because that’s not really important. What’s important is getting our team to spring training, getting back in the good grove, getting our guys healthy and playing baseball.
“No matter where you are or what your contract is, when you do good, you stay. If you don’t, at some point you go. I’ll leave it at that. That’s the end of the conversation for the rest of the year about that.”
Nice. If only he had come to that realization before he opened his mouth and whined about it in October.
Leyland, in those comments, basically verbalized a truth that amazingly appeared to have eluded him a couple months ago.
But it’s also disingenious for Leyland to tell us to mind our own bees’ wax when it comes to contracts, since it was he who opened Pandora’s Box in the first place. Granted, someone in the media would have brought up the matter, since some folks seem so infatuated with managers who don’t have contracts lasting beyond the upcoming season. But then it would have been OK for Leyland to say, “No comment, next question.” Instead, he bellyached about it, drew attention to it, which couldn’t have pleased his owner, and is only now saying what he should have said from the get go.
Leyland is like the guy who yells “Fire!” in a crowded theater then scolds everyone for wondering where the fire is.
I just hope he takes his own advice and zips his lip when it comes to his contract status. Like he says, “No matter where you are or what your contract is, when you do good, you stay. If you don’t, at some point you go. I’ll leave it at that.”
God, I hope so.
Gerald Laird won’t sell many tickets. I understand that. The Tigers marketing department can probably take its time getting jerseys with “LAIRD” on the back into stores. Doubtful they’ll be missed this holiday season. There won’t be some splashy press conference held, with GM Dave Dombrowski smilingly handing Laird his brand new, creamy white Tigers home blouse.
That’s OK. The Tigers just filled a hole, and so now move on to the next one.
The Tigers have pried Laird from the Texas Rangers for a couple of pitching prospects, only these aren’t the kind of prospects that were needed to extricate Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis from Florida, or Edgar Renteria from Atlanta (Jair Jurrjens, anyone?). These were middle-of-the-roaders, it’s guessed, and that’s fair, because Laird is pretty much a middle-of-the-road catcher.
Gerald Laird
But Laird, 29, has some experience, and he can throw the odd runner out trying to steal. And the Tigers feel a whole lot better with Laird as their starting backstop, rather than the unproven Dusty Ryan. As well they should.
Laird had 24 doubles in just 344 at-bats last year with the Rangers. That’s a little bit of pop — and the kind of spray hitting that should play well in Comerica Park.
When I found out that Laird was on the Tigers’ radar, I was quite OK with it. I knew Laird was a guy who would fit in well in Detroit: tough, blue collar, not flashy. An old school catcher. And there’s that 40% success rate in throwing out base stealers, which isn’t bad. At all.
So catcher is taken care of. Now time to move on to shortstop and pitching help.
This is an old-fashioned kind of winter meetings trade. Nothing dramatic, but one that addresses a need, and one that both teams can live with. The Rangers have a trove of catching prospects, and needed pitching. The Tigers were kind of the negative image of that. So the soil was fertile for a trade. If this was weather, you could have labeled it a “winter trade watch”; the conditions were right for a deal.
The “watch” turned into a “warning”, then turned into the real deal. It’s not a tornado, this Gerald Laird trade. Maybe not even a winter storm. Perhaps just a windy thunderstorm. But we all know how sunny it can get after those things pass through town.
The Tigers need a shortstop. It’s not a small deal. They have, at this moment, not a clue as to who will play the position come Opening Day, 2009. Of course, it’s still a much smaller deal than if this is still the situation in a few months. But it’s a concern.
The shortstop of the future, aka Cale Iorg, is still a year away, at least, from assuming the starting role. Edgar Renteria, the shortstop of the past, is now a San Francisco Giant — back in the National League, where he clearly belongs. His time in Detroit and Boston was proof that he’s not an American League kind of a guy. The shortstop of the present? That is a question, and the answer may be Jack Wilson of Pittsburgh. Or Adam Everett of Minnesota, if you believe the rumor mongers. Is it too late to ask Alan Trammell if he has a year or two left in the tank?
The Tigers need a bridge, that’s all, to Iorg. The shortstop of the present need only be such for the 2009 and MAYBE the 2010 seasons. But it shouldn’t be a wasted spot in the batting order, either. The Tigers already have one of those, with Brandon Inge and his limp noodle bat slated to play third base every day.
Wilson: Tigers SS of the present, soon?
Everett would appear to be another limp noodle. He batted all of .213 last year. And Wilson was slowed by injuries in 2008. That’s what they said about Renteria in 2007, and you can see where that got the Tigers.
Personally, I like Ramon Santiago. A lot. He is very good defensively, and I like his bat, which seems to have a lot of clutch to it. Of course, that’s all been in limited at-bats. It’s a whole different ballgame, literally, when you move from 200 plate appearances to 500+. But the Tigers see Santiago as a backup and nothing more. Kind of hard to argue that fact, I suppose — as that’s all Santiago has been since he arrived in Detroit.
Big Al of WayneFontes.com, in our weekly chat called The Knee Jerks, chided me for believing that the Tigers’ move to let Renteria walk without offering him arbitration was a smart one. He asked, “Are the Tigers THAT financially strapped?”
No, I said — but they don’t like the idea of paying Renteria $9 million — which is what he would have gotten if he accepted. Or, had he left after the offer, the Tigers would have been granted two compensatory draft picks. The Tigers feared no one would snatch Renteria up, and that they’d be stuck with him for another year at $9 mill.
Not cash strapped, just trying to cut costs where it makes sense.
Shortstop isn’t the only hole the Tigers have. They need pitching help and a catcher. Also not small deals. Last off-season was about beefing up the roster. This year it’s about fielding nine players when the curtain rises in April.
Bottom line: the Tigers WILL have a starting shortstop in the fold before spring training. Same with catcher. Pitching? Stay tuned. Two things at a time here!
Baseball, like many sports, is great to play “what if?” with.
“What if Babe Ruth had played today? How big would he be?”
“What if Ted Williams played in New York, and Joe Dimaggio played in Boston, with the respective short porches in right and left?”
“What if Curt Flood hadn’t slipped in center field chasing down Jim Northrup’s hit in Game 7 of the 1968 World Series?”
Actually, that last one was answered defiantly by Northrup himself, to me, when I asked him about the hit several years ago.
“I hit that ball so hard and on a line, no way Flood woulda caught it, even if he didn’t slip!,” the Silver Fox growled at me.
There’s been some talk lately about the 2003 Tigers in Detroit, as the football Lions plow ahead toward an ignominious, winless season. The comparison is apt because the Lions are trying to avoid setting an NFL record (no team has ever finished 0-16), just as the ‘03 Tigers tried to avoid eclipsing the 1962 New York Mets’ loss total of 120.
The Tigers succeeded — if you want to call it that. Well, they avoided the record, anyway. They only managed to lose 119 games.
Dimitri Young was one of the few 2003 Tigers who was a bona fide big leaguer
But those 2003 Tigers, I believe, were the answer to a rousing game of What If?
“What if a Triple-A team played 162 games in the big leagues?”
I’m not trying to be funny. The 2003 Tigers were barren of legitimate major league talent. Their roster was filled with players who either never played MLB beyond 2003, or who ONLY played in 2003, and only for the Tigers. In other words, players who had no business slipping on a big league jersey.
But the Tigers had to fill their 25-man roster, and with the door having just closed on the Randy Smith Era one year prior, the re-tooling was just beginning at the hands of Dave Dombrowski. Hence the hideously high number of players who simply were not big league material.
Teams don’t win 100 games by accident, and they certainly don’t lose 119 that way, either. The 2003 Tigers deserved every one of those 119 Ls — don’t kid yourself. Frankly, it’s amazing that they managed to win 43.
This was an even more bizarre case study, because I doubt very highly if the ‘03 Tigers could have managed to finish within shouting distance of .500 if they played in the Triple A International League, where their farm team, Toledo, plays. They were that bad.
The ‘62 Mets, of course, had the excuse of being expansion in nature. The 2003 Tigers were in their 103rd season in the American League. Yet they somehow managed, thanks to former GM Smith’s incompetence, to become so awful that after 156 games, they were an ungodly 80 games below .500 (38-118). I still can’t believe that happened, but it did.
So the next time you wonder what would happen if a minor league team literally found itself in the big leagues for a full season, look no further than the 2003 Tigers. That’s one “What if?” question that has been answered.
Does anyone listen to baseball anymore?
Yeah, I meant to emphasize the word.
And when I say listen, I mean on a radio — not through some fancy-shmancy streaming Internet connection.
Hey, do they even make transistor radios anymore? That question, I suppose, should be asked first.
I’m not a radio listener, per se. I must confess that. If I’m not in the car, then the radio isn’t on. And since I work from home mainly, my time spent in the car has even dwindled. So I’m one of the guilty parties here.
Some of my fondest memories from being a kid was of my dad, listening to the Tigers as he knocked off his “honey-do” list. It was a weekend afternoon, and the comforting sounds of Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey were soothingly in the background as the lawn was mowed or the shrubs trimmed. It all emanated from a transistor radio of some sort, likely precariously perched on a picnic table or a window ledge.
But it wasn’t just my dad at home. I seem to recall the Tigers being on radios all over the place: in the car next to ours at a traffic light; at the local soft serve ice cream joints; at the gas station. Everywhere, Ernie and Paul’s voices would be murmuring in the background. It didn’t matter that you couldn’t make out exactly what was happening. What was important, was that the game was at least on, for someone’s consumption.
Folks would take their transistors to the beach, or the park, or anywhere, really. And they were taken for one reason, and one reason only: to keep up with their Tigers. They certainly weren’t packing them along for the news or the weather, or some such nonsense.
It’s hard enough to get today’s younger fans to watch the Tigers, let alone listen to them. The TV pie has been cut into so many slices, they’re as thin as Catholic hosts at Communion. Too many options. Then there’s that damn Internet — with their “game casts” that involve sitting in front of a monitor and watching, in silence, the play-by-play occur, in words and symbols. The Net truly is amazing; it has somehow come up with a way to keep track of the game without watching or listening to it.
I know it’s odd to think about baseball on the radio the week of Thanksgiving, but I’ll pretty much take anything to draw attention away from the Lions, you know?
When was the last time you listened to the Tigers, when you weren’t in your car? I tried it a couple summers ago — plugging my boom box into the outlet outside the house and blasting the game as I trimmed things in the backyard. It was OK — not as good as Ernie and Paul, but not bad. Maybe if I’d do it more, Dan Dickerson would grow on me. His partner, Jim Price, grows too — but like mold. He’s another story.
Without much else to think about when it comes to the Tigers, heading toward Thanksgiving, I actually came up with something.
Does Brandon Inge help or hurt the cause?
Talk amongst yourselves.
It’s a simple question to pose, but not as easy to answer.
Does Brandon Inge, with his premium leather at third base, save more runs than he fails to produce in the batter’s box?
It’s a relevant question, and has been for several years now, even as Inge has been rotating positions like tires on a car.
It seems as though Inge is back at third base, his favorite position. It would take too long to explain how he got there, but here’s the short version: Carlos Guillen appears to be the Tigers’ left fielder, and Dusty Ryan or a player TBD will be the everyday catcher. That leaves 3B for Inge.
But here’s the rub: third base is typically a position where you get some offense. Stellar glove work is great, but you gotta see some numbers with the bat, too.
Inge has become, frankly, a good field, no hit kind of player. The Eddie Brinkman of today’s Tigers.
Inge’s defense is nice, but his bat has been mostly naughty
But Steady Eddie played shortstop in an era when you didn’t require offense from that position. The game was full of Mark Belangers and Dal Maxvills and Brinkmans, until the latter portion of the 1970s and early-1980s, when players like Robin Yount, Cal Ripken Jr., and Alan Trammell began contributing offensively. Then it became chic to have a SS who could hit, too.
Inge isn’t getting any better, really, with the bat. His batting averages are consistently low, and what pop he has is more than neutralized by his enormous propensity to strike out. He’s a true no. 9 hitter. Which is fine — someone has to hit ninth — but is it fine for your everyday third baseman?
The easy answer is to say that Inge is so good defensively, robs so many others of base hits, that you can afford to have him drag down the bottom of your batting order.
The other easy answer is to pose another question: What to do with Brandon Inge, then, if he’s not to play third base everyday?
Good question. So I guess you’re stuck with him.
Now, I know that the Tigers have no choice but to play Inge at third base. And I know that he certainly robs others of base hits. He really is that good with the glove. But I bring it up because if Inge is to continue to do this, play 3B for the Tigers, then he must improve with the stick. His career depends on it. Because sooner or later, the Tigers or other teams are going to err on the side of offense and determine that they can downgrade slightly defensively in favor of a more potent bat at 3B.
Inge, believe it or not, is going to be 32 next May. His career BA is below .240. He strikes out about once for every four at-bats. It’s tempting to say that this is as good as it gets for him. How many players suddenly start to hit at age 32?
But it’s possible to show improvement. The easiest thing to do would be cut down on strikeouts. That can be done with mechanics, like shortening the swing, choking up slightly, etc. Just putting the ball into play more frequently would be improvement for Inge. He’s not a home run hitter, per se, so it’s not like you’d be robbing him of that by working with him on reducing the Ks.
Look at me, talking like a hitting coach!
But in all seriousness, Brandon Inge needs to start picking it up offensively. He’s been able to forge a MLB career without much of a bat thus far, but that train may come to a screeching halt one day — in Detroit or elsewhere.
Three years ago, he made news by signing veteran free agent pitcher Kenny Rogers, fresh off a summer in which Rogers took a few jabs — literally — at a cameraman and in which Rogers took an All-Star spot for the game at Comerica Park that Detroiters felt (me included) belonged to Jeremy Bonderman. Two years ago, he made news by trading for enigmatic outfielder/DH Gary Sheffield. Last year around this time, he set the baseball world on its ear by trading for Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis — just a month after dealing for SS Edgar Renteria.
This year?
Tigers GM Dave Dombrowski sits on a considerably warmer seat this November and December than he did at any other time in his tenure in Detroit, which began seven Novembers ago. Never before, in Motown, has his job security been in question. There truly is a first time for everything.
DD is vulnerable because of the verifiably awful 12 months he has just experienced — some of his own doing. After the 2007 season, a summer in which the Tigers had the best record in baseball at the All-Star break then faded afterward, DD got out his scalpel. Then he said, “screw this”, and got out a meat cleaver.
In came LF Jacque Jones (remember him?), SS Renteria, and 3B/1B Cabrera and LHP Willis. Gone were a lot of the Tigers’ future players, in the trades. On paper, the moves seemed to be exactly what the team needed to separate itself from the pack in the AL Central. Some said it separated them from the rest of MLB.
Oh, they separated the Tigers, alright. But in the opposite direction. Incredibly, the Tigers sank to last place in their division, behind even those perennial doormats, the Kansas City Royals.
Was that bad season enough, by itself, to put DD on warning? Well, Tigers owner Mike Ilitch didn’t pay $138 million kajillion to finish behind the Royals. Let’s just put it that way.
Nothing DD touched last year turned into anything remotely like gold. If there was ever an award given out called The SO NOT Executive of the Year, Dombrowski would have won, hands down. He had all the success that that bull in the china shop had in not breaking anything.
So yes, these awful last 12 months are enough to make DD a potential ziggy victim, if significant improvement isn’t shown in 2009. He and his manager, Jim Leyland, are both on the radar now. Neither has much margin for error. A 75-87 record, after what the owner provided in terms of both financial and emotional support, is unacceptable. First there should be apologies. Then there should be some more careful, more precise moves to address the Tigers’ suddenly vacuous franchise. And these moves had better work.
Too much pressure? Tough. Dombrowski took a turn at the roulette wheel and the slot machines last year, and came up with nothing but 00s and lemons. With the owner’s money, to boot.
The Tigers are, strangely, much worse off now than they were one year ago before all the splashy, high-profile signings and trades. That’s usually not how it’s supposed to work.
Let’s see what DD does this off-season to patch these holes: pitching, defense, shortstop, catcher, left field. That’s a longer shopping list than you normally have if you are a contender. But it’s about the right length when you’re a last place team, which the Tigers are, like it or not.
Dave Dombrowski has done a lot of good things since taking over in November 2001. You could even argue that he’s done more good than bad, overall. But coaches with overall winning records get fired, if those wins didn’t come at the right time. It’s a “What have you done for me lately?” business, sports is, and if you look at DD’s record lately, it’s not pretty.
Is it ugly enough to get the ziggy? Not by itself, but another series of blunders is likely to put DD over the top — and off the cliff.
I doubt that Rocky Bridges could have gotten away with it today. Too many PC types — and I don’t mean personal computer.
But in the mid-1960s, Bridges, managing in the California League, marveled at a rival first baseman who was on his way to winning the league MVP Award for leading the circuit in batting average and home runs. And since that first baseman had a plainly ethnic last name, Bridges came up with what he believed to be an apt nickname: Superjew.
“Superjew” was Mike Epstein, who won the California League MVP Award in 1965. The next year, Epstein was in the big leagues for the start of a nine-year career as a power-hitting first baseman, achieving moderate success. He did hit 20+ homers three times, including 30 in just 403 at-bats in 1969 for Ted Williams’s Washington Senators. All told, he swatted 130 four-baggers.
Epstein possesses one of my all-time favorite nicknames, and I hope that revelation doesn’t put me in bad stead with the PC types.
But Superjew is also one of my favs because I think it’s a type of nickname that is probably extinct: the ethnic nickname. They’re innocent, really, but I doubt anyone could get away with such handles in today’s mainstream. I won’t bother giving you examples, because that’ll REALLY get the PC people on my case.
At the turn of the 20th century, nicknames were even crueler, but they were totally accepted. You’ve probably heard or read of ballplayers with first names of Dummy or Rube. “Dummy” was either someone who didn’t talk much, or, worse, someone who was literally a deaf mute — which happened more often than you think. “Rube” was usually someone who wasn’t, ahem, a Rhodes Scholar, if you know what I mean. That would be like using a derogatory, slang name today for a mentally challenged individual, that also starts with “r”. I think you know what I mean, and can you imagine such a thing?
“Superjew”, immortalized on one of those old 3-D baseball cards (remember those?)
Returning to Epstein, even though there’s nothing slang about “Jew” (just short for Jewish), it just seems to me that we’ve become SO sensitive to anything remotely ethnic that even using accurate, accepted words describing someone’s heritage can be off-putting when done in nickname form.
I’m half-Finnish. If someone were to call me “SuperFinn”, I wouldn’t care at all. Of course, I first need to DO something to be called SuperFinn, but that’s another story.
But Superjew just seems to be pushing the envelope a bit. Maybe I’m off-base, and ignorant, or both.
Who doles out the nickname also has great impact on whether that nickname is socially accepted. If Epstein’s fellow Jews were to coin it today, then that’s far more acceptable than if some crusty old, non-Jewish manager were to do it. Someone like Rocky Bridges, for example!
Epstein is still around, a New York kid from the Bronx who’s now 65. So is Bridges, 81. By the way, Bridges’s real name is Everett Lamar Bridges. No wonder he opted for Rocky.
Well, here we are. Just as I feared.
One of the rights of ink-stained wretches and bottom-feeding bloggers is to occasionally play GM, usually when the team needs us the most. So since I belong to both fraternities, and since it’s my duty to say, in so many words, “told ya so!”, I just have three words today about the Tigers’ catching situation.
Told. Ya. So.
If the Tigers were to take the field tomorrow for Opening Day, Dusty Ryan would be behind the plate. Let’s just hope that this isn’t the case when the team opens for real next spring.
This isn’t to knock Ryan — well, maybe a tad — because he’s probably a nice kid whose fault this certainly isn’t. But I began wringing my hands as long ago as 2006, worried that the Tigers had no heir apparent, apparently, for Pudge Rodriguez at the catching position.
Then 2007 came and went. Nowhere could a bona fide major league prospect at catcher be found within the Tigers organization. The only thing that became apparent, instead of an heir, was that the Tigers appeared to think that Rodriguez would catch for them forever. Like he was some sort of baseball Methuselah.
Even a healthy Vance Wilson wouldn’t have been the answer, for Wilson is a great backup, but nothing more.
Then the Tigers had a solution in spring training, 2008: Brandon Inge would be the heir apparent at catcher — for the second time in his career. This was made necessary, of course, by the trade that brought 3B Miguel Cabrera to Detroit. Inge grumbled and groused about it, as has been his wont. But at least the Tigers had a catcher-in-waiting.
But Cabrera proved ill-suited at 3B, and was shifted to first base. Carlos Guillen was made the new third baseman. Inge became the full-time catcher after Rodriguez was traded to the Yankees in July. Now the Tigers want to move Guillen to left field. They’re running out of positions for Carlos. It’s almost like they’re trying to hide him and his glove in plain sight. He’s becoming the Tigers’ white elephant in the room.
Dombrowski’s inability to find a catcher, post-Pudge, is coming back to haunt the Tigers (duh!)
Guillen’s third shift in positions means Inge is now the third baseman — again. Hell, he’s been catcher twice, so why not make him the third baseman for a second time?
Which brings us back to catcher. Still.
Ryan, with all due respect, is not ready to be a starting big league catcher. He’s the Sarah Palin of the Tigers. Let him be the backup, at best.
Just as I feared and warned (why don’t they ever listen to me?), the Tigers are without a big league catcher for 2009.
The free agent crop isn’t terribly deep. There’s Boston’s Jason Varitek, 36. Not a bad option, though funny things start happening to catchers, sometimes, at that age. Strangely, there’s even Pudge himself, who is free and will be 37 soon. There could be a trade. Regardless, the Tigers are scrambling now, having not been able to groom a catcher in the Dave Dombrowski Era, which is about to head into its eighth year, believe it or not. For all the good DD has done, catcher is turning into his albatross, just as I had feared. (Again I ask: why didn’t they ask me??)
The position isn’t one to be trivialized. The Tigers have a new pitching coach, Rick Knapp. The staff was a mess last year. The last thing they need is a catcher with peach fuzz.
Since a Pudge II scenario is unlikely, I’d be happy with Varitek. Or Gerald Laird, if the Tigers can pry him from Texas. Laird is outstanding defensively.
Sorry, but all this could have been avoided. Seven years and no catching prospects? Dombrowski and his crack staff whiffed on this one.
I’m not sure what memories the Tigers fans had of Navin Field in 1921, upon the ballpark’s tenth season as a major league stadium. Doubtless they would have included the exploits of Ty Cobb, Sam Crawford, Harry Heilmann and the like. Right there, that’s a treasure trove. Not bad for the first ten years of any ballpark.
Don’t look now, but next season will be the tenth for the Tigers in Comerica Park. It’s true. Year No. 1 was in 2000, with its christening coming on a snowy April 11.
So what do we have to show for it? What special memories have we gathered?
Answer: nothing much before 2006. And nothing much in 2008. So it was just the seasons of 2006 and 2007 that have provided anything that you’d care to remember.
I suppose Opening Day, 2000 should be thrown in there, though. Any ballpark’s first game is something that should be marked indelibly in the brain. The fact that the Tigers beat the Seattle Mariners in a mini-snowstorm makes it even more memorable. It reminded me of the Toronto Blue Jays, who beat the Chicago White Sox and the snow in their first-ever game in 1977. Whoever decided that Toronto would be a dandy place for a season-opening game ought to have his head examined. Or has never been to Toronto, or anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon Line in early April.
The Tigers didn’t win too many ballgames in CoPa’s early existence, which contributes to the lack of decent memories. Remember, until ‘06, the Tigers posted losing records in every season after 1993. A shiny new stadium did nothing to change that.
For a brand new stadium, CoPa was shockingly devoid of early, memorable moments. After Opening Day, there wasn’t much else to recall about 2000. We talked a lot about the cruel dimensions of left center, but that was about it. Juan Gonzalez sulked his way through his only season as a Tiger. I remember that, too. But no signature moments, per se.
Ordonez’s pennant-winning homer is one of a precious few memorable moments in Comerica Park’s nine-year existence
There were a couple of walk-off wins in the final days of the 2003 season, when the Tigers managed to avoid losing more than the 120 games dropped by the 1962 Mets. So that’s something, I guess.
Even the visitors didn’t do much of note in the years from 2000-05, other than just beat the pants off the home team. No amazing, individual performances, like when Boston’s Freddie Lynn struck for three home runs, a triple, and 10 RBI in a game at Tiger Stadium in 1975. Of course, with CoPa’s initial dimensions, a visiting player would have needed an entire season, at least, to manage three homers in Detroit.
2006, of course, made up for the park’s first six seasons. The pennant-winning Tigers piled memory on top of memory, culminating with Magglio Ordonez’s walk-off homer to vault the Tigers into the World Series.
2007 saw Justin Verlander’s no-hitter — the first by a Tigers pitcher in Detroit since 1952 — and Ordonez’s drive to the AL batting title.
2008? I think we just as soon forget.
Maybe down the line, some 20-30 years from now, we’ll be able to compile an impressive array of memorable moments that occurred in Comerica Park. But we have a paltry list as we head into Year No. 10. Let’s hope it picks up.
Do you remember your first baseball mitt?
I started my illustrious, six-year Little League career at age eight with something that had a Detroit Tigers logo on the strap. It was the typical children’s-style glove. And I remember having done a horrible job of breaking it in, not being accustomed to such things. The glove had a skewed, uneven fold that makes me shudder just thinking about it.
Ahh, but then my second glove was more like the real deal. It was endorsed, first off. The steady but unspectacular second baseman Ted Sizemore had his signature burned into the thumb side. Years later, I found out that Sizemore grew up in the Detroit area, like me, so I guess that was fitting. Plus, I was mostly an infielder, so at least I had the right style of mitt. The glove was a Wilson make. I remember my mother springing for some special oil that was to go into the palm of the glove. It came in a small, tin container with a tapered nozzle. I think the stuff was called “Glovolium”, or something like that.
Anyhow, I took good care of the Sizemore model. It was oiled, properly broken in, complete with a baseball and rubber band. The rubber band kept the mitt closed over the ball. I’m sure you know that trick, if you were ever once a 13-year-old boy.
That glove took me through my teen years, and it wasn’t until I came out of retirement to play in an adult softball league when I was 24 that I bought my next glove — a black Wilson that I still own, 20+ years later. Now THAT’S a mitt. It’s perfectly broken in, with that lovely “snap” action that all trusty mitts have. It was broken in for softball, but I’d trust it with a hardball, too. The difference from my Sizemore model is that its webbing is made for outfield play, since that was what I played in softball.
I REALLY wanted to own a first baseman’s glove, though. For whatever reason, I longed to be a first baseman. I think it’s because all the cool superstar outfielders moonlighted as first basemen. So did a lot of the catchers. Guys like Bill Freehan, Johnny Bench, and countless other backstops would take a “day off” and don the first baseman’s mitt. Freehan even spent one season (1974) at 1B more than he did catching, in terms of games played. Al Kaline, when he returned from a wrist injury in 1968, found the outfield crowded. With the DH still someone’s bad dream, Kaline volunteered to play some first base, giving Norm Cash a rest against lefties.
This is what I REALLY wanted to wear
First base is just that position that almost every player finds himself at, at least once in his career. Remember Pudge Rodriguez’s short stint there in 2006? I also recall Lance Parrish being forced into first base in 1980, as Tigers manager Sparky Anderson tried to make his All-Star catcher a serviceable backup at first. Didn’t work.
I admit to getting a little excited when I see that there may be the need for a “bizarre” first baseman in a game, due to multiple moves, injuries, etc. Sometimes I wonder, “Who’s gonna play first now?,” and wait in anticipation to see who emerges from the dugout with someone else’s first baseman’s glove on his hand.
The funny thing is, for a position that supposedly anyone can play competently, there is actually quite a bit to playing first base. There’s footwork, scooping balls out of the dirt, knowing when to cut-off an outfield throw and when not to, and that difficult 3-6-3 double play. Yet in a pinch, in small doses, first base really can be almost like a day off.
Of course, when we were kids, that position was right field. You always put the worst players out there.
Yes, I played right field too, on occasion.
Does the World Series champion really HAVE to be from either Tampa or Philadelphia? Is it too late to relocate the teams? Can’t Commish Bud Selig step in with some sort of emergency injunction and stop this from happening?
Tampa or Philly. Liver or head cheese. Death or taxes. Plucked out toenails or an enema. Take your pick.
Tampa — that city of Johnny-come-latelies who only were nudged awake a couple of weeks ago, and found out that a baseball season had broken out. A fan base that is scrambling to make it up to their team in the form of promising — for sure — to buy tickets next season. Cross our hearts.
Philadelphia — a city with a chip the size of, well, Tampa on their shoulders. The City of Brotherly Love — but the kind of brotherly love that involves wedgies and noogies and replacing little bro’s candy bar with cat pooh. A fan base so cruel it once booed Santa Claus. And Mike Schmidt. Perhaps the most bitter of all the sports cities, because its teams constantly rise to OK and then sink back down to awful. Or worse, stay at OK and perpetually tease its followers. Ask any Eagles fan.
Or Phillies fan, for that matter. The Phils are mad as hell and not going to take it anymore — at least I hope so, and that’s why I’m picking them to swat these feisty little Rays for good, doing what the White and Red Sox couldn’t do in the AL playoffs. The Phillies have been doing that Philadelphia sports thing for the last five or six years — where you peak at OK-to-good and stay there for several years, never winning anything of note. Hey, ask any Flyers fan while you’re at it.
The Rays, no doubt, are looking around their locker room and seeing a bunch of young, green talent and figuring that the World Series will be a fairly regular thing in Tampa for the next several years. So no biggie if they drop this one; there’ll be others, and soon. The Phillies, on the other hand, have sore feet from kicking at the door and are poised to finally just bust the damn thing down.
But the cities, as far as being deserving? Meh.
It’s a toss-up, really. Do you want your baseball champion to come from a town where they’re still wiping the Sand Man from their eyes, or from one that’s so mean-spirited and cranky, it makes John McCain look like Dale Carnegie? Have fun with that choice.
Selig needs to do something. Maybe arrange to have the games played at a neutral site. That way we can be spared the phony excitement of Tampa and the national anthem singer won’t be booed in Philadelphia. The reason the Rays fans are so loud is because they’ve spent all summer resting up. You’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, too, if you hibernated from April to September.
So it’s Tampa versus Philly. Golly-gee-whiz versus f*** you. Some choice.
I was frustrated beyond belief with Carlos Pena in his final days as a Tiger. He, along with fellow under-achiever Eric Munson, were supposed to be two of the young building blocks around which the Tigers would construct a pennant contender. Each showed potential. But both sagged under the weight of expectations, to the point where I called for the removal of their Tiger stripes, and forthwith.
Munson was gone after the 2004 season, and Pena hung around through most of spring training in 2006, when new manager Jim Leyland had seen enough and released the slugging (at times) first baseman.
Pena’s career looked dead. He hooked up with the Red Sox, but didn’t really get any playing time. Then he ended up with Tampa Bay. Last season, he finally had that breakout season we had been waiting for in Detroit: 46 HR, 121 RBI.
Pena had himself another fine year in Tampa this season, too — and by all accounts his glove was still above average. I didn’t have much to complain about in that area when it came to Pena; I always thought he was a solid first baseman, defensively.
So it’s ironic that it was Pena’s glove that betrayed the Rays last night in the telltale ninth inning of Game 5 of the ALCS.
Most of the blame will be shoved toward rookie 3B Evan Longoria, though.
That’s a shame, because it was Pena who screwed up, really. The play in question was a slow grounder that Kevin Youkilis hit with two out and nobody on base. Longoria raced in, fielded it cleanly, but threw low to Pena. The kind of short-hopped throw that first basemen see all the time. The kind that a 1B knows is low as soon as the thrower releases the ball.
In the many replays that were shown of the play –which started the Red Sox’s game-winning rally — if you looked at Pena’s glove location as the ball skipped toward him, you saw how poorly positioned it was. It was as if Pena wasn’t anticipating a skip at all. He positioned his glove low, scraping the dirt, instead of a few inches higher, in advance of the short hop that he surely must have known was coming. As a result, the ball bounced over Pena’s glove arm, which because of its low positioning wasn’t able to correct itself quick enough to either snare the ball or at least stop it from heading into the stands. Youkilis was awarded second base, and scored on J.D. Drew’s drive to right field. Ballgame.
I don’t pretend to be a baseball expert, but I did play the game as a youth and have followed it for 37 years. And the first time I saw the replay, I caught Pena’s mistake. The play was scored as an infield single, and while some may argue that the hit was being kind to Longoria, the real culprit was Pena. Sometimes a first baseman has to bail his third baseman out. Not every throw is going to be perfect. Especially those made under duress, as Longoria’s was on the Youkilis play.
Carlos Pena is a fine player — now. He still strikes out too much, but his production is finally justifying some of those Ks. But he fouled up the Longoria play last night, and it cost his team the game. Let’s see if he makes up for it in Game 6.
I was talking the other day to a colleague of mine in television production. During a lull in our activity, the talk turned to the ongoing MLB playoffs — specifically, the Cinderella Tampa Bay Rays. Neither of us are fans of theirs, it turns out. While he couldn’t really pinpoint the reason why he’s not on the TB bandwagon, I offered a suggestion.
“The fans there don’t deserve a winner,” I said. Plain and simple.
Taking a look at the 2008 MLB attendance figures, my crankiness is borne out.
Of the eight teams that qualified for the playoffs, the Rays are, by far, the worst in terms of home attendance. There they sit, 26th out of the 30 teams, with a hideous total of 1.8 million people. That’s a paltry 22,259 per game.
Tampa — the City That Never Woke Up.
What’s that all about, anyway? The Rays had the second-best record in the American League, on the heels of 10 straight losing seasons. And not just losing seasons, but finishing south-of-the-equator kind of losing seasons. The Rays were a team that was routinely mathematically eliminated when the May flowers started blooming. You’d think that their breakout year of 2008 would have been like pure oxygen to an emphysema sufferer.
But, as Yogi Berra once said, “If people don’t want to come to the ballpark, there’s nothing stopping them.”
Yet, there should have been something stopping them: the Rays provided thrills and chills all summer long — not that their town noticed.
If that’s how you support a first-place team, with barely 22,000 fans per game (less than 50% of its 45,000 capacity), then I say the Rays should pick up their spikes and go somewhere where they give a damn.
Less than half full, on an average? For a team that won 97 games? Past Rays teams would have needed a full season plus most of July of the next to win that many ballgames. Despite the lack of support, the Rays managed to win 57 home games — over 70 percent. When your winning percentage is 20 points higher than your percent of fannies versus capacity, then something’s not right.
I thought something was peculiar this summer when I watched Rays highlights on ESPN. In their home games, all I saw were empty seats in the background.
What was keeping the fans from showing up? Did all the losing make them apathetic? Didn’t the local newspapers and TV stations clue folks in down there that something great was happening?
Twenty-two thousand fans per game is a figure reserved for the dregs of baseball. And sure enough, the spots 28-to-30 are occupied by perennial losers like Pittsburgh, Kansas City, and Florida. You can’t blame those fans for staying home.
It’s a travesty, the lack of support the Rays got in Tampa Bay. The city doesn’t deserve big league baseball. Take the team away from them, as soon as the final out of their season is made. Their stadium, named after an orange juice, should be squished like a carton and eradicated. May as well put something else there, like a Wal-Mart or another retirement home.
Tampa is going to be a great city, once they clear out all the zombies.
Cities that stay home from first-place teams aren’t worthy. There are 26 other teams in MLB that would love to be in the Rays’ position right now; same with their fans.
Someone should nudge the Tampa Bayans awake and let them know that they’re missing a helluva baseball season.
Shame on them, anyway.
It’s been 40 years to the day, and I think it’ll be 40 more, at least. In fact, it may not ever happen again.
“It” is what Mickey Lolich did for the Detroit Tigers in the 1968 World Series.
On the surface, it might not seem like one of those unbreakable records that are so fun to debate over a cold one and some pretzels. But then you stop to think about it, and it becomes clear: it’s doubtful that anyone will match what Lolich did in ‘68 for the Tigers.
1968 may have been Denny McLain’s year — in the regular season — with his 31 victories and ERA below 2.00. But the WS belonged to Lolich. The portly lefty started three games, completed them all, won them all, and for good measure pitched Game 7 on two days’ rest to save the Tigers’ bacon.
Why is this so impressive? And why is it unlikely to ever happen again?
An enduring image: Lolich leaps into Bill Freehan’s arms after registering the final out of the 1968 Series
First, how many pitchers even start three World Series games in this day and age of five-man rotations? Unless you have some rainouts in there, AND the series goes seven games, you’re unlikely to see three starts by any one pitcher. Then, how many will throw three complete games? That’s even less likely.
Lolich’s numbers were mind-boggling: 27 IP, 20 H, 21 K, 6 BB, 1.67 ERA, 3-0 record. He only allowed two home runs, just one more than he himself hit. It was about the most no-brainer MVP win in Series history.
The story of how Lolich ended up going the distance in Game 7, just three days after throwing nine innings in Game 5, is legendary. Manager Mayo Smith asked Lolich if he could give the team “a few innings” in a Game 7 start. Lolich, with his famous rubber arm, said yes. Then after those “few innings”, Smith asked Lolich, in the dugout, if he could go one more. Lolich said yes. After that inning, the game scoreless with Bob Gibson on the mound for the Cardinals, Smith again asked Lolich for one more inning. And Lolich obliged. Then the Tigers rallied for three runs in the top of the seventh inning, breaking the 0-0 tie. So Smith asked Lolich to finish the game. Lolich, of course, said yes, figuring he had all winter to rest. Lolich suspected that Smith never intended to lift him, and that the “few innings” thing was a ruse from the get-go, not that Lolich minded.
So what do YOU think? Will another pitcher ever match Mickey Lolich’s 1968 World Series performance?
Where’s Mike Schmidt? Rick Monday? Steve Carlton? Anyone see Davey Lopes running around anywhere?
Ahh, the Dodgers and the Phillies. For the National League Pennant. Just like they did when the disco balls were still spinning.
It’s a battle now between two franchises who are both fragile and with chips on their shoulders. The Phillies haven’t won the whole enchilada since 1980, and were World Series losers in 1983 and ‘93. The Dodgers were last world champs 20 years ago, and only just the other night won their first post-season series since then.
Two Rodney Dangerfields about to clash in the NLCS.
The Phillies and their fans are certainly used to this kind of a drought. Before the ‘80 championship, which is their only one in franchise history, the Phils hadn’t been to a WS in 30 years. Their existence has been mostly pock-marked with stumbling and losing. The Dodgers, on the other hand, are having trouble abiding this 1988-2008 thing. Theirs was once an organization synonymous with winning — even if it meant eventually losing in the WS to the Yankees.
I don’t think Dodgers fans could have imagined that the Kirk Gibson-led team of 1988 would be the last one to sip champagne for two decades.
Yet the Dodgers still managed to trump the Lovable Losers, AKA the Chicago Cubs, in the NLDS. The baseball gods finally gave the Dodgers a team they could beat in October.
The Phillies have jobbed the Mets two years in a row in the NL East, but it still doesn’t make up for blowing the 1964 pennant. You know, the year they lost ten in a row in the season’s final days and committed the worst self-larceny in baseball history.
Someone once asked Gene Mauch, who managed the ‘64 Phils, if he ever thought about that blown pennant. This was decades later.
“Every day,” was Mauch’s reply.
Most of you know that I don’t do predictions. Not my style. Plus, I’m usually pretty lousy at it. But SOMEONE has to win this thing. SOMEONE has to have a chance to exorcise their WS demons, representing the National League.
So, Dodgers in six. Or maybe the Phillies in seven. Dodgers in six-and-a-half? Phillies in eight? I have no idea. But one of these teams can’t lose. And neither of them have been in that position in quite some time, if ever.
“Billy Goat” Sianis isn’t dead after all. Black cats are still prowling around. Steve Bartman’s invasive, sticky fingers are still leaving prints.
The futility of Steve Swisher and Ernie Broglio and Larry Biittner have returned.
Charlie Brown still can’t kick the football. Wile E. Coyote just fell off another cliff. The Italian Army still stinks. And so do the Cubs.
The Chicago “97 Wins” Cubs. The Chicago “Going to end the 100-year drought” Cubs. The Chicago “This is the year” Cubs.
No, The Same Old Chicago Cubs.
The Cubs are on the verge, again, of disappointing in the post-season. Check that. They’ve past the verge and are falling down an endless flight of stairs. I haven’t seen a town’s hopes dashed so quickly since the Redskins hired Steve Spurrier.
The Cubs are down 0-2 to the Los Angeles Dodgers in the first round of the National League playoffs, also known as the NLDS — which up to this point had stood for No LA Dodgers Success. Not only are the Cubs down 0-2, they’re down 0-2 in bombastic fashion. They’ve laid ostrich-sized eggs two nights in a row in front of their tormented faithful: 7-2 and 10-3. This isn’t a playoff series, it’s a wake.
Oh, this wasn’t supposed to happen, was it? Weren’t the Cubs, those lovable losers, supposed to be shedding that label in 2008? Wasn’t this group supposed to be different from all the other Cubs teams?
97 wins!
The best record in the National League. By far. Steamrolled to the Central Division title. The esteemed and battle-tested Lou Piniella as their manager.
Oops! Wait a minute.
About Piniella: wasn’t he the skipper of the 2001 Seattle Mariners who won 116 games in the regular season and went poof in five games in the ALCS to the Yankees, who won but 95 — and only after the M’s squeaked by the Indians in the ALDS, who won just 91?
Yep, that’s him.
The Cubs ended the regular season by clinching their division with more than a week to play. Piniella had all that time to get everything just the way he wanted it, from the pitching rotation to the lineup. And did I mention that the Dodgers won all of 84 games this season? See a trend here with Sweet Lou?
Now, I know Piniella didn’t boot the ball around Wrigley Field, or throw all those gopher balls in Games 1 and 2. But, hey, who said life is fair? Lou won the 1990 World Series in upset fashion as manager of the Reds, and that’s been his last hurrah in the dugout.
The Cubs are going down. Again. No World Series. Again. The championship-less drought starts a new century — 101 years and counting.
Didn’t they learn anything from the 2004 Boston Red Sox when it comes to smashing history into pieces?
I saw some images on the Internet of the looks of shock and sadness on the faces of Cubs fans in Wrigley from the past couple of nights. Shades of 2003. And of 1989, and 1984, and 1969. And might as well include 1945 and 1935 in there as well — even though the Cubbies actually made it to the WS in those two years.
October, 1908 — the Cubs’ last WS victory.
Roosevelt was president — Teddy Roosevelt. The first Model T had its last screw tightened just a couple weeks earlier. There wasn’t even a World War I yet. Civil War vets were still living. Baseball fans would have included folks who remembered when Lincoln was president.
Just remember that, Lions fans — next time you bellyache about not having an NFL champion since 1957. The Cubs’ streak of futility makes the Lions’ look like a two-week vacation in the Bahamas.
So the 2008 Cubs will soon be no more. It might happen tomorrow night in Game 3, or the next night in Game 4. Or, to REALLY put the icing on the cake, maybe the Cubs will fail miserably by WINNING Games 3 and 4 and succumbing in Game 5 in front of their straitjacket-ready fans.
So Lucy gets to keep pulling the ball away. The Roadrunner gets to keep “beep-beeping” and leaving the Coyote in the dust. And the Italian Army still stinks.
Cubs Lose! Cubs Lose!
Forgive me, because this is hardly the first time I’ve pulled this quote from the grab bag of the wayback machine, but it’s just too good and too eternally relevant for me to retire it.
The Pistons, way back in 1971, announced that they had just given coach Butch van Breda Kolff a brand new contract extension. And the press wanted to know why VBK didn’t look all that jazzed about it at the presser.
“Hell, they can always fire you,” VBK explained of his faith in the written word, “and you can quit if you want to.”
Is that statement any less true now than it was 37 years ago? Didn’t think so.
There really are no guarantees in pro sports, except for guaranteed contracts, which often times only guarantee the insanity of the contract giver-outer.
Contracts, truthfully, are symbols. They are commitments, to a degree, of a team to a player or a coach. But they are mostly symbolic, and extensions are seen as the ultimate vote of confidence.
But, as VBK so succinctly said, they can always fire you. And you can quit if you want to.
At issue is Jim Leyland, and his contract status with the Tigers.
Leyland is signed through the 2009 season. And that’s all. Not one pitch beyond.
Nothing says that a team has to continuously make sure that the coach is under contract for seasons beyond the one upcoming. Yet when they don’t, that term “lame duck” starts to crop up.
You know, the players know that (insert name here) is only under contract for the year current, and so he may not be around much longer anyway, blah, blah, blah.
Leyland, according to Mitch Albom of the Free Press, is miffed that the Tigers aren’t extending him beyond ‘09. President and GM Dave Dombrowski has chosen, apparently, to let next year play itself out before rendering a verdict as to whether Leyland will manage in Detroit beyond then.
But is that a lame duck thing, or a “prove to me that you deserve an extension” thing?
What was conveniently buried was that DD offered Leyland a contract through 2010 when the skipper was extended beyond the original limit of 2008. But Leyland chose instead to be extended only through ‘09. Oops. Now that offer is off the table, to hear Leyland tell it.
Some of you might remember Walter Alston. You would be the same folks who remember that Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings. Or that there was a Dodgers manager before Tommy Lasorda.
Alston was that pre-Lasorda Dodgers manager. He skippered the team from 1954 through 1976. Twenty-three years. And do you know how many contracts Alston signed? Twenty-three.
That’s right. Perhaps the greatest manager in franchise history worked on a year-by-year basis. He didn’t seem to mind. Nor did the owner. And nor did the players, as the Dodgers did a whole lot of winning in those 23 years. The next person to call Walt Alston a lame duck will be the first.
In Leyland’s defense, he wasn’t overtly whiny or bitter about DD’s decision not to extend. But Leyland was clearly hurt. Here’s how he characterized his three years managing the Tigers.
“I think we had a great year, I think we had a good year and then we had one disastrous year. … I’ll take my share of the blame for it. … But you can put several people up on a dart board and if you threw a dart, you’d probably hit the right guy. … We were all guilty.”
Leyland, of course, wants to look at the big picture in all three years. But as I’ve bellyached here before, the Tigers have been a terrible second half team in all three of Leyland’s years in Detroit. And I’m sorry, but that’s troubling. Now we’re not talking anymore about lame ducks, but about chokers, when you consider such second half nonsense.
Albom said that Leyland wanted a vote of confidence, and didn’t get it.
Here’s your “vote of confidence”: you have another year left on the contract. And we’re not firing you. Good luck in ‘09.
A manager, or a coach, shouldn’t need any more vote of confidence than that.
But coaches want the purse string holders to put their money where their mouths are. Wrong. They already did that, when they hired you in the first place.
Leyland did make one astute observation: if this underachieving year had occurred in the last year of his contract, he may soon be the ex-manager of the Tigers. But it didn’t, so he gets another year — the year agreed upon by both parties.
If DD didn’t have that so-called confidence in Leyland, then he would fire him. Simple as that. And he would do so, no matter how many years were left on the contract. It wouldn’t be the first time a team paid a manager not to manage.
Jim Leyland has it all wrong. He’s 1-1-1 in his three years in Detroit, but he likes to look at it as 2-1. In my book, he’s 0-3 in second halves, for whatever my opinion is worth.
If the Tigers don’t win in ‘09, he’ll probably be out the door. And he would have been out the door, likely, even with an extension signed through 2010.
Butch van Breda Kolff isn’t with us anymore, sadly. But his words are just as true now as they were in 1971 — and even before then.
The Tigers are bringing Jim Leyland back for the 2009 season. Understood. He is contracted thru then, after all — not that that’s ever stopped a team from giving a manager or coach the ziggy before. But I can see the logic.
The Tigers have been under Leyland’s charge for three seasons now, and they’ve pretty much laid out like this: 1. World Series; 2. Playoff contention till early September; 3. Biggest disappointment in Detroit sports history.
Some would say that no. 3 trumps nos. 1 and 2, combined. Also understood, though maybe a tad harsh.
But here’s what’s not harsh.
It’s not harsh of me to simply direct your attention to a troubling statistic that I have railed about in this space in the not-so-distant past. Today’s edition of the Detroit Free Press had the temerity to print it.
The Tigers’ winning percentage, under Leyland’s watch, in games played before and after the All-Star break, lays out like this:
2006: (before) .670; (after) .486
2007: (before) .582; (after) .493
2008: (before) .500; (after) .387
Those “afters” don’t look too good, do they?
You can play around with numbers in baseball to your heart’s content. Figures and stats are often like Silly Putty; you can make them look pretty much like anything you want.
But these aren’t Silly Putty numbers. These are of the cold, hard variety. You can’t make those “after” percentages look good, no matter how much you try.
In ‘06, the cool second half cost the Tigers their supposedly in-the-bag divisional title. In ‘07, it cost them a playoff berth, period. This year, it cost them some dignity, if nothing else.
Would I bring Leyland back for a fourth go at it? Probably. It’s kind of hard to justify canning him, with 2-of-3 seasons being pretty decent, overall.
But those second half winning percentages make me a little uneasy. Once can be a fluke. Twice can be some bad luck. Thrice is an indictment of the manager.
Here’s what I think when I look at those cold, hard numbers.
In 2006, it tells me that the Tigers were destined to cool off, because they weren’t going to play .670 ball all year. Fine.
In 2007, it tells me that they wilted in the dog days of August, when teams like the Yankees, conversely, were kicking it up a gear or two.
This season, it tells me that the Tigers — and I hate to use this word — kind of quit.
So who’s to blame for all this?
What does it say for a manager when his teams have played the worst baseball of their season, collectively, in the second half, when the games mean more?
I’m not quite sure myself, but I don’t think it’s very good, whatever it says.
You can cry me a river about injuries and guys having down years. Don’t want to hear it. If a manager is truly worth his salt, he finds a way to overcome all that. Billy Martin was great at that. And that’s why he was one of the best managers in baseball. Ever.
Sparky Anderson had his issues, but he did his best work in 1987. That year, the Tigers started 11-19 and were considered by many to be middle-of-the-pack, talent-wise, in the AL East. They had just lost catcher Lance Parrish to free agency, and their pitching looked sketchy. The 1984 heroes were three years older.
But Sparky rallied them to an 87-45 finish, including swiping the divisional title from the Toronto Blue Jays in the season’s final, frantic week. Forget the meltdown in the ALCS; the Tigers were spent by that time.
All I know is, it’s been three years and for three years I’ve seen Jim Leyland’s Tigers nosedive during the crucial months of August and September.
The rest I leave to you.
Since everyone is already in a good mood in the wake of the Matt Millen ziggy, I thought this would be a good time to promote a new feature at OOB that will appear beginning next Thursday.
Teaming up with my friend Big Al over at The Wayne Fontes Experience, he and I will engage in a weekly sports chat, which we’ll post on each of our sites.
The chat, called The Knee Jerks: WTF? With Eno and Al, will be the two of us bantering about the week’s news in sports, both around Detroit and nationally. It’ll combine Al’s legendary and hilarious reactionary, volatile approach and my, as he puts it, “more sane” take. Whatever. But it’s sure to be fun — for us, at least!
Maybe down the line, The Knee Jerks will find its way into the world of podcasting. Stay tuned. But for now, you’ll have to subsist on the transcripts, which will be posted every Thursday here at OOB. Check out TWFE to find out when Al will put it on his site.
Today I am posting on two organizations who are showing their lack of intelligence: our own Detroit Lions, for not having a capable NFL backup QB, and the Milwaukee Brewers, for firing their manager in the midst of a playoff race.
The Brewers post, by the way, can also be seen at the baseball blog of the Out of Bounds empire, Where Have You Gone, Johnny Grubb?
I’ve seen plenty of dumb things in my time, following and/or covering baseball since 1971.
Baffling free agent signings. The designated hitter. The Houston Astros’ rainbow uniforms. The Chicago White Sox wearing shorts. Jose Canseco having a baseball bounce off his head and into the stands for a home run. George Steinbrenner and Charlie O. Finley. Randy Smith.
Here’s one more for the list: the Brewers firing manager Ned Yost. With less than two weeks left in the season. With the team in the thick of the playoff race.
In fact, this might be among the Top 5 in terms of stupidity.
Who does this, anyway? Unless it’s another Steinbrenner-Billy Martin drama, who does this? And even King George never had the temerity to can a manager in the shadows of October, the post-season beckoning.
Does a team that’s battling for its playoff life REALLY need something to add to the cauldron of emotions? Are the Brewers, who admittedly have been struggling lately, REALLY helped by a change of leaders at this juncture?
The Brewers haven’t been to the playoffs since 1982, and they’re panicking.
They haven’t been quite the same since the Cubs came into Milwaukee in late-July and spanked the Brewers in four straight, by a combined score of 31-11. But they’ve managed to stay afloat, and are just one-half game behind the Mets for the Wild Card. But like I said, they’re panicking. They haven’t had much success to speak of since ‘82, and now they have no clue how to handle it, nor the pressure that a playoff race brings. Firing Ned Yost now is the ultimate panic move.
Yost: deposed in a fit of panic, and stupidity
The Yankees don’t fire managers now. The Red Sox don’t. The White Sox don’t. The Twins don’t. The Braves don’t. The Mets don’t. The Dodgers don’t. And the Tigers certainly wouldn’t, given the same circumstances. No one, in fact, does what the Brewers have just done, unless they, like the Brewers, are so foreign to money baseball that they overreact to a bumpy stretch.
It’s a big PR risk, too. If the Brewers stumble and fail to make the playoffs under interim manager Dale Sveum, then they will be rightfully roasted and sliced and diced by the fans and the media for firing Yost. And if the Brewers would have failed to make the playoffs under Yost, do you think there would have been a bunch of folks saying, “If they only had FIRED him with two weeks to go!”?
I doubt it.
OK, but what if they make the playoffs after all?
Still doesn’t excuse the move. In fact, you could argue that the Brewers dug deep and got themselves in, despite the boneheaded move to fire Yost.
If you want to fire a manager in mid-season, you do so in May, or June, or July. Sometimes in August. But there are two months in which you should not fire your manager, of all the months in the year: April and September. And September is only permissible if your team is way out of contention.
Baseball observers are especially surprised because the firing was done by GM Doug Melvin, who’s regarded as being very conservative and not one prone to risk-taking. So naturally, speculation has begun that has Melvin simply being the hatchet man for the people upstairs.
But whether it was Doug Melvin on his own or the front office in collaboration, the decision to let Yost go now was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Panicky and reckless, to boot. The move of losers who have no idea, really, how to win.
Stupid.
Has any Tigers rookie had a more successfully quiet season than Armando Galarraga?
Galarraga, the right-hander from nowhere, is 12-6 with a fine ERA of 3.58. His strikeouts-to-walks ratio is exactly 2:1. He’s giving up an average of only about eight hits per nine innings pitched. His only real vice has been the longball: he surrenders a home run about every seven innings — but even that’s not so awful. Besides, some of the greatest pitchers in modern history gave up a lot of home runs. It’s often when you give them up that matters, and how many men are on base at the time. To show you, Bert Blyleven, for the 1986 and ‘87 Twins, won 32 games while giving up 96 home runs in the process (50 in ‘86 and 46 in ‘87). But Blyleven was a control pitcher, and those types are going to be susceptible to homers because they’re always — ALWAYS — throwing strikes.
But back to Galarraga.
Armando Galarraga: the best rookie pitcher in Detroit that you’ve barely heard of
He was acquired from the Rangers in an oh-by-the-way manner back in February, traded for someone named Michael Hernandez. There didn’t appear to be any reason to learn who Galarraga was, with a supposedly “set” rotation of Jeremy Bonderman, Justin Verlander, Kenny Rogers, Nate Robertson, and Dontrelle Willis.
But then Willis lost it early on, Bonderman got hurt, and now here Galarraga is, having made 26 starts and pitching in 163 innings. He’s 26, and would seem to be a lock for a rotation spot for the Tigers in 2009.
Ahh, that’s if the Tigers decide not to trade him for, say, an outfielder or a catcher. Galarraga could be the Jair Jurrjens of this off-season. But let’s not go there.
The funny thing about Galarraga’s season is that it’s not getting all that much play — and I’m talking about in Detroit, let alone nationally. All I know is, when the Tigers have needed a “stopper” in their rotation — someone to stop a losing streak or someone to simply register a quality start — Galarraga has been, more often than not, that guy. Several times this season I tuned in to a Tigers game, not knowing who was pitching, and noticed a well-pitched game in progress. Most of the time, it was because Galarraga was on the mound.
Yet hardly anyone touts him around town.
For a 70-76, hugely disappointing team, you’d think there’d be folks tripping all over themselves looking for a silver lining — something to hang their hats on for 2009. To me, it’s nice to know that the Tigers have apparently secured another spot in their rotation for next season — a rotation that’s likely not to include Rogers, who will probably retire, and still has some question marks due to the health of Willis, the debate whether Robertson can bounce back, and whether Freddy Garcia has anything left in the tank. That, plus the curious step backward taken by Verlander, and the recovery of Bonderman from surgery, casts all sorts of doubt over the starting pitching in Detroit in ‘09.
But with Galarraga — barring some sort of sophomore jinx — you feel like there’s one spot you don’t have to worry about.
Not that anyone in Detroit is talking about it or anything.
It’s been over a week and I realized that I never weighed in on the CC Sabathia/maybe no-hitter controversy.
You remember that, don’t you? The Brewers’ Sabathia pitched a one-hitter against the Pirates on August 31, the lone hit being a dribbler off the bat of Andy LaRoche that Sabathia tried to field bare-handed. But he couldn’t come up with the baseball as LaRoche scampered to first base. Official scorer Bob Webb ruled the dribbler a base hit, reasoning that LaRoche was too close to first base for Sabathia to have thrown him out, even if the pitcher had fielded the ball cleanly. It’s a call that happens hundreds of times during any given baseball season.
But it’s not often that such a call will have no-hitter implications.
The play on LaRoche occurred in the fifth inning — leading off the inning. So while Webb’s decision technically broke up a no-hitter, it was only the fifth inning.
I wonder how Webb, or any official scorer, would have ruled the play had it happened in, say, the 8th or 9th inning?
The pressure would have been unreal on Webb. Doesn’t matter where the game was played (it was in Pittsburgh), for a no-hitter is history, and it should be as unblemished as possible. I mean no disrespect to Webb, but I wonder if he would have ruled the play an error if it happened late in the game. Why? Because there’s another adage in baseball that says a ruined no-hitter, when broken up late, should be the result of a “no question” hit, and certainly shouldn’t be a bunt. LaRoche wasn’t bunting, but his dribbler was like a swinging bunt. Webb, had he ruled “E-1″, would have baseball tradition on his side; he could have rightly argued that a no-hitter should only be broken up if the play in question is unequivocally a hit. In other words, “ties” go to the pitcher.
Yes, Webb would have come under fire for that, too, but it wouldn’t have been as hot as what he faced in the days after the Sabathia incident. The Brewers sent a DVD of the play to MLB offices, hoping for a reversal. It would have been the first no-hitter in history to be awarded after the game had ended. But here’s a tasty little morsel of ruledom: any reversal, even if initiated by MLB, has to be agreed to by the official scorer himself. Talk about power!
Well, it didn’t get that far; MLB supported Webb’s decision, sparing him the pressure of having to change it with the baseball world breathing down his neck. Probably fell under the category of not being “conclusive” enough to change the call.
Anyhow, here’s the Sabathia play. You make the call. My opinion? From the third base camera, it certainly looks like, had Sabathia made the play cleanly, LaRoche would have been out. I think Mr. Webb got it wrong, and CC got screwed.
What will we do, with the New York Yankees not in the playoffs?
Who will we root against? Over whose misfortune will we revel, with the Yankees not in the post-season party, losing to an inferior opponent? Which player will we mock as being horse (manure — a nod to Jim Leyland’s rant about Justin Verlander yesterday) in the clutch, without Alex Rodriguez to cackle at? Which owner will we wonder is about to pop an aorta, with the Steinbrenner family gone fishing this fall?
It’s real, folks. The Yankees are likely to be outsiders looking in for the first time in 14 years, when Fall Ball begins in a few weeks. Oh, they’re in it, mathematically, but the magic number for their elimination is dwindling. It’s 17 now, with only a couple dozen games or so to play.
So what will we do?
Well, there’s the Tampa Bay Rays — the “feel good” story of 2008. The Rays did it all in one year: changed their name (dropping the “Devil” portion), changed their uniforms, had their first winning season in team history, and are about to make the playoffs for the first time, too. That’s quite an about face.
There’s the sizzling AL Central race between the White Sox and the Twins — the loser of which is likely to miss the playoffs entirely.
There’s the wacky NL West — a division where the winner, once again, will barely be over .500.
And there’s Feel Good Story II — the Chicago Cubs/Milwaukee Brewers, one of whom could either: a) end a 26-year-old playoff drought (Milwaukee), or, dare we say, b) a 100-year World Series drought (Cubs).
There’s also the outside chance that the Tigers’ wounds will have salt poured in them, if the Florida Marlins somehow sneak into the playoffs, and Andrew Miller pitches in October for them.
So there’s a lot to watch as the season ends and the post-season begins.
But without the Yankees around for it, isn’t some of the fun gone?
When you last saw Matt Stairs, it might have been as a late-season pickup for the Tigers back in 2006. I was watching a Friday night game two Septembers ago and suddenly here’s Stairs, in a Tigers uniform, pinch-hitting! I didn’t even know the Tigers had acquired him earlier that day. It was kind of funny, actually.
Then Stairs hit what COULD have been a big home run in the season finale, tying the game against the Royals in the 9th inning. Had the Tigers won the game, they would have been crowned Central Division champs. But the Royals finished the stunning three-game sweep, and the Tigers settled for the Wild Card. That worked out pretty well, turns out.
If you blinked, you may have missed this: Stairs in a Tigers uniform
On July 31, 2006, Stairs was traded to the Texas Rangers on the deadline day, from Kansas City. Then he went to the Tigers a month-and-a-half later; so he’s used to being the last-minute addition.
Stairs was acquired by the Tigers too late to be added to the post-season roster, but he was on the field when the team celebrated a playoff berth in Kansas City. The Tigers neglected to offer him a contract, and Stairs signed with the Toronto Blue Jays in November ‘06.
Now Stairs is, once again, someone else’s late-season pickup — being traded by the Jays to the Philadelphia Phillies to give the Phils some pennant race help. He’s 40 now, and in the National League I imagine he’ll primarily be a pinch-hitter; his outfielding skills are waning. With the Jays, Stairs played less than 20 games in the field, functioning mainly as the team’s DH. But at this time of the year, you can always use another left-handed bat off the bench.
There was a time, about 10 years ago, when Matt Stairs was one of the most feared lefty sticks in the American League, when he played for Oakland. Now he’s one of the most sought after insurance bats, it appears.
I liked Stairs when he was in Detroit for those few weeks. He made his Tigers debut in a romp over the Orioles, and in the clubhouse after the game he sat in his swivel chair in front of his locker and spoke in a relaxed, playful manner to reporters. You could tell he was looking at his stint with the Tigers as a breath of fresh air, in a pennant race once again. I was sad when the Tigers let him walk, but there really wasn’t any room for him anyway, I suppose.
When it comes to signing free agent pitchers to fat contracts, I’m usually the first one screaming “NOOOO!” and imploring the signing team to put the pen down and run screaming in the other direction. Far too many poster children exist, since free agency was spawned in the mid-1970s, that are examples of why any franchise should shake in its cleats when it comes to luring the “big name” pitcher.
You’ve read the story, time and again. Big name pitcher signs fat contract with a new team. Then, said pitcher immediately either: a) gets hurt; b) goes down the toilet; c) gets hurt WHILE going down the toilet.
From Wayne Garland (1977 Indians) to Carl Pavano (2005 Yankees) and countless others in between, the free agent pitcher has been a risk that many teams have taken with disastrous results. For whatever reason, it almost seems as if free agent pitchers, once they sign with their new teams, simultaneously have voodoo dolls of themselves created, which are then pricked unmercifully by the baseball gods.
So call it desperation. Call it temporary insanity. But I’m here to tell you that the Tigers should take a serious look at free agent closer Frankie Rodriguez this winter.
Rodriguez, the Angels’ awesome closer, announced in July that he will file for free agency, testing the market. He’s 26 and the consensus is that he’ll fetch the richest contract ever awarded to a relief pitcher.
The Tigers have an astounding 23 blown saves this season. That’s almost too unbelievable to comprehend. If even HALF of those had been converted, the Tigers would be in the thick of the playoff race. I’m not even sure if that figure includes all the games in the 7th and 8th innings that the Tigers bullpen frittered away. If the 23 blown saves include just the ninth inning, then that’s even more amazing, when you think about it.
The bullpen, as a whole, has killed the Tigers in 2008. It was perceived as a weakness in the off-season and in spring training, but the feeling was that if it should be a glaring weakness, then GM Dave Dombrowski would make it all better with some sort of bodacious transaction. But, no such help has come from outside the organization. The Tigers, since defrocking Todd Jones as closer, has gone to that age-old “bullpen by committee” thing, and everyone knows that when you start doing things “by committee” in sports, it’s not a good sign. It means that you don’t have anyone.
Since no one has grabbed the closer’s role by the gonads, then I say throw some money at F-Rod and takes your chances. Don’t get me wrong; the idea does kind of make me jittery and maybe even a bit nauseous. It’s so not what I would usually recommend. But the Tigers have no other real solution for their bullpen troubles, at least none that are currently part of the organization. Perhaps a trade will happen, but are the Tigers likely to get a bona fide closer in a trade? You think these guys grow on trees? They’re more like precious gems — and teams are VERY unwilling to trade them. You have to break in and steal them — which is what free agency sort of allows.
The Tigers, for sure, are 64-68 for more reasons than just that their bullpen blows chunks. They have other issues. But one of those issues is age; lots of these guys aren’t getting any younger. How many more years can these players watch the bullpen toss games out the window? It becomes demoralizing after awhile.
I’m not 100% comfy with the notion, but I think it’s time for the Tigers to roll the dice and get into the Frankie Rodriguez sweepstakes this off-season.
I encourage anyone who has a soft spot for some of the oddities that make up baseball history, read about the story of Moe Berg.
Berg was a rather nondescript catcher in the 1920s and 1930s. But that was hardly where he made his name. A voracious reader of newspapers and a world traveler, Berg enjoyed the amenities that came with being a big league ballplayer. And his fervent interest in world affairs and other cultures (he could speak many foreign languages), plus some inside connections, led to Berg becoming a spy for the United States during World War II.
Berg’s life reads like a fiction novel: there’s romance, intrigue, inner struggle, and Berg himself was a mysterious figure — even to those who supposedly knew him the best. He seemed to regale in his role as an undercover figure, mainly because that’s how he lived most of his life. His teammates recall Berg being not necessarily UNfriendly, but certainly not all warm and fuzzy, either.
I’m reading about Berg in a book called The Catcher Was A Spy, written by Nicholas Dawidoff. It’s a fascinating tale — and I think what makes it such is that it’s true, not fiction like it would appear. It’s also a return to a time in baseball history, and indeed U.S. history, that will probably never be re-lived. Can you imagine Brandon Inge or Paul LoDuca moonlighting as government spies?
If you can find the book (try Amazon.com), you may think that some of the passages are long on detail and short on substance; in other words, the book can be slow-moving at times. But the trade-off is that Dawidoff does a great job placing you in Berg’s world; sometimes you feel like you’re with Moe as he sips wine or beer in France or elsewhere, and lounging with him as he reads one of his dozens of newspapers.
Berg, who died in 1972 at the age of 70, was a lifetime .243 hitter over 17 big league seasons. He was no baseball star. But he actually used that backup player status to his benefit, blending in during barnstorming trips to Japan, for example — where he was able to use his 8mm home movie camera to shoot footage that helped make him attractive as a potential spy.
If you’re tired of the typical baseball-only book, I recommend The Catcher Was A Spy.
Why are we in such a rush to install instant replay into Major League Baseball?
Replay is being seriously considered, as you probably know, to determine such things as fair/foul, whether a ball is a homerun, etc. Fine. But the proponents are rushing to push it through in time for games next month and the post-season. The umpires union, predictably — among others — have some serious concerns about the use of replay. Some have to do with logistics, others with what types of plays would be subject to review. But the bulk of the umpires’ worries center around how the system will be implemented.
You can read more about that HERE.
I don’t know why, after some 100+ years without instant replay (OK, so over 50 of those years were before television), we need to rush it through for 2008. The umpires, who have been known to act out in the same petulant, crybaby manner that their charges in uniform are famous for, actually have some legitimate, reasonable objections. They’re not warm and fuzzy over the manner in which the replay system will be used, i.e. the type of equipment and its placement; potential public access to it; which umpires will be allowed to view the plays; and the fact that league officials may need to be consulted. That, and more. Most concerns don’t appear to be outlandish at all.
My concern is, that when you watch a game on TV, often the cameras can’t even tell you whether a ball wrapped around the foul pole or not. So much of baseball calls, like whether a ball cleared the fence for a homerun, are based on having the proper depth perception and angle. Sometimes TV, with its two-dimensional look, doesn’t always provide that. There are actually occasions where the naked eye knows best.
My opinion of MLB umpires has gone thru cycles. In the 1970s and 1980s, I held them in the highest esteem and believed them to be the most accurate and mature of the four major sports’ officials. But about 15 years ago or so, when many of the older guard retired, it seemed that the new generation was more confrontational and reticent. I began to lose respect for the men in blue. Now I’ve softened a bit, though I still think too many umpires believe themselves to be above reproach. Yet when I read their concerns over replay, I couldn’t honestly say that they were too off-base.
It just seems that something as important as introducing replay to baseball should be done with as many t’s crossed and i’s dotted as possible. We’ve gone this long without it. Let’s take a step back, address all concerns with time and patience, and take a look at it for 2009. Maybe try it in spring training and get some more feedback. Try it some more during selected regular season games in ‘09. Then MAYBE it will be polished and ready to go for the 2009 playoffs.
Baseball itself is a slow game, one built on patience and languidness. The same approach should be taken when it comes to installing TV replays.
This is kind of offbeat, but it’s something I’ve noticed for quite some time, yet no one else has seemed to — or at least, not that I’m aware of. I’m finally going to get it off my chest now, with the person in question making his first start for his new team today.
Has anyone noticed how much new Red Sox pitcher Paul Byrd looks like actor Kelsey Grammer?
To wit:
Maybe these aren’t the two best photos to use as a means of comparison, but I wanted to show both of them wearing baseball caps. I don’t know about you, but for me the resemblance was striking almost the first time I saw Byrd pitching for the Indians. I didn’t really know much about him when he was with the Braves. To me, it was uncanny.
“My goodness, he looks just like Kelsey Grammer!,” I remember thinking the moment I saw Byrd’s face for the first time.
Speaking of Byrd, his face sure has grizzled since this rookie card:
Hard to believe that’s the same guy, huh?
That’s it for today’s post. Just wanted to bring this to someone’s attention, since it seems to be flying under the radar.
A major league baseball diamond is made up of, last I checked, green grass and orange-red dirt.
Had it been made of paper, the Tigers would be on cruise control now, preparing for an assured appearance in the AL playoffs.
That’s right where the Tigers’ hopes started and ended this season: on the parchment that contained so many ebullient predictions for them.
They were going to win 110 games, and score over 1,000 runs in doing so. They were going to rival the Yankees’ old Murderers’ Row for overall offensive production. They were going to make a mockery of their division, and ultimately the entire league.
All this was going to happen, according to what was sprayed, in ink, onto newsprint. And what was shouted all over the Net. The Tigers were a sure thing.
Oh, how smug it must be, today, to be one of those naysayers who were drowned out in spring training. To be one of those who tried to warn us all about the Tigers’ shaky bullpen and pitching, in general. If you were one of those, then you must have felt like Chicken Little as everyone derided you and dismissed your warnings as so much rain on the parade — which was scheduled for sometime in late October, down Woodward Avenue.
I wish I could say I was one of the naysayers, but I can’t with any honesty. I got caught up in all the hype, too. But it wasn’t just the fans, or the bloggers, or the local media. The national scribes bought into all of it, too. So did the online journalists, and the talking heads on TV. Well, most of them, anyway. You can’t tell which ones were dissenting, mainly because their voices were being drowned out.
The 2008 baseball season in Detroit might go down as one of the strangest in Tigers history; certainly in recent times. Strange for the lofty pre-season expectations, which had rarely been higher in Motown. Strange for the injuries and the under-performance by some of the stars. Strange for the war of words being engaged in by manager Jim Leyland and various players, even those who aren’t Tigers anymore (read: Jason Grilli). Strange for the 12-5 run in April and the 18-4 run in June that looked to be season saviors, only to be negated by cold streaks in their wake. Strange for the mysteries surrounding the health and well-being of Joel Zumaya and Dontrelle Willis. Strange for the out-of-nowhere trade of Pudge Rodriguez. Strange for the emergence of the Tampa Bay Rays as the new darlings of baseball, replacing the Tigers of 2006.
Once this season has finished, and the Tigers limp home with their 78-82 wins, it will then usher in what could be an almost-as-strange off-season. Futures of so many Tigers are in doubt, and impact names, like Gary Sheffield, Zumaya, Todd Jones, and Marcus Thames (an annual occurrence anymore with Thames).
There will be pieces to be picked up when the final out is made on September 28. And it won’t be, as predicted, confetti.
How many more times can we put “Detroit Tigers” and “tough loss” in the same sentence?
Probably as many times as “Dave Dombrowski” and “bullpen help” will be lopped together in the coming months.
Last night in Chicago was another game that the Tigers’ gas can bullpen let get away. First, in the 8th inning, when Kyle Farnsworth surrendered yet another home run — this one to tie the game. Then, in the 14th, after the Tigers had taken an 8-6 lead — when Joel Zumaya got the gas can out and gave up four runs, the last three on Nick Swisher’s long home run to center field.
10-8, White Sox.
Time to get that fork out, because the Tigers are just about done.
Oh, I know teams have come from behind to nip the pack at the end of the season, and I know they’ve done so with bigger deficits than the 7-1/2 game margin that the Chisox lead the Tigers by this morning. I know that it happened just last season, several times: with the Yankees, Phillies, and Rockies.
But that kind of hot streak is only possible with an airtight bullpen — the kind that doesn’t treat leads like a buttered bowling ball that has no holes drilled in it.
The Tigers’ bullpen seems to pitch OK when the game is tied or the team is behind — they did alright last night between the 9th and 13th innings. But as soon as they have the lead, here comes the gas can.
It’s tough to watch, and those naysayers before the season who worried about the Tigers bullpen — even amidst the euphoria over the off-season moves involving the offense — are looking pretty damned prophetic right now. Count me among the non-prophetic.
Don’t get me wrong — I knew the bullpen might be a concern. I just didn’t know it would unravel this badly. Or this often, in the most critical of times.
And once again, Jim Leyland’s ballclub is experiencing a miserable August — the month that has been his bugaboo ever since he came to the Tigers.
The Tigers are much closer to the fourth-place Royals than they are the top of the division. Games like last night just suck the wind out of your sails, and when you string a bunch of them together, it can be almost too much to recover from.
Dave Dombrowski. Bullpen help.
Get used to that combination of words. I mean, besides the ones not fit to print here.
It’s the nature of the big baseball trade that the first reaction is shock. Sometimes how you find out about it adds to that aura.
There I was, sitting in a restaurant, having a nice early dinner out — giving my wife the night off from cooking during our daughter’s band camp week, at which Sharon has been volunteering every day at the high school. Hanging from the ceiling was a television — its volume down but the closed captions running along the bottom of the screen. Channel 7’s guy was on — I don’t know anyone’s names anymore — and there were the words “Pudge heads for New York” scrolling as the talking head spoke. Not knowing what that meant, it became clear moments later, when Pudge Rodriguez’s photo was superimposed on the screen, over the talking head’s shoulder. And the words “Pudge traded!” was its caption.
My jaw literally dropped — so much so that my family asked me what on Earth I was reacting about.
It’s also the nature of the big baseball trade that, once the shock dissipates, and once you start thinking rationally, most “shocking” trades aren’t all that shocking. In fact, some of them make some pretty damn good sense.
It was revealed yesterday, in the wake of Rodriguez’s trade to the New York Yankees for reliever Kyle “I Used To Be a Tiger” Farnsworth, that no one in the Tigers’ inner sanctum is shocked that Pudge is gone. If only because the team committed, a “couple weeks ago”, according to manager Jim Leyland, to the notion that Rodriguez would not be a Tiger in 2009. Pudge’s multi-year deal is in its last year, and the cost to bring him back would likely have been quite high, even as he approaches his 37th birthday.
Going further, GM Dave Dombrowski said that Brandon Inge has been tabbed as the new everyday catcher, starting immediately, and extending into next season, at least. That decision, also, was made quite some time ago. So, no shock in the executive offices when the team was able to consummate a deal for Pudge.
So the more I thought about it, the more I can understand the Tigers’ perspective. The bullpen is in dire need of help. Farnsworth provides that. Leyland said it best.
“No disrespect to Brandon or Pudge, but whether we make the playoffs isn’t going to be decided by who the catcher is,” he told FSN Detroit before yesterday’s game. “Pitching will decide that,” he added.
Indeed.
That much was once again placed into an evidence bag last night.
Closer-for-now Fernando Rodney got all Todd Jones-ish and surrendered a game-tying home run in the bottom of the 9th to Kelly “Babe Ruth” Shoppach, who had himself one of those nights that his children’s children will be hearing about, ad nauseam: five hits, all for extra bases, including two home runs. And another late-inning lead, one that the Tigers worked so hard to grab, had vanished in an instant. As if Leyland (and we) needed another case study as to why bullpen reinforcements are so badly required.
If the price to nab at least some of that help comes at the cost of an expensive catcher on the back end of his career and in the last year of his fat contract, then maybe we can all live with that. Pudge Rodriguez was a good Tiger, better than I thought, to be honest. I had some serious reservations in 2005, starting when he showed up to spring training much slimmer and in a nasty mood. He wore a sour puss most of the season, and was widely regarded as being no big fan of manager Alan Trammell. But after Leyland arrived, Rodriguez seemed happier, and he was as big a reason as any why the Tigers made it all the way to the World Series.
Oh, and a word about his coming to Detroit in 2004. Yes, it was a great thing for the franchise, coming on the heels of that 119-loss season. But think back. Despite winning the World Series with Florida in 2003, Rodriguez was 31 and with recent history of back trouble. He didn’t have all that many suitors lining up for his services. The Cubs were mentioned. The Marlins showed lukewarm interest. The Orioles came up in discussion. But no team was remotely as desperate — or as willing to overpay — as the Tigers were. They needed Rodriguez, for sure, but he didn’t have too many other options, either. Not trying to splatter on him, just wanting to set the record straight — because you’ll be reading constantly about how Rodriguez rode into Detroit like a knight in shining armor. You won’t read as much, me thinks, about how few teams needed such a knight — at the cost the Tigers were willing to pay.
But that’s not taking anything away from Rodriguez’s time in Detroit. It was properly mentioned that not once did he spend any time on the DL during his 4+ seasons here. For a 30+ catcher with a supposed bad back, that’s something. And he pretty much maintained a .300 BA and played above average defense. There aren’t too many everyday catchers who can do both those things.
This was, at first glance, a shocking deal. Not so much, once you think about it. Pudge will be missed, but as Leyland said — the catcher isn’t going to determine whether the Tigers make the playoffs. Those throwing to the catcher will determine that.
Fernando Rodney is not the answer. But neither does Todd Jones appear to be, at least not now. Joel Zumaya? I’ve been resisting the notion of making him a closer since Day One, figuring that the outs he gets in the 7th and 8th innings are consistently more valuable than anything Jones, etc. gets in the 9th.
Watching Rodney labor through the ninth inning last night, the Tigers’ victory over the Indians seemingly safe, I had some serious reservations about his being anointed the closer over Jones, who was defrocked on Saturday by manager Jim Leyland. TV announcer Mario Impemba echoed my thoughts.
“Well, for all the problems Jones has had,” Impemba said (I’m paraphrasing), “at least he throws strikes. There’s something to be said for that.”
Impemba said those words as the camera honed in on Jones, sitting in the bullpen, finding himself with nothing to do during a 9th inning with the Tigers in the lead. And while Rodney treated the strike zone like plutonium, throwing far too many pitches than necessary, it occurred to me that the Indians kind of helped him out. Somehow Rodney got the required three outs despite being as sharp as a dull pencil, because the Indians didn’t appear to have quite enough patience to see where Rodney’s wildness might lead.
Yes, Todd Jones throws strikes — and that, too, has been a problem lately.
The choice between Jones’s batting practice that he tosses, and Rodney’s wackiness when it comes to finding the plate, is a harsh one indeed — but that is what is being served up to Leyland right now. Maybe that will only be his choice for another 24 hours or so.
Tomorrow is the non-waiver trading deadline. The Tigers exist, precariously, as barely-contenders. But it’s hard to imagine them as anything more than that with their 9th inning pitching options what they are today. Hardly anyone has confidence in Jones right now, but tell me, does Rodney make you feel warm and fuzzy?
There were a few pitches last night that Rodney uncorked where it looked like he was just trying to throw the ball as fast as he could — complete with an exaggerated, overhand motion. Like he was trying to knock milk bottles down in one of those arcade games on the midway.
I’ve always felt that whatever trouble Rodney has, is usually rooted between his ears. I could be wrong, but it’s my belief that Todd Jones might be mentally tougher than Rodney, but that Jones simply doesn’t have the stuff to get crucial outs consistently enough. And Rodney has the stuff — there’s still that nasty change up — but he seems fragile, mentally.
Some choice, huh?
That said, I have a sneaking suspicion that GM Dave Dombrowski is gobbling up cell phone minutes, trying to pry a closer from some poor seller. I think the decision to “promote” Rodney to closer is just a stopgap, until Dombrowski can acquire another guy. Just a feeling I have.
Because the way things are now, the only real hope is if the Tigers beat teams into submission, negating the necessity of a closer.
The good news is the Tigers have been playing their best baseball in the last 40 games or so. The bad news is that this is the time of the year when Jim Leyland’s bunch has typically gone into the tank.
The Tigers are 27-13 since bottoming out at 12 games below .500 in early June. It’s a quarter that has propelled them back into relevancy in the AL Central — just 5-1/2 games behind the White Sox as of this morning.
Trouble is, the Tigers have been bitch slapped by the latter part of July and August the past two years, covering Leyland’s tenure.
In 2006, after a zenith of 76-36 in early August, the Tigers nosedived, finishing the season 19-31 and losing the division to the Twins.
Last season, the Tigers suffered through an 11-23 valley after the All-Star break, basically shattering their playoff hopes.
Of course, the ‘06 bunch recovered in time to make it all the way to the World Series, and last year’s team dusted itself off to make at least part of September interesting before fading into the sunset altogether. But the facts remain: in each of the last two post-All-Star break stretches, the Tigers have wilted under the summer heat.
Ahh, but what about injuries, you say? In ‘06, Placido Polanco missed over a month after hurting his shoulder in Boston in August. In 2007, Gary Sheffield also suffered a shoulder injury while making a rare appearance in the outfield. And we all know what that did to Sheff, physically — and the Tigers, spiritually.
Maybe 2008 will be a 180-degree change from the past two seasons. This time, the Tigers started frigidly and appear ready to make a late-season charge — literally opposite their formula in ‘06 and ‘07. And as far as injuries go, most of those were suffered from April thru June. The Tigers are a much healthier team now, maybe as healthy as they’ve been all season. So there’s that, too.
Still, I’m eager to see how Leyland navigates his team as August approaches, because that hasn’t been the manager’s best month in Detroit. In 2006, the Tigers were 13-16 in August. In ‘07, they were 11-18. That’s a career August mark of 24-34 for Leyland, in Detroit, in one of any baseball season’s most critical months. That’s not getting it done.
But if the Tigers can continue this 180 degree thing, then maybe they’ll have something.
I know injuries played a key role in the Tigers’ last two summer swoons, but that’s also when a manager has an opportunity to seize the moment and make do with what he has. Sadly, Polanco and Sheffield’s injuries knocked the air out of the Tigers, and that concerns me.
It’s early, but the 2008 Tigers are 4-2 since the All-Star break. It’s a start.
There almost certainly will be a heretofore mystery player joining the Tigers late next week, courtesy the trading deadline. If nothing else, to make things a little more interesting. But it’s up to the manager to not allow any more summer swoons. This time, the Tigers can afford one of those the least since Leyland took over. No big pad of ‘06 and ‘07 to sustain such nonsense.
Thank goodness for Camden Yards.
Actually, the official name is Oriole Park at Camden Yards, and the superfluous words are about the only thing wrong with it. I’ve never set foot there, but you don’t have to, in order to appreciate what OP@CY did for the MLB-watching experience.
Prior to Camden Yards’ opening in 1992, baseball stadiums were in a rut. Nothing new, really — other than “new” Comiskey Park in Chicago, which was a huge disappointment for its lack of charm and aesthetic worth. We were still being subjected to the likes of Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, Three Rivers in Pittsburgh, Riverfront in Cincinnati, and even the — yecch — Astrodome in Houston.
The MLB stadium needed a return to its roots, and badly.
Enter Camden Yards, which ushered in a new, “retro” era of manufacturing baseball parks.
OP@CY was built right smack in the middle of the city, which almost forced it to have nooks and crannies, along with the foreboding warehouse wall beyond the right field fence. It had natural grass, of course, and it was fitting that Cal Ripken, Jr. should break Lou Gehrig’s consecutive-game playing streak in a retro park such as Camden Yards — a park much like the ones Gehrig toiled in back in the day.
Others followed, in different cities — other parks that eschewed the “cookie cutter” for a more customized look.
Jacobs Field in Cleveland. Safeco Field in Seattle. Miller Park in Milwaukee. Comerica Park in Detroit. And so on. If you look around, you’ll find very few offenders. Obviously, the Metrodome springs to mind, but its days are thankfully numbered. Maybe Toronto will get off the dime and replace Skydome (or whatever they call it nowadays).
Baltimore’s old structure, Memorial Stadium, was a minor league ballpark converted into a larger, more major league size when the St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore in the early-1950s. And it served the Orioles well — along with the NFL’s Colts. Lots of big baseball and football games were played in Memorial Stadium.
The funny thing is, today’s retro parks are starting to look alike, too — but at least it’s in a good way. If you look at aerial shots of Comerica, or Miller Park, or Pittsburgh’s park, they look similar — especially when it comes to the large scoreboards looming in left field. But it’s a similar look I can abide, unlike those God-awful, round monstrosities they had a fetish for building in the 1970s.
So tip your hat to OP@CY. If it wasn’t for it, I shudder to think where we’d be, baseball stadium-wise.
“New” Veterans Stadium?
The horror of it all.
Carlos Guillen, the other night, perhaps saved the Tigers from yet more late-inning heroics from Cleveland’s Casey $#@! Blake — who has risen rapidly to being my most-hated big league ballplayer. It’s nothing personal — I’ve never met Blake nor do I really know much about him — but he’s a Tiger killer, and I have no patience for those types.
Anyhow, Guillen flashed some serious glove as he wrangled a shot hit to him as he played in, with Blake on third and one out. From his knees, Guillen fired the ball to catcher Dane Sardinha, and a neatly executed rundown then occurred, with Blake tagged out by Guillen. Then, the very next batter hit a smash to Guillen’s left, and Carlos speared it before throwing a perfect strike to first base. Threat over, inning over. Soon, game over, as Miguel Cabrera smacked a walk-off home run.
Earlier in the season, when things were rotten, I recall Guillen making a crucial throwing error in Minnesota on a Sunday afternoon that helped complete a big Twins comeback as they swept the Tigers one series after Detroit swept the Yankees in New York.
Guillen, the Tigers’ accidental third baseman, and Edgar Renteria, the creaky shortstop, haven’t exactly been Gold Glovers in 2008. They’ve been OK, but nothing more than that, really. Guillen’s back-to-back gems Wednesday night notwithstanding.
In fact, the Tigers haven’t had a truly airtight left side of the infield since the days when Aurelio Rodriguez and Eddie Brinkman patrolled third and short, respectively, in the early-to-mid 1970s. I know, I know — what about Alan Trammell? Well, Tram was very good, no question. But 3B Tommy Brookens, though he tried hard, couldn’t match Rodriguez in terms of range or arm strength. Especially arm strength. Rodriguez threw lasers to first base.
Brinkman, for his part, once went over 90 consecutive games without committing an error.
The trouble was, neither man was much of a hitter. In fact, there were some years when they were both awful, their averages in the low-.200s.
In today’s game, teams seem to be willing to sacrifice defense for the sake of a good bat. They appear to be leery of “wasting” a spot in the batting order on a good field, no hit infielder — at least not for any length of time. You can partly blame Trammell for that, and Cal Ripken, Jr. — men who began to re-define what a shortstop should be. Frequently, the SS was the weakest hitter on the team, often batting eighth (pre-DH) or ninth (post-DH). But players like Tram and Ripken came along, with their near-.300 batting averages and their decent power, and teams got greedy. Not only did they want production out of the corner infielders, they looked for it from their shortstop, too. So young players were drafted with that in mind, and the star players in high school were often the shortstops. Today, it’s simply not acceptable to employ an everyday shortstop who cannot hit.
Brinkman (top) and Rodriguez were two human vacuum cleaners for the Tigers
But back to the defense. The Tigers lost a lot of games earlier in the season because their defense failed them. It’s still happening; witness OF Matt Joyce’s mind-boggling blunder in the ninth inning yesterday. But the miscues had often come from the infielders. And Guillen and Renteria could hardly be judged as innocents.
But they have a resume of hitting, and so defense is not the priority. Although both men are probably considered above average nowadays. Trouble is, nowadays standards aren’t as high as they used to be when it comes to glove work.
Rodriguez died tragically in Detroit nearly eight years ago when he was struck by a car in the southwest/Mexican portion of the city. The driver, it was suspected, had suffered some sort of medical emergency and veered onto the sidewalk, striking Rodriguez. He was 52 years old.
Brinkman was traded to the San Diego Padres after the 1974 season as part of the trade that brought bust Nate Colbert to Detroit. San Diego almost immediately traded Brinkman to St. Louis. In ‘75, Brinkman played for the Cardinals, the Texas Rangers (one game) and the New York Yankees. He was out of baseball before the ‘76 season, just 34 years old.
I saw Brinkman at Tiger Stadium, back in 1990. I ended up sitting behind him; he was working for the White Sox as a scout. I remember telling him that the Chisox, at the time, appeared to be an up-and-coming team with a lot of good, young talent. He agreed and said he thought the team could win big soon. They ended up capturing the AL West title in 1993.
There weren’t many big moments with the bat from the 3B and SS when Rodriguez and Brinkman played in Detroit, but thanks to them, there were that much fewer for the opposition, too.
It doesn’t get the same fawning over like St. Louis, or even Detroit, does. But Milwaukee is as fine of a baseball city as you’ll ever find.
You want history? There was a Milwaukee franchise in the inaugural American League season, way back in 1901. That team was called the Brewers, just like the contemporary version. And there’s been minor league ball all along, in between the major league versions. From 1902-1952, the Brewers played in the American Association. Then, when the NL Boston Braves moved after the 1952 season, they landed in Milwaukee. The Milwaukee Braves existed until 1966, when the team moved to Atlanta. But Milwaukee was without MLB for only four seasons before the current incarnation of the Brewers joined the AL in 1970, snatching the transplanted Seattle Pilots franchise. So from 1901-2008 — 108 seasons — Milwaukee was without major or minor league baseball for only a handful of seasons.
They love their baseball in Milwaukee. What else would you expect when the city is crawling with breweries, and baseball and beer go together like peanut butter and jelly? This might partly explain St. Louis’s reputation — also deserved — of being a great baseball town, with that city’s affiliation with beer, too.
I don’t know if you, as a Tigers fan (assuming you are; most people who read this blather on my blog count themselves Tigers boosters) pay any attention to the National League, much less have a favorite NL team that you like to follow. Mine happens to be the Dodgers, for reasons I’ve explained in the past. But I think choice 1-A for me are the Brewers.
The fine folks in Milwaukee haven’t had a lot to cheer about lately, in any sport, unless you count their being fans-by-proxy of the Green Bay Packers. But even the Pack don’t play games in Milwaukee anymore. The Bucks have been duds. So too the Brewers, who were one of the poster children for people making their case that a small market team could never compete in today’s game. The Brewers have been the Tampa Bay Rays (pre-2008) of the NL since switching leagues in 1998. Now we could have a Tampa-Milwaukee World Series. No joke.
The Brewers, according to GM Doug Melvin, are “going for it” — hence their trade the other day with the Cleveland Indians for top-drawer starter CC Sabathia. They are practically tied for the NL Wild Card, and despite that league’s warts, a playoff spot is a playoff spot. Now they have the lefty Sabathia to go with righty Ben Sheets as a pretty good tandem at the front of the rotation.
There’s the Prince, too — Prince Fielder, Cecil’s son. He’s a monster. The rest of the roster is sprinkled with young, mostly nameless players who are hungry and full of energy — not unlike the ‘08 Rays.
It would be fun to see Milwaukee get pennant fever again. The team hasn’t really sniffed the playoffs since playing in the 1982 World Series.
Great baseball cities like Milwaukee shouldn’t have to suffer through a streak of missing the playoffs like their current one of 25 years. Tigers fans should agree, having gone through 18 straight playoff-less seasons from 1988-2005.
So I’m adopting the Brewers as my second-favorite NL team, behind the Dodgers.
Vance Wilson hasn’t played in a major league baseball game since 2006. Yet no one has had a greater effect on the careers of as many current big leaguers as he.
Wilson, the backup catcher extraordinaire, was as key of a cog for the Tigers as one can get, for playing in barely one-third of his team’s games. Not only did he simply provide Pudge Rodriguez with rest, Wilson also was a terrific handler of pitchers, played tough, rugged defense, and even contributed the odd key hit. He was also a great teammate in the clubhouse.
But his right elbow has betrayed him, and there have been surgeries, and he still isn’t close to returning. Another surgery recently has shelved him until spring training, 2009 — at least.
Without Wilson, the following has happened as a direct result:
1. The Tigers gave Mike Rabelo his first significant big league action as a backup catcher, and because of it, he was packaged with Andrew Miller and Cameron Maybin in order to get Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis
2. Brandon Inge has been shoved back into the catcher’s gear as a backup, which caused quite a stir in spring training
3. The team has had to call up light-hitting Dane Sardinha because Inge is hurt. Sardinha had a game-winning triple on Sunday
4. The strategy in re-signing Rodriguez is influenced by how capable of a replacement the Tigers can get. If Wilson was active, Rodriguez may not have played as much in 2007 and this season, and thus might be be better equipped physically — making him more attractive to re-sign
All this, because Vance Wilson cannot suit up and play.
The good news is that Wilson doesn’t appear on the verge of retirement, which lesser players would likely be considering right about now. The injured elbow is on this throwing arm, of course, and this has stalled his recuperation at times.
Wilson hopes to return in 2009, which thrills everyone involved with the Tigers, and should thrill you, too — if you’re the type who appreciates a good backup catcher, which is more of a luxury in this day and age, as opposed to a God-given right for a ball club.
If Vance Wilson had been healthy all along, then you can go back to the aforementioned list and pretty much cross them all off as never would have happened. And then draw your own conclusions about how things would have turned out, instead.
Oh, and as far as re-signing Rodriguez goes, there really are no replacements in the minor leagues who are ready to fill his shoes — not that they could, but you know what I mean. The Tigers’ starting catcher in 2009, if it’s not Pudge, is likely to be Inge or someone from outside of the organization.
But everyone hopes the backup in 2009 will be Vance Wilson. He’s that good, and that valuable. Believe it or not.
Gary Sheffield is healthy. Praise the Lord. And about 150 pitchers in the American League are squirming — or should be.
I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day. I figured Sheffield — who’s battled a variety of shoulder and side injuries for about a year now — would never be right. In fact, I openly speculated that he would retire, or be cut, before the 2008 season was over with. I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t anything personal; but Sheff couldn’t stay healthy, and it was almost painful to watch him try to swing the bat with half a working body. He wasn’t just a shell of his prior self; he was a child’s drawing.
Here’s what I wrote, sometime in May:
Sheffield, by the way, is done. I’ve said it before: I’ll bet you three coneys that Sheff hangs ‘em up before the season is over with. That’d be sad, as we only got to see the REAL Gary Sheffield for about half a season. But he’s still hurt, isn’t getting any better, and it’s only out of deference to his great career that the Tigers haven’t cut him loose by now.
Sheesh!
He’s menacing, once again
But something amazing has happened, for since Sheffield’s latest return from the disabled list, he’s been the Gary Sheffield of old. He’s smacking lasers over the fence. He’s getting clutch hits. He’s having multiple hit games. He’s helping the Tigers win. You know, just like old times.
For a while it looked like we were only going to get about half a season from Sheffield, after the Tigers acquired him from the Yankees in November 2006. He put the team on his shoulders last May and June, and when he hurt his shoulder diving for a ball in the outfield, he wasn’t the same. Not even close. Nor was he the same this spring, or in April. Or in May. That’s when the whispers began: Gary Sheffield is done. Actually, it was more than a whisper. It became a deafening roar at times. And I was one of those who joined in the hysteria.
But Sheffield is 6-for-13 since re-joining the team this week, with two clutch hits in two days: a game-winning single Wednesday night, and a ninth inning, game-tying homer on Thursday. The idea of a healthy Sheffield wreaking havoc is absolutely delicious.
Luckily for us, Sheffield didn’t listen to the naysayers.
“I never had a doubt,” he said, that he’d return to 100% health — and that’s what they’re calling it. One hundred-freaking-percent.
He was so not a factor in April and May that his return to health now is almost like the Tigers have added a new bat via trade or waiver pick up. It’s that significant.
Maybe there’s hope for this year, after all. Gary Sheffield is hitting lasers again. Hallelujah.
Oh, how I miss The Baseball Digest.
They still publish it, I know. I could probably drive over to Barnes and Noble right now and lift one off the rack — provided I can find it among the myriad of magazines that get churned out every month. I’m not sure why I don’t. Maybe I want to keep the memories of my childhood relationship with The Digest pristine. Maybe I’m afraid the current version will disappoint me, somehow (it probably would).
TBD – and in this case that doesn’t stand for “To Be Determined” — was also how I made my one and only pen pal in my life. But more on that later.
If you haven’t seen it, TBD was a Reader’s Digest-sized publication that came out monthly — although maybe not as frequently during the off-season; I can’t recall. Anyhow, stuffed inside its relatively small package were tons of stories, interviews, features, and regular departments. And at the back were statistics — either from the current season (of course, outdated as soon as you bought it) or from history. And, rosters of all the teams (again, likely outdated). Plus ads, of course — but the understated, black-and-white ads, like the ones you’d see in comic books.
I could have picked any number of images, but this comes from the era of which I speak (no, that’s not my address label torn off, but it might as well be)
They’d run something called “The Game I’ll Never Forget”, in which a current star would recall a certain game in detail, always with the subtitle, “As told to ….” They had letters to the editor in the front. Quizzes about rules. Trivia. And a crossword puzzle, which was always fun. It was cover-to-cover reading, and as a subscriber, there wasn’t anything better as a 13-year-old to see than the new issue arrive in the mailbox every month.
The same folks who put out TBD also published digests for football, basketball, and hockey. And those had similar departments and features, like “The Game I’ll Never Forget.”
But the baseball version was the only one I subscribed to, though I’d have my mom pick up one of the other sports’ versions if she happened to see them at the Little Professor book store near our house in Livonia.
Now, about that pen pal.
Somehow, through TBD, I got hooked up with this kid from New York, a Yankees fan named Michael Maurer (still remember his name clearly). He was about my age, and we began exchanging letters — remember those? We wrote back and forth maybe a half-dozen times each, him talking about the Yankees and placating me by telling me that my Tigers (this is circa 1977) were up-and-coming (the Yanks were of championship caliber, as usual). He was a nice kid, I recall. But we lost touch, and that was pretty much that. I think the digest was encouraging kids to get pen pals; I think that’s how we met. We might even have been matched up by the magazine.
Maybe I’ll do it, after all. Maybe I’ll grab a copy of TBD, and at least thumb through it. Not that I’m too cheap to buy it, but I’m eager to see the flavor and “feel” of the current product.
I’ll let you know.
The strongest man to wear a Tigers uniform since they employed someone nicknamed Big Daddy is quiet, unassuming, and the closest thing to Clark Kent you’ll find in a big, black man from Mississippi.
Not like Big Daddy at all. Or the strongest man before him – Willie Horton. Those brutuses once owned Detroit – Willie still does, in his own way – because they combined their magnificent power with personalities that were just as big. Big Daddy was Cecil Fielder – and one season he hit 51 home runs, including one over the left field roof at Tiger Stadium off Oakland’s ace, Dave Stewart. And the next season, he posed for a newspaper photo on that very same roof, bat in hand, a big cigar in his mouth (see below).
That was Big Daddy for you.
Big Daddy’s son, Prince, is all grown up and swatting them out of ballparks for the Milwaukee Brewers. That Big Daddy and Son don’t get along at all is a sad postscript to Cecil’s temporary ownership of Detroit. But from 1990-93, Cecil Fielder was Horton, Hank Greenberg, and maybe even a little of Babe Ruth himself rolled into one. An at-bat of Big Daddy’s was one you didn’t dare miss. He could swing and miss with the best of them, but when he connected, things happened – like balls going over roofs and such.
Today’s Most Powerful Baseball Man in Detroit is a 31-year-old ex-journeyman who has the personality of day-old bagels but who clubs home runs as quickly as they make them at Einstein’s.
Marcus Thames doesn’t have a catchy nickname. He doesn’t say anything interesting, really. He’s been twice rejected by other big league organizations, including Ruth’s Yankees. He’s been traded from the Tigers by the media and the sports talk radio boobs and the smug bloggers for the past two years, yet here he is – leading the team in home runs.
He leads the Tigers because he has just completed one of the most impressive displays of power that ever happened within one week’s time.
Thames homered in five straight games, a streak that continued and ended in San Francisco – the city of Willies Mays and McCovey, and of Barry Bonds. How appropriate.
Big Daddy never did that. Willie Horton never did that.
Thames, since he’s been in Detroit (he joined the Tigers in 2004) has homered at a rate of once in every 13 at-bats or so. For a regular player, that’s like once every three games. There are 162 games in a season. You do the math.
Those are, indeed, Greenberg and Ruth-like numbers – and on par with Big Daddy’s rate at his zenith.
Thames might not be as big in stature as other big fly swatters before him whose numbers he can at least partly match, but one thing’s certain: he would have been adored by Teddy Roosevelt.
Marcus Thames carries that big stick that Teddy talked about, and if he spoke any softer – as Teddy also recommended – he’d make Calvin Coolidge look like Barack Obama.
Yet for all his exploits in a Tigers uniform, manager Jim Leyland is only now getting around to declaring Thames as his everyday left fielder.
There was always someone else keeping that position warm. Working backwards from this season, you had Carlos Guillen; Jacque Jones; Craig Monroe; Rondell White. And that’s just off the top of my head; that’s not including all the young studs from Toledo who’ve driven the 70-mile trip to Detroit after a call-up and started that same night – while Marcus Thames sits quietly on the bench, not one bitching bone in his specimen of a body.
I caught Thames one night after a Tigers victory. He had hit a home run – big surprise – but was lifted late in the game, pinch-hit for by a left-handed bat, against a left-handed pitcher. Not all that conventional. In fact, it seemed downright odd. So I asked him about it.
“What did you think of being lifted like that, against a lefty?,” I wondered, as he (quietly) dressed.
Thames shrugged.
“It was for defense,” he educated me. “Skip (Leyland) wanted defense.”
“So you weren’t upset?”
“Nah, man. It’s all about winning, you know?”
That was when the Tigers were frolicking through the American League, on their way to the World Series. Thames hit 26 home runs that year, in a paltry 348 at-bats. He went 5-for-15 in the divisional playoff against the Yankees, then mysteriously only got six more at-bats in the subsequent LCS and World Series, combined. That kind of inconsistent playing time has marked Thames’ time in Detroit. It’s made many wonder openly about Leyland’s marbles – as in, has he lost them?
That Thames has been able to thwack home runs at such a brisk pace while spending long gaps of time anchored to the bench is remarkable. It’s one thing to go no more than 13 at-bats – on average – between homers when you’re a regular, but to keep up that ratio when you might go a week between starts is downright unreal. Not that you’d know it from talking to him, because Thames won’t regale you with his exploits. You know, that whole Teddy Roosevelt thing.
Ahh, that big stick. Thames has power beyond belief. He doesn’t hit home runs – he launches space missions. And it’s not just when a pitcher makes a mistake and leaves a fastball over the plate, belt-high. When the ball tries to break out of the strike zone, Thames reaches and pokes and stretches and flicks and the ball STILL goes damn near 400 feet. Again, the most raw power I’ve seen from a Tigers slugger since the salad days of Big Daddy.
There are no roofs at Comerica Park for Marcus Thames to park baseballs over. And there won’t be any publicity photos of him with a bat and chomping on a cigar.
Just a home run every 13 at-bats. You got a problem with that?
So this is what Pete Rose has now been reduced to.
Rose, the most qualified Hall of Famer not enshrined, is now being referred to as an “unlikely” source of hitting advice.
Since when does having the most base hits in the history of the game make on an “unlikely” source of hitting advice?
The scuttlebutt is that Yankees 3B Alex Rodriguez has been text messaging Rose for quite some time, exchanging thoughts on hitting, among other things. And Rose’s status as the banned Hall of Famer has raised eyebrows over this practice, which really shouldn’t be all that surprising or make Rose all that unlikely of a source.
I could think of worse people to turn to when it comes to hitting a baseball than Pete Rose.
OK, now THIS is an unlikely use of Pete Rose
The two met, apparently, in Las Vegas in early 2006, during a signing show. Rodriguez struck up conversation and became enamored with Charlie Hustle — a nickname that has taken on a twisted new meaning ever since Rose has been placed under a cloud of suspicion over his gambling ways. OK, so maybe it’s not a cloud; maybe it’s a hurricane. But I digress.
So now Rose, it seems, has been functioning as an “electronic batting coach”, as one published report put it. Rose has also offered advice on things beyond hitting, the reports say.
Here’s an example (taken from this report from the New York Daily News website):
During last off-season, while A-Rod was agonizing over whether to opt out of his Yankee contract or return to the Bronx, Rose texted A-Rod: “Got five reasons why you should go to Boston.”
“Name ‘em” was the reply.
“1. You’ll win. 2. You can play shortstop until Mike Lowell leaves and you love shortstop. 3. You’ll hit behind Manny and in front of Big Papi. 4. You’ll hit 800 home runs with that short porch. 5. The Red Sox fans will love you because you told New York to go screw itself. But I take it all back if Mark Cuban buys the Cubs. You’ll end up as part owner of the team and that’s a pretty nice ballpark to play in, too.”
Rodriguez, of course, re-upped with the Yankees. Rose apparently then congratulated A-Rod for his loyalty.
The Hall of Fame has banned Pete Rose. Baseball has, too, in its own roundabout way. But that doesn’t extend to the players, nor should it. Plus, it’s not as if Rodriguez was going to Al Capone for business tips.
Pete Rose, an “unlikely” source of hitting advice? Try, “so obvious that you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
Willie Randolph has been fired, and he has the Internet to thank. And sports talk radio. And the newspapers. And the TV people. New York Mets GM Oscar Minaya? He’s the least culpable, ironically — though he’s the guy who pulled the trigger, or to be more accurate, the plug.
Randolph, the now deposed Mets manager, was taken off life support at the rather symbolic time of 3 a.m. on Tuesday, for that’s not an unusual hour for the moribund to bid farewell — in the dead of night, pun intended.
Minaya yanked the plug, mercifully, thus putting an end to not only Randolph’s tenure in New York but to all the speculation and chatter that was threatening to become a season-long distraction.
They engaged in another of those manager/coach “watches” in New York, and those never end well for the one being watched.
Randolph, who presided over last season’s September collapse, was said to be on thin ice ever since they threw the last pitch of the World Series — maybe even earlier than that. Everyone said so. There was the “Randolph Watch” even as the teams practiced under the palm trees in Florida.
But it wasn’t Mets management who said there was such a watch. It was everyone else. Those aforementioned media and blogging folks, each with shovel in hand, ready to throw dirt over Randolph’s figurative grave. Granted, some weak statements from the front office didn’t really do much to quell the rumors, but once a watch begins, there’s really no stopping it, short of saying, “Willie Randolph is safe! Safe, I say! Now, get on with your lives! Sheesh!”
Nothing close to those words were uttered by Minaya and company.
So the watch continued, unabated.
The Mets have piddled around the .500 mark for much of the season, which wasn’t going to cut it in a city that expected its team to pick itself off the mat after last season’s disappointment and contend for a playoff spot yet again. The watch gained steam; Mets management was feeble in its resistance to it.
Randolph would be fired any day now, the shovel holders said. Maybe today, perhaps tomorrow. The team left for a west coast trip, and the smart money was on it returning to New York with a different manager. Randolph’s condition deteriorated.
He must have slipped into a coma overnight, after the Mets’ win over the Angels, because Minaya stepped in and, seeing no hope and declaring his manager a vegetable, provided his mercy killing. He did a Jack Kevorkian, at the behest of the shovel holders.
It’s not always the front office who fires a coach or a manager.
Willie Randolph is fired — dead, if you will. Driven out by a mad mob of speculators and shovel holders. Pummeled into a comatose state.
Minaya pulled the plug. What else was there to do, really?
It’s never good when they name a syndrome after you. Or a disease. Unless you’re the one who discovered it.
For Steve Blass, the syndrome discovered him, and so his name is the one used — and hardcore baseball fans will know instantly what you’re referring to if you say a pitcher has “Steve Blass Syndrome.”
Blass was a fireballing righthander who was an integral part of the successful Pittsburgh Pirates teams of the early-1970s. He pitched two complete games in the ‘71 Series, giving up only two runs in the process, for a 2-0 mark and 1.00 ERA against the Orioles. He was the winning pitcher in the seventh game. The next year, in 1972, Blass won 19 games and posted a 2.49 ERA. He was still only 30 years old and had won 100 games exactly in the big leagues. He was recognized as among the very finest pitchers in the National League, if not in all of baseball.
Then everything went horribly wrong, and by April ‘74, Steve Blass was out of baseball.
He couldn’t find the plate, plain and simple. In 1972, Blass walked 84 batters in 250 innings. In 1973, he walked the same number — but in 89 innings. His ERA went from 2.49 to 9.85.
He hit four batters in 1972 and 12 in 1973 — or one every seven-plus innings.
There was no explanation found. Nothing was wrong with Blass physically. The trouble lie between his ears, but just because everyone knew it was a mental thing, didn’t mean they knew how to cure it. It got to the point where Blass had no clue where the ball was going when he released it. He literally expressed concern that he was going to seriously injure someone one day.
Steve Blass
Blass gave it another try in ‘74, but after just one game, five innings pitched, seven walks, a wild pitch, and two home runs allowed, the once-great righthander called it quits. Shortly thereafter, any pitcher who suddenly lost it, control-wise, was said to have Steve Blass Syndrome (SBS).
I bring up Blass because I wonder if Tigers lefty Dontrelle Willis is suffering from SBS.
Willis was never a control freak, per se, but never was he as wild as he’s been since being traded from Florida to Detroit. It started in spring training, but it was written off as merely a rough start or some mechanics that needed tweaking. He’d be ready to go, we were told, when the curtain rises for real.
Well, he wasn’t. Not even close. Willis walked a ton in his first start the first week of April, then hurt himself in the first inning of his next start, but not before exhibiting more wildness. Then some rehab assignments in Toledo, with mixed results.
Everything finally came to a head Monday night.
Willis started at Comerica Park against the Indians, and manager Jim Leyland said he felt for his young lefty. Willis struggled mightily, not really coming close to throwing strikes. He’s now walked almost twice the number of innings that he’s pitched: 11 innings, 20 walks. It’s a hideous ratio, and it’s very SBS-ish.
Now Willis has been shipped down to the minors, wayyy down, all the way to Lakeland. Class A ball. Scraping the bottom of the minor league barrel. There, says GM Dave Dombrowski, Willis can get the attention and care that he so badly needs.
They still talk of mechanics — Willis included — when breaking down Willis’s troubles. Not yet has the talked really turned to what’s going on in his cranium. Which is funny, because I’m pretty sure that’s where the problem lies. Maybe no one wants to admit it publicly. Especially Willis himself.
The Tigers had a lefty reliever named Kevin Saucier. “Hot Sauce” was his nickname, and he was the team’s closer in 1981. He was brilliant in ‘81, picking up 13 saves and posting an ERA of 1.65. No control problems, either. But in 1982, Saucier started to lose it a bit. Like Blass, he worried about hurting someone. He retired in July ‘82, in order to put those worries to bed permanently. Saucier wasn’t yet 26 when he quit.
It’s probably still too early to definitively say that Dontrelle Willis has Steve Blass Syndrome. But there’s nothing yet to prove to me that he doesn’t.
That’s what’s spooky.
(stats retrieved from retrosheet.org)
Dick Stuart wasn’t buried, so you couldn’t have buried his first baseman’s glove with him, which would have been maybe the only way that mitt could be assured of not playing a role in committing yet another error by its owner.
The 2008 Tigers are not God’s gift to fine baseball defense. Quite the opposite, in fact. Manager Jim Leyland keeps shuffling players from position to position, hoping they show some sort of competence on the diamond. Already, Miguel Cabrera has become an ex-third baseman and shaky first baseman; Carlos Guillen has become an ex-first basemen, an ex-third baseman, and is now adding left field to his ghoulish trifecta; and Brandon Inge is being used as the world’s biggest band-aid, with Leyland no doubt wondering if Inge can not only play third base, but maybe first as well.
All of which would have made Stuart such a great fit in Detroit this year. He would have fit like a glove — especially if that glove was made of cast iron.
Stuart, grasping what he grasped best — his bat
Stuart, you see, was nicknamed Dr. Strangeglove — skewed homage to his reputation as a good hit, no field first sacker. He picked up the moniker because his career was at its peak when the movie Dr. Strangelove, starring Peter Sellers in the title role, was popular.
Stuart was a tall, lanky slugger who was your classic power hitter: an all-or-nothing swinger who, when he made contact, could rocket the ball out of Yosemite Park. He was Dave Kingman before there was Kingman, a rotten fielder whose bat was too valuable to keep on the bench. So the Pittsburgh Pirates, where Stuart spent most of his career, tried to hide him at first base. But it was like trying to hide a white elephant in a broom closet.
Stuart was so bad, that one time a hot dog wrapper floated down from the stands, and when Dr. Strangeglove snatched it up with his glove, he received a standing ovation from the Pittsburgh faithful. He hit 152 home runs in just over 2700 at bats, and on four occasions committed more than 20 errors at 1B in a single season — including a high of 29 in 1963, with the Red Sox. His lifetime fielding average was .982 — which means that nine times out of every 500 chances, Stuart made an error. For a first baseman, who handles the ball so much, that’s absolutely frightening.
I’ll always remember Stuart fondly, because I simply adore his nickname — my favorite in all of sports. Dr. Strangeglove. I love typing it, I love saying it. And I love thinking about it.
Stuart’s last year in the bigs was in 1969, when he got 51 at-bats with the Angels. That followed a nearly three-year retirement. He died in December 2002, at age 70. He was cremated.
I wonder if they burned his first baseman’s glove along with him, after all.
Last night, the Tigers lost a baseball game because Jack Cust, who if he was a bicycle or a car would be equipped with squares for wheels, beat out an infield single in the 11th inning.
And you can add that loss to the list of oddities and curiosities that have made up the Tigers’ 2008 season, a year that is becoming serio-comic and absurd.
You really have to laugh at this point. The only other alternative is to cry, and why waste tear duct energy on this bunch? They win a couple games, talk about having fun again, then go back into hibernation. Then the manager makes yet another lineup change based on a combination of desperation and hunches, and there are some short-term results, but then it’s back to losing, forthwith.
It’s clear now, the season more than one-third completed, that the 2008 Detroit Tigers will go down in recent baseball history as one of the biggest disappointments ever to put on cleats and eye black. And that’s OK. Someone has to be that, I suppose. And we haven’t had too many out-and-out disappointing teams around here in a while.
1969. The year after the World Series win, the Tigers won 90 games, but the Orioles were super-human, winning 109. So you really can’t call this all that disappointing, because how are you going to win 110?
1985. The year after the ‘84 magic. The Tigers started 5-0 and then played about .500 the rest of the way. This was mostly the same team as the year before, but closer Willie Hernandez proved to be human after all, others went down in production, and the other teams in the league enjoyed beating the defending champs a bit too much. Yes, a disappointment, but everyone knew there would not, could not, be another 1984.
2000. The Tigers were moving into a new ballpark, had just traded for a superstar in Juan Gonzalez, and seemed to have the makings of a scrappy ballclub to match the personality of its new manager, Phil Garner. But Gonzalez under-achieved, didn’t want to be here, and despite a second half surge, the Tigers settled back into their familiar place near the bottom of the division.
2007. A hot first half start turned cold after an injury to Gary Sheffield. An almost certain playoff spot was lost thanks to a wretched August.
That’s about it, folks. And none of those seasons can come close to matching 2008’s downer, mainly because of all the pre-season hype and expectation. High profile moves to secure Edgar Renteria, Miguel Cabrera, and Dontrelle Willis — combined with the team’s existing roster — were supposed to put the Tigers on another plane.
So what to do when such a team disappoints to this magnitude? Nothing, really. Just watch it play out and wonder if there’s any surges left to lift it close to .500. That’s what this season has been reduced to: a chase toward the break even mark. That’ll be our own little, private pennant race.
WDFN radio and the Pistons web site are reporting that head coach Flip Saunders will not return next season. An announcement is set for 2:00 p.m., according to the radio station.
Of course, I’ll have more on this breaking story tomorrow, in this space.
The Tigers’ starting shortstop on June 21, 1970 was in a slump. Big time. After a hot start, he was mired in a 15-for-99 funk, and that included a 2-for-3 performance in his last game.
Not that hitting was ever part of Cesar Gutierrez’s make-up. This was still the era of the good field, no hit shortstop — when almost every team’s lineup (pre-DH) ended like this:
8. SS
9. P
That’s just the way it was. The next season, in ‘71, the Tigers would have a new SS — Eddie Brinkman, acquired in the Denny McLain trade. And Eddie was about as good field, no hit as you could get. The shortstop’s job back then was to prevent runs, not to help score them.
So Gutierrez started in Game 2 of the Tigers’ double-header in Cleveland that June Sunday, scuffling along at .218 and just happy to be in the lineup, most likely. He was penciled in by manager Mayo Smith in the #2 hole, behind Mickey Stanley. Ironic, since it was Stanley’s move to SS in the ‘68 World Series that is now legendary. But on 6-21-70, another shortstop would upstage Stanley and everyone else.
The Indians started a pitcher named Rick Austin — about as big of a name as it sounds, which is not at all. It was Austin’s first big league start, and he would have only seven more.
Ahh, seven. A lucky number.
Don’t bother trying to explain Gutierrez’s day; it’s impossible
Gutierrez singled in the first inning, then scored. He singled in the third, then scored on Al Kaline’s home run. He singled in the fifth. He doubled in the seventh, and scored on Willie Horton’s homer. Another single in the eighth. The game went into extra-innings, and Gutierrez kept hitting. Another single, this one in the tenth. One more at-bat, in the twelfth, and again Gutierrez singled. The Tigers won, 9-8, on Stanley’s homer in that 12th frame.
Cesar Gutierrez, he of the 15-for-99 slump, had gone 7-for-7. His average jumped from .218 to .249 in one day.
Gutierrez became the first player to record seven hits in one game in the modern era. No player had done it since 1892. Pittsburgh’s Rennie Stennett also went 7-for-7 in 1975.
Gutierrrez, nicknamed Cocoa, was about as unlikely a candidate for seven hits in one game as anyone who’s ever played the game. Which is why baseball is such a great game; even the non-descript can have his moment of glory. Just take a look at the list of pitchers who’ve tossed no-hitters, and the ones who haven’t, and you’ll see what I mean. Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series is a classic example of the “every dog has his day” theory. Larsen wasn’t even a front line starter, let alone a star. Just three days before his gem, Larsen was knocked out in the second inning after surrendering four walks. So go figure.
Gutierrez is one of several Latin American ballplayers who played for the Tigers who died too young. Cocoa passed away in 2005, just days before his 62nd birthday. He joined Aurelios Rodriguez and Lopez as those taken from us too soon.
But Cocoa had his day on June 21, 1970. Did he ever.
(note: game details and some other facts researched thru Retrosheet.org and Baseball-almanac.com)
Jim Leyland doesn’t speak too fondly of his days in Colorado.
He’ll tell you that he did a horsefeathers job there, in 1999, when he guided the Rockies to a 72-90 record. He’ll go even further, telling you that he stole his paycheck in Denver and should have quit before the season ended. It was a bad enough performance, in his mind, to make him gun shy about managing for a full six years, until the Tigers and old friend Dave Dombrowski reached out to Leyland late in the 2005 season — Alan Trammell about to be a goner.
I thought about Colorado as I perused that hit-and-run method of communicating, aka the Internet chat forums. A forever anonymous poster said this: “Leyland will quit before the season ends.”
Maybe he will.
There’s not a lot of hard evidence, just some between-lines reading to go on, but Leyland hasn’t been shy to both point the finger at himself for the Tigers’ baffling 2008 season and volunteer the fact that he doesn’t have a clue as to why things have gone sideways.
He was just as stumped as everyone else when he talked to reporters yesterday about the Tigers’ hitting woes. To his credit, he hasn’t gone into snake oil salesman mode, where he tries to jabber his way out of this malaise. He doesn’t speak of raised expectations or goofy clubhouses or the loss of gregarious players. In other words, he doesn’t talk like some of his players. And for that, I give him credit.
But he’s out of answers, folks. Leyland looks and sounds tired, and one only wonders if he’s learned his lesson from Colorado and will pull a self-ziggy before this season is done.
I’m not so sure that we won’t.
If this craziness lasts close to the All-Star break, with no end in sight, then I wouldn’t choke on my waffles if Leyland did a self-ziggy and returned home to Pennsylvania. Some would fret that the wrong Detroit sports guy is the one retiring to the Keystone State (right, Matt Millen haters?), but there you have it. Is it probable? No. It’s still quitting, no matter how you try to spin it. And sports fans don’t have much tolerance for quitters, no matter how good the intentions.
I don’t REALLY think that Jim Leyland will quit on the Tigers this season. But I’m not convinced that it WON’T happen, either.
If that makes me wishy-washy and a fence-sitter, then I’m guilty as charged.
But he’ll quit before the Tigers ever fire him. That much I know.
Major League Baseball wants Jim Leyland to jog to the mound. They want hitters not to leave the batter’s box. They want pitches thrown in a timely fashion. All of this, and more, in order to perhaps shave a few minutes of game time off the clock.
Hogwash. And Leyland agrees.
“Baseball is like a movie,” he told reporters yesterday about the new mandates, which go into effect today as a means to speed up game play. “If it’s good, people stay. If it’s bad, people leave.”
Well said.
Nothing in my first paragraph is made up. Part of the new world order is indeed that managers are asked to jog to the mound instead of walk. The other stuff is true, too.
Would it be crass to mention that part of the reason why games are so long is because of the amount of time between half innings, which has steadily risen due to increased TV ad time?
I agree with Leyland. While I think games are definitely longer than they used to be, I don’t know of any tangible evidence that this in any way affects attendance or TV ratings.
“When the Tigers win, people stay. When we’re losing, some leave,” Leyland opined, extending his comments. Then, some wry humor.
“I smoke three packs (of cigarettes) a day. And they want me to jog to the mound?”
Look, some pitchers work fast (Justin Verlander). Some work slow (Kenny Rogers). Some hitters stay in the box (Curtis Granderson). Some step out a lot (Carlos Guillen). Some pitchers throw to first base a lot. Some don’t. And so on. It’s all part of baseball, which was never a cookie-cutter sport to begin with, when it comes to its players. And what’s the difference if a game takes 2 hours, 45 minutes, or 2 hours, 36 minutes? I mean, really.
It’s silly, to steal another of Leyland’s words as he talked about the new edicts. Just like the fashion police and their insistence that managers wear official jerseys instead of the pullover warmups. Silly.
Funny how quickly they’ll move on stuff like that, but not so much on little things like the use of steroids in their game.
Actually, it’s not so funny after all.
But Leyland Begs To Differ
This crazy, upside-down Tigers season of 2008 has just taken another little dipsy-do.
In this corner: Jason Grilli, deposed relief pitcher — banished to Colorado last month after some turbulence in Detroit (literally in Detroit; he pitched OK on the road).
And in the other corner: Jim Leyland, flabbergasted, cranky Tigers manager — sentenced to remain the Tigers skipper during his own time of turbulence.
Grilli said some things that got themselves printed, and made their way onto the Internet, and through the miracle of something called reading, burrowed their way under Leyland’s leathery skin.
If only the team hadn’t lost 1B Sean Casey, Grilli said. No Mayor, no harmony. And just like that, the Tigers’ chemistry turned into a botched experiment by the Nutty Professor. Well, maybe there’s something to that; you can’t spell “harmony” without “mayor”, you know.
Nonsense, says Leyland.
“Sean Casey? We’re not doing well because we got rid of Sean Casey?,” Leyland harrumphed, using some colorful language in the process. The manager went on to poo-poo Grilli’s assessment of the clubhouse atmosphere. “Everyone’s doing the same bleeping thing. They’re walking around, bleeping joking, whatever the bleep they do. Nothing’s changed.”
Then this: “Jason Grilli isn’t here because he didn’t pitch well in pressure situations and he didn’t pitch well in Detroit,” Leyland said firmly. “If players want to start talking, then I’ll start talking too. He should worry about Colorado.”
There was more to Leyland’s rant, which you can listen to here.
Leyland also made reference, later on in the sound bite, to players currently on the team who he accused of “popping off” to the papers with “weak bleep.” He indicated that those were diversionary tactics and that those players will hear about it. Not really sure what he was talking about, although I know Brandon Inge and Gary Sheffield had made some comments about the team’s work ethic, which weren’t terribly complimentary. Inge lamented that the ‘08 Tigers have now become “the teams we used to beat” with hard work in the past. Sheffield seemed mystified by the team’s relaxed demeanor. “I don’t know if that means that we don’t have a killer instinct or we’re just a real loose team. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Sheff said.
Bottom line: when comments like Jason Grilli’s are enough to set Leyland off, it’s obvious that the skipper’s nerves are frayed and that he might be showing signs of overt frustration. Let’s hope that this isn’t seeping into his players’ psyche.
Congratulations to the Detroit Red Wings on their 23rd appearance in the Stanley Cup Finals. Out of Bounds will be making its first.
Thanks to my gig at SET Magazine, I’ll be attending the Finals games in Detroit. So I’ll provide you with some behind-the-scenes stuff. First report will be filed next Sunday or Monday.
So, Mike Ilitch is spending over $100 million for THIS?
I know he’s not the type, but I wish Tigers owner Ilitch would summon manager Jim Leyland into his office and say, basically, “WTF? I’ve got the second-highest payroll in the big leagues and THIS is what I get for my pizza dough?”
This is simply unacceptable.
Twenty-five percent of the baseball season is in the books. We’re through the first turn. The first quarter is in the books. And the Tigers sit at 16-25, one of the worst records in all of baseball — for a team widely expected to have one of the best records in the game. If the Tigers ever hope to reach .500, it likely wouldn’t come much before the 70th game. They’d still have to go 19-10 to do so. It’s conceivable that .500, if it’s in this team’s future, won’t happen until damn near the end of June or beyond. THEN how buried will they be in the divisional or wild card races?
Nine games below the break-even mark isn’t a small amount, folks. Even a nice five or six-game winning streak still puts them a short distance away. Then what? Lose a few more? Fall to eight or nine games back again?
Let’s examine something. And I’m about to be very unkind to Leyland — and I guess I mean to be.
In 2006, the Tigers were 76-36 in early August. Then they finished 19-31 — nearly one-third of a season playing .380 ball. It damn near knocked them out of the playoffs. Yes, they recovered in the post-season. So kudos there. But some of that was Kenny Rogers being unconscious and guys like Alex Gomez coming out of nowhere.
Last summer, the Tigers had the best record in baseball at the All-Star break before a 40-game rut from late-July thru August (16-24) did them in. Another 25% of a season wasted away.
Now this.
Yes, managers get too much praise and too much blame. And Leyland probably got too much praise in ‘06 — and it was only the team’s surprising post-season that pulled his rear end away from the fire. Had the Tigers gone down meekly in the ALDS against the Yanks, that, combined with the team’s awful stretch run, would have cast a nasty pall on what had been a great year.
But Leyland has now presided over three horrible runs in three seasons in Detroit: the 50-gamer in 2006, last year’s 40-gamer, and this year’s 16-25 start. That’s 130 games of bad baseball. There was a time when Jimmy Leyland could have been mayor of Detroit. Now I think he’d be hard-pressed to beat even Kwame Kilpatrick in a primary.
And I don’t like how fragile the team’s chemistry seems to be. In ‘06, Placido Polanco went down with an injury and things went sideways. Last summer, Gary Sheffield hurt himself and things went sideways. This year, Curtis Granderson misses the first few weeks and things went sideways. How can one player’s absence, no matter how good he is, wreak such havoc? Isn’t it the good manager who doesn’t allow that to happen? Don’t the good ones make lemonade when the baseball gods present them with lemons?
I admit, I’m a little cranky. At least the Pistons and Red Wings have provided ample distraction. But they can’t play forever. Sooner or later we’re going to have to pay more attention to our Motor City Kitties.
Something drastic needs to be done if this malaise carries on much longer. I’m not sure what that is, but it needs to be BIG.
Sheffield, by the way, is done. I’ve said it before: I’ll bet you three coneys that Sheff hangs ‘em up before the season is over with. That’d be sad, as we only got to see the REAL Gary Sheffield for about half a season. But he’s still hurt, isn’t getting any better, and it’s only out of deference to his great career that the Tigers haven’t cut him loose by now.
Yes sir, if I was Michael Ilitch, I’d be a little perturbed right about now. Maybe he’s too caught up in the Red Wings as well.
The Tigers had the Midas touch in 1968 — from Gates Brown’s clutch pinch-hitting to Jim Northrup’s grand slams all the way to manager Mayo Smith’s decision to shift Mickey Stanley to shortstop in the World Series. Everything worked. Come-from-behind victories were the team’s modus operandi. Smith and his coaches could do no wrong.
Until one year later.
Pitching coach Johnny Sain was heralded in ‘68 as the guru behind the success of guys like Denny McLain (31 wins) and Mickey Lolich (3 wins in the Series) and just about everyone else who took the hill for the team. He was glorified just as Roger Craig was in 1984. And as Chuck Hernandez was in 2006.
Here’s Tigers manager Jim Leyland, speaking of the outsiders’ furor over the job Hernandez is doing in 2008 — a season so far that belongs in the trash heap when it comes to pitching staff performance: “I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with the pitching coach,” Leyland told the Detroit Free Press. “He’s the same pitching coach who when we were winning (games) 3-1 a few years ago, had everyone bragging about him and wanting to sign him for 20 years.”
True enough — about how Hernandez was praised in 2006.
Chuck Hernandez
Coaches always get more credit and blame than they deserve. Always. Johnny Sain knew that all too well.
Sain, part of the old Boston Braves’ rotation that spawned the catch phrase, “Spahn and Sain and pray for rain,” (Sain paired with Warren Spahn to produce a top-heavy rotation), was out as Tigers’ pitching coach in 1969. He got dumb real quick, apparently.
Johnny Sain
Smith, who fired Sain in a dispute over how the pitchers were being handled, himself got dumb a year after canning Sain. Mayo was fired after the 1970 season.
I feel Leyland when he tells us that Chuck Hernandez is a good pitching coach. I know that the reason the starters have been so awful can’t solely be blamed on him. I know that Hernandez might not be doing many things differently than in 2006, when the Tigers’ staff was among the best in baseball. But here’s the rub: it doesn’t matter. Something’s not right this year (the staff faltered in ‘07, too) and maybe it’s time that Hernandez does indeed try a new approach. The paltry percentage of quality starts being turned in by Tigers pitchers in 2008 is embarrassing. What’s more, it’s hurting the team, big time. The on-again, off-again offense isn’t able to compensate. It’s a big reason why the Tigers sit at a ghastly 16-23.
Chuck Hernandez isn’t the reason the Tigers pitchers are floundering. Not the only one, anyway. But he’s not free from blame, either. To suggest otherwise is being disingenuous.
At first blush, MLB’s directive to have all base coaches wear batting helmets during games might seem overkill — an overreaction to the tragic death last summer of minor league first base coach Mike Coolbaugh, who was struck in the skull by a batted ball and died. I know some coaches were very resistant, i.e. the Yankees’ Larry Bowa, who felt their rights were being infringed upon. Plus, the helmets are probably considerably less comfy than a regular cap. I get all that.
It’s also tempting to say, “Why the fuss? Coolbaugh’s case was one in a million. It’s unlikely to ever happen again.”
But really, when you think of it, I’m surprised that it hasn’t happened MORE often.
Mike Coolbaugh
Base coaches aren’t exactly the picture of lean, mean physiques. It’s hard enough to evade a line drive, even when you’re young and agile. Sometimes you just get frozen. So if you’re in your late-40s, early-50s, and are carrying some junk in the trunk … get my drift?
Think back to the (thankfully) comic image of a retired Tommy Lasorda in the All-Star game several years ago. Coaching third base, Lasorda ended up on his rear end trying to avoid a bat that slipped out of someone’s hands. That was a bat — traveling considerably slower. What if that had been a ball heading Tommy’s way? You think he’d have a prayer of avoiding it?
Granted, the likelihood is still slim that what happened to Coolbaugh will happen again anytime soon, but I still think we’re amazingly lucky that it hasn’t happened before, several times over, throughout baseball history. Seems that donning a helmet isn’t that big of a deal, to help ensure that tragedy doesn’t strike again.
Besides, that Bowa always was a truculent little rascal.
Paper was a wonderful invention. It took some ingenuity and some good old-fashioned hard work, to devise a method of turning tree bark into something on which we can write.
But you can’t tell all that much from paper, beyond the ink that’s imprinted on it.
Take the Tigers, for example.
On paper, they looked invincible. How many runs would they score? A thousand? How many games will they win? 110? Who can possibly overtake them? Anyone? It was a rather simple thing to do, to peruse the roster on a piece of paper and rattle off the star names.
Miguel Cabrera. Gary Sheffield. Magglio Ordonez. Pudge Rodriguez. And so on.
But the Tigers didn’t count on Cabrera crawling out of the gate and still not looking comfortable after nearly 40 games. They didn’t count on Sheffield still not being right despite off-season shoulder surgery and looking closer and closer to retirement. They didn’t count on Placido Polanco having back trouble and hitting his weight (barely) throughout April. They didn’t count on Curtis Granderson getting hurt. They didn’t count on having Cabrera and Carlos Guillen swap positions, because neither could play the other. They didn’t count on Dontrelle Willis being a non-factor for the first month. They didn’t count on their ace, Justin Verlander, starting 1-5. And so on.
Once the names on paper actually started playing the games, some things became evident.
The Tigers are a slow, still-depend-on-the-home run-too-much team that has a leaky defense, especially in the infield — the corner spots specifically. They have a lot of the same types of players. They still have no major lefthanded thumper in the middle of their lineup. And the pitching staff, the rotation especially, is pedestrian — at least right now.
But I look no further than the 2007 Yankees to have hope. Those Yanks were 21-29 at one point, and then went on a tear, all the way to the finish line. And the Tigers, last year, had the best record in baseball at the All-Star break. The Yankees made the playoffs; the Tigers scuffled along in August, which killed their chances.
So at 14-20, it’s not ledge-jumping time. It’s just what happens sometimes in sports, when ink and paper are poor substitutes for flesh and bone.
I can’t imagine Lou Gehrig’s consecutive-game streak ending, in 2008, the way it ended 69 years ago today, in Detroit. Funny how simple and bottom line everything was before television and the Internet clogged our thinking.
It was on May 2, 1939, when Gehrig walked into Yankees manager Joe McCarthy’s office and told him that it would be best for the team if Lou wasn’t in the lineup. McCarthy consented, and just like that, Gehrig’s streak of 2,130 straight games played was over with. The fans didn’t even realize the gravity of the situation until the Briggs Stadium P.A. announcer told them what was going on. I’m sure you’ve probably seen the photo below, of Gehrig gazing out onto the field in Detroit from the Yankees dugout that fateful May 2nd, realizing that his career was soon to be done. Doubtful that he knew his life was doomed, too.
Gehrig, shortly after pulling himself out of the lineup in Detroit on 5/2/39
Gehrig’s slide began the year before, in 1938, when his numbers — though pretty darn good — weren’t very Gehrig-like: 29 HR, 114 RBI, .295 BA. Perhaps it was the batting average that was the tip-off; the .295 was easily Gehrig’s worst (by over 30 points) in ten years. He turned 35 in ‘38, and managed just four singles in the World Series. By the end of spring training in 1939, something was definitely amiss; not only had his timing left him at the plate, but he was laboring to make even the most routine plays in the field. At the time of his self-ziggy in Detroit, Gehrig was 4-for-28 (.143) and done. He never played another game. And he was dead two years and one month later. He was 17 days shy of his 38th birthday.
Not to be a downer here — with the Tigers finally breaking out of their slump, seemingly — but the Tigers’ series in New York reminded me of Gehrig, and how his epic streak ended in Motown on this day. It was reported that after Gehrig notified McCarthy, he changed out of his uniform midway thru the game and walked down Michigan Avenue to a local pub, where he ordered coffee and chatted with the (no doubt amazed) bartender and patrons. Can you imagine such a scene nowadays? Recall the fanfare (justifiable) surrounding Cal Ripken Jr.’s breaking of Gehrig’s record? Now imagine if Ripken had pulled himself out of the lineup, citing some sort of physical maladay. And that was before the Internet really took hold.
May 2, 1939. A sad day in baseball history, but not as sad as June 2, 1941 — the date of Gehrig’s death.
It’s hard to believe, but Carlos Pena turns 30 pretty soon.
Once, Pena was an early-20-something, potential stud first baseman with a sculpted body made for power hitting. And a nifty glove to match. He had the physical good looks and the baseball tools to be one of the best, most charismatic players of his brethren.
Then Pena lost his way, and nearly disappeared from Major League Baseball. In a flash, he was a late-20-something, pedestrian first baseman who would never realize the greatness once seemingly reserved for him.
In 2007, Pena — the former Tiger who was supposed to be the team’s first sacker for years — showed up to spring training with the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays, without a big league contract and without a promise. He’d have to earn his way — just like any other non-roster invitee, which he was, for one of the worst teams in MLB. He was coming off a 2006 in which he had all of 33 at-bats with the Boston Red Sox. He teetered on the brink of being known as an ex-big leaguer who was long on promise but short on results.
I remember Pena’s first game in a Tigers uniform. He had just been acquired from the Oakland A’s in a complicated, three-team deal that included the New York Yankees and that sent Jeff Weaver to the Bronx. Another player would be coming from Oakland in the trade, as the famous “player to be named later.” The player’s inclusion was designed to simply even up the body count. The player was a righthanded pitching prospect named Jeremy Bonderman. Anyhow, the Tigers were in Boston on that summer day in 2002. And here came Pena, with the smooth lefty stroke that would, one day we hoped, turn Detroit on.
Pena doubled in his first Tigers at-bat — a shot right over the first base bag — and had three hits that day, leading the Tigers to a 9-8 win. The baseball world seemed to be his oyster in Detroit.
Pena watches another baseball go bye-bye; his career almost followed suit
But it wasn’t long before Pena struggled, striking out frighteningly often and the more he failed, the harder he tried. And the harder he tried … well, you get the idea. A 43-119 season with the Tigers in 2003 didn’t help; it only served to prop Pena up as a symbol of what was wrong with the team: another clueless young player wrongly evaluated by an equally clueless Tigers front office.
Well, Pena not only made the (Devil) Rays last season, he busted out: 46 HR, 121 RBI, .282 BA. He still strikes out a lot (142 times in ‘07; 31 in 85 AB in ‘08), but that’s who he is — and who most HR sluggers are. You take the bad with the good.
The monster year earned Pena a lucrative contract, and maybe — just maybe — he can remove the word “potential” from his vocabulary. I say maybe, because so far in ‘08 Pena is hitting just .200 — though he has six HR in 85 AB.
This is the year for Carlos Pena to show us if last year was a fluke, or if he’s destined to be among the most feared sluggers in the next decade. I say the latter is still the best bet. He’ll be 30 in a couple weeks, but while that may be old enough to consider him a late bloomer, it’s right smack in the middle of the start of his prime — if that makes sense.
It’s not outrageous to suggest that Pena may hit some 350 HRs from 2010-2019. Add that to his current total of 138, and suddenly he’ll be knocking on the door of 500 homers. Then what?
Hall of Fame? Gulp.
I’d like to think that Carlos Pena is on his way. He was always a likeable sort, if also maddening to watch at times. We’ll see in a few months.
I’ve been a critic of the sports talk radio blabbermouths, which I figure I can do, as a card-carrying member of that bottom feeding club, aka bloggers and riff-raff journalists. I’m both of the latter, and an occasional member of the former; guilt by association.
Today, OOB joins other salacious curmudgeons like Big Al at Wayne Fontes, and is partnering with WDFN radio. “The Fan”’s clickable logo appears on the sidebar now, and OOB postings will coincidentally appear on the WDFN site from time to time, along with stuff from the sister sites, Where Have You Gone, Johnny Grubb? and Spoiled Sports.
Thanks to WDFN Program Director Rona Danziger for extending the invite, no matter how cruel I’ve been to her jabberjaws in the past. It’s all good. Like she says, if you can’t laugh at yourself, you can’t laugh at all. Plus, she’s good people — as are the folks at ‘DFN, despite what you may have read here previously. 
It was the Pistons’ version of 24.
At halftime of yesterday’s Game 4 against the Philadelphia 76ers, I gave the team — and by extension, coach Flip Saunders — 24 minutes. Twenty-four minutes to show me that they were either still to be taken seriously as a championship contender, or a franchise about to undergo a bunch of upheaval. Twenty-four minutes that would, I surmised, go a long way toward either being the first of many dominoes to topple, or making the world right again at the Palace. Twenty-four minutes to show me that you can stare a 1-3 series deficit in the face, on the road, down by ten points, in an extremely hostile environment against an athletic, young, care-free team that was having entirely too much fun at the experience-rich Pistons’ expense. Twenty-four minutes to, perhaps, save their coach’s job — and their status as untradeable.
This is it, I thought. This might be the most important, crucial 24 minutes of basketball any Pistons team has played in years, because of its implications on their season — and their off-season.
And, like Jack Bauer, the Pistons ended up heroes. Test passed. For now.
It’s amazing how often the team that takes control at the start of the third quarter in any given NBA game ends up the winner. The Pistons had Game 1 halfway in their back pockets after the first two quarters, but a lightning-quick 8-0 run by Philly to begin the third turned a 51-38 laugher into a 51-46 dogfight in about 100 seconds. The game ebbed Philly’s way after that. In Game 2, the Pistons came out of the locker room for the third quarter refusing to let the Sixers back in after another impressive first half by Detroit. The Pistons won, in a cake walk. In Game 3, the Sixers ran away from the turnover-ridden Pistons to start the second half, and won in a landslide.
Last night, the Pistons scored the first 11 points of the second half, turning a ten-point deficit into a one-point lead. The Sixers then showed why they’re still not quite ready for prime time. And the Pistons again showed why they can be among the most maddening teams in sports.
Why, oh why, must this team dangle one foot off the ledge before yanking it back? Why must it give away momentum and energize its opponents? Why does it only feel urgency after creating it by its own lollygagging?
These questions will probably never be answered, because we’ve been asking them for four or five years now, with no real satisfaction.
Regardless, the series with these pesky 76ers is now knotted at two, and things would appear to be back in the Pistons’ control. They appear to have slapped the Philadelphians back into their rightful place as first round victims. They appear to have had their moment of angst for this round, and are prepared to move on — where they’ll no doubt putsy around and tempt danger in Round Two, natch.
The Sixers had the Pistons where they unanimously would have agreed would be lovely, had they been polled before the game: down by ten, the Wachovia Center rocking. Doubts, perhaps, creeping in. An uncertain summer looming. Seemingly drained of energy. Confidence waning.
That Maurice Cheeks’ team couldn’t close the deal — not even remotely close to closing the deal, in fact — is an indictment of his club’s inexperience and why the Pistons should now win the series in six games. And why Saunders’ job has been saved — for now.
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I was saddened by the death over the weekend of longtime Free Press sportswriter George Puscas, who passed away at the age of 81. Puscas was one of my inspirations to write about sports, and I had an awesome experience with him a couple years or so ago, that I’ll share later this week. Fitting and also bizarre that he’s being viewed at the same funeral home, at the same time, as former MSU football great Sonny Grandelius, who also died over the weekend at age 79.
I sort of wish the Tigers would have gotten Hurt. It would have been an appropriate person to add to the roster, considering all the injuries they’ve had to withstand in April.
I’m talking about Frank Thomas, The Big Hurt. Dispatched by the Toronto Blue Jays in rather ugly fashion, Thomas sat unemployed for three days before one of his former teams, the Oakland A’s, snatched him up yesterday for an obscene price tag of about $330,000 — the pro-rated MLB minimum.
With Gary Sheffield’s shoulder “not firing”, how nice and menacing would Thomas look in a Tigers uniform right about now?
No sense crying over spilled milk, I suppose, but Sheff’s shoulder is making me nervous. I wonder, frankly, if he’ll EVER be back to normal. It still wouldn’t surprise me if he retired before the end of the season. I just get that sense. Male intuition.
Do not talk to me about Barry Bonds. I know he’s tempting to consider, but it would be far more trouble than it’s worth. Trust me.
It’s been frustrating, that the Tigers cannot seem to get their prized 1-thru-9 order into the same game at the same time. Back comes Curtis Granderson, out goes Sheff and Placido Polanco. In comes Polanco, out goes Jacque Jones and Carlos Guillen. And on and on.
“We can’t catch a break,” Leyland lamented to the papers yesterday about all the hurts.
The biggest Hurt is in Oakland; too bad the Tigers didn’t get in on some of that action.
The truth is, the Tigers should have enough firepower to overcome most opponents with Sheffield recuperating. But I look at how the team struggled so much while he missed time last season, and I can only wonder how much he could help this star-studded lineup when healthy. In other words, it’s not so much that Sheffield should have to stir this drink; but he definitely adds some fizz.
It’s easy to defend GM Dave Dombrowski on the Frank Thomas thing. If you get him, and Sheffield ends up being OK, then you have a crowded roster. And Thomas’s beef with the Jays was a lack of playing time. So I’m not blasting DD here; I think it was just a matter of bad timing. Had Thomas become available with Sheff on the DL or worse, then I’m confident DD would have made a play.
That said, Sheffield’s absence is rather significant, no matter how you cut it. There still may be a roster move this summer; chances are, the Tigers’ next DH is currently playing for another big league team.
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Just wanted to mention a symposium on race and integration (as it pertains to baseball) that is going on this weekend in Detroit. The symposium focuses on the Tigers and the Boston Red Sox, and their rather late jump into the interracial waters. There’s a tour of historical baseball sites around Detroit planned on the docket, along with a brunch and some panel discussions.
You can find out more by clicking here.
I’m not sure what to make of Tigers manager Jim Leyland’s out-of-the-blue decision. It, on the one hand, smacks of “there’s something ELSE going on”, but might also just be a manager playing his gut. Or something in between.
What “it” is, is Leyland’s sudden announcement after last night’s game that 3B Miguel Cabrera would now be 1B Miguel Cabrera, and 1B Carlos Guillen is now going to be 3B Carlos Guillen.
Things that make you go “Hmmm….”
Where to begin? Let’s start with how curious this is. Cabrera, the Tigers’ new $151 million man, was acquired last December from Florida, complete with “future Hall of Famer” labeling. He was a converted left fielder who was, we presumed, still finding his way at third base, but with an awful lot of defensive potential to go along with this fearsome bat. Just a week or so ago, after Cabrera was seen playing first base with alarming frequency, Leyland declared that “Miguel Cabrera is the third baseman. We did not get him to play first base.” Fine.
Guillen, the converted shortstop — converted partly due to concern over his sometimes painful legs and suspected reduced range — was hailed as a potential Gold Glove at first base by folks who saw him play in spring training and who should, we’re told, be expert at such things. Guillen, Leyland and others said, did nothing other than work his tail off and try to be the best first sacker he could be. The Tigers’ acquisition of SS Edgar Renteria eased Guillen’s mind about being replaced at short.
So here we are, 21 games into the season, and Leyland announces — some say with an air of permanence — that Cabrera and Guillen will swap positions. OK, but why?
If Guillen’s legs were a potential problem at SS, and if playing first was designed to alleviate those concerns, then what the heck is he doing at third (he hasn’t played there since 2003), where range is also an issue, and where you have to do all sorts of heroic things involving your legs? And why, when he’s supposedly a Gold Glover in waiting at 1B?
As for Cabrera, if the Tigers didn’t trade for him and pay him $151 million to play first base, then why is he, you know, PLAYING FIRST BASE?
All Leyland would offer up about the switch was this, according to the Free Press: “We think we’re making a move that makes our ballclub better at this time. When you see things as a staff and as a manager and as a general manager and you see things that (you) believe are the right thing to make your club better, you make the move.
“Both players were talked to, and both players were very quick to say, ‘Whatever makes us the best team, do whatever you want.’ ”
Once again, things that make you go “Hmmm…”
OK, so what were these “things” that Leyland refers to — things that “as a staff and as a manager and as a general manager” were seen to provocate such a swap? Cabrera has made some 3B errors early, but you expect errors from that position. As I’ve written here, 25 E-5s are acceptable, and even expected. Guillen has been decent at first, though hardly Gold Glove-ish. But it’s early. Both are swinging decent bats at the moment.
3B is now on the left, and 1B on the right; got it?
Hunch? The “things” that have been seen are that Cabrera isn’t much of a third baseman, and that he’s being hidden at 1B. But that still begs, “What about Guillen’s legs and range issues?” Perhaps that’s a trade-off the Tigers are willing to make at this time. But maybe judgment should be withheld until we see just how permanent or temporary this move is. That would be the prudent thing to do; which means we won’t do it — not in the blogosphere, and not in ink, and certainly not on sports talk radio.
Not only is this move sudden and unexpected, but also the casual, post-game announcement of it is strange. Not that I expect a press conference, but there was no speculation, no hint, no rumor. It smacks of the day the Tigers released Dmitri Young during a rain delay, though this switch is certainly not as sinister as that.
But this is what you get when you prop up your manager as a grizzled baseball genius. He’s allowed to make these sorts of curious moves. He’s expected to leave us scratching our heads on occasion. And he’s expected to get the benefit of the doubt, because he’s Jim Leyland, after all. Kind of like Scotty Bowman with the Red Wings.
I wonder what Brandon Inge thinks of all this?
First, let me clarify something. By reading the rather provocative headline that adorns this post, you could think that I have a mad on for Jacque Jones. I don’t. But I don’t have any real allegiance to him, either — so I’m just going to call it as I see it.
Back during the wintry weather, when all things seem possible for any given baseball season, I crowed that the Tigers’ left field platoon of Jones and Marcus Thames had the potential of giving them the equivalent of one stud of a player. I cited Jones’ terrorizing of the Tigers while a Minnesota Twin, and his post-All-Star break charge of last sumer, while a Chicago Cub. Thames’ stats in part-time duty spoke for themselves; his HR-to-AB ratio is phenomenal.
It may seem unfair to pick on Jones during this stumble out of the gate that the Tigers, collectively, are engaging in. He, really, shouldn’t be judged as any more of a guilty party than any of his teammates. True that. But this isn’t about being a monument to justice; it’s about being a weather forecaster of sorts.
What we have here with Jones is what could be called a “Neifi Perez Watch.” Not to be confused with a Warning, in which there’s been an actual Perez sighting, and you should take cover immediately. No, a Watch means that the conditions are right, and we’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, seek out a place for shelter, should you need it.
There’s something very Neifi-like going on with Jones, to me. He’s the acquisition that has had some success elsewhere, but so far is swinging like a rusty gate. I only wonder how much longer before Tigers fans use JJ as their human pinata. And since JJ bats left, and most starters are right-handed, the platoon method figures to give him considerably more at-bats than the well-liked Thames. Which, right now, isn’t a good thing.
Jones has contributed one decent at-bat in the first three weeks: his sacrifice fly earlier this week to help beat the Twins. Other than that he’s been awful — a punchless, automatic out who is a waste of a space in the batting order. He hasn’t been the only slow starter, but the others get a wider berth because they’ve been here before — and the other newcomers, Miguel Cabrera and Edgar Renteria, are showing some life now. So that leaves JJ as the Tiger Most Likely To Be Run Out Of Town (by the fans) — no matter how utterly symbolic his railroading may be.
Keep an eye on the Jones situation. And while you’re at it, tell me that you’re not getting that Neifi Feeling. How long before the Watch turns into a flat out Warning?
Ozzie Guillen should have quit while he was ahead, but then again, he’s rarely ahead, so he’s not all that experienced in that area.
I’m talking about his mouth, and its proclivity to utter things normally said by imbeciles.
I’m going to weigh in on something Guillen said last week, which means it’s about ten dumb things ago. But it made some national, indeed international, news, so here goes.
Ozzie, in trying to heap praise on Tigers catcher Pudge Rodriguez, said that Rodriguez was the best baseball player ever to come from Puerto Rico. He even placed Pudge above one of that country’s heroes, Roberto Clemente. A rather stunning remark, but Guillen did a pretty admirable job stating his case. He cited Rodriguez playing a more physically demanding position, his longevity, and his seeming ability to play at a high level for several more years. Not to mention all of his accomplishments thus far. I actually found myself concurring with Guillen on the Pudge/Clemente comparison, as controversial as it was.
But then Guillen, as usual, took it too far.
“I’d say Clemente is the third-best player from Puerto Rico,” the White Sox manager said, “behind Pudge and Roberto Alomar.”
Whoa.
Roberto Clemente, the no. 1 (or no. 2) player from Puerto Rico; but DEFINITELY not no. 3
Pudge Rodriguez? Yes, perhaps. But not Robby Alomar. I’m sorry.
Guillen isn’t the only one here qualified to make such comparisons. I saw both Clemente and Alomar play, and you just can’t put Alomar in front of the Pirates’ no. 21. No way. Forget the numbers. Clemente was killed while still an active player, and there was no sign that he was about to hang up his spikes. He was, frankly, the Pirates’ best player in the 1971 World Series win over Baltimore, at age 37. So he would have added considerably to his 3,000 hits and everything else.
It’s hard for me to make this seemingly obvious argument, because there’s just too much at my disposal. But suffice it to say that while Alomar was a fine ballplayer and one of the best second basemen of his generation, he wasn’t as complete of a player as Clemente was. Nor did he do as much for any of the teams that he played for as Clemente did for the Pirates.
I’m still not all that comfy about placing Pudge over Clemente, but it’s feasible. You can make a case, and Ozzie did. But he went too far when he placed Alomar in the no. 2 slot.
“It’s my opinion,” Guillen said. “It doesn’t have to be the right one.”
It’s not.
Some time ago, I wrote that Tigers manager Jim Leyland was to face his toughest managing job to date — certainly of the Detroit portion of his career. Never before had he managed a team with expectations as high as they were when spring training began. Forget Detroit — maybe nowhere that he’s been, period. We would see, I tossed out there, just what kind of a manager he truly is, when nothing other than a World Series win is expected, or tolerated.
Well, the season is nine games old, the Tigers have lost eight of those, and already Leyland has complained about himself. The team wasn’t ready, he moaned — and there’s no one to blame for that other than him. Agreed.
But why? How? What happened to cause the Tigers to come out of the gate in a collective trance? Why are they playing like deer caught in the headlights?
The answer, I’m afraid, is simple but no less mortifying.
The Tigers are choking. Nothing more, nothing less. After blowing that 3-0 lead on Opening Day to the rising KC Royals, the Tigers’ collars tightened significantly. That loss seemed to shake them, for whatever reason. They haven’t put together one solid game yet. Even their win the other night, you could chalk up to the law of averages at work.
So what did Leyland say, or not say, or do, or not do, to set this nightmare off? How culpable is he?
What’s happening now proves my thesis. I scoff at people who would look at Sparky Anderson or Joe Torre or Casey Stengel and brush off their success with their great teams simply because they were able to manage great players. If that’s all it took — great players — then you may as well play the MLB season on paper and with computers. While it’s true that the aforementioned skippers all struggled with teams far less talented, you cannot say unequivocally that ANYONE could have guided those great players to the promised land. The best talent isn’t necessarily going to win the most games, nor win the World Series. It takes the right person to mold it.
Is Jim Leyland not the right man for this job? I’m not saying that — yet. But it will beg asking, if this slide continues much longer. Maybe it’ll turn out that Leyland himself wasn’t able to handle a team with such heady talent and lofty expectations. We’ll see.
But it’s hard to fathom this group starting 1-8 under ole’ Sparky or Torre, ain’t it?
OK, time for some shameless self-aggrandizing. Tomorrow marks the third birthday of OOB, and since that’s a Saturday and I don’t do Saturdays, I’m making my plug now.
As usual, this blog — as any blog — is nothing without an audience. And for those of you who click over here on any sort of basis — regular, occasional, rare — I am truly grateful. I’m also thrilled to consider myself part of a really cool network of Detroit sports bloggers that are second to none, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t dare start listing them, because I’m sure to leave someone out. But their links appear on the sidebar, and if you haven’t checked them out, you’re missing out, big time.
So thanks again for keeping me from feeling like I’m writing in a vacuum.
Cheers.
This is kind of painful for me to point out, but did you know that the calendar this year is exactly the same as it was in 2003? The baseball season started on Monday, March 31 in ‘03. And the Tigers went out and promptly lost their first nine games, on their way to 119 Ls.
I thought we were done with all that. I thought the horrific, lopsided numbers — comparing the Tigers’ team stats with that of their opponents — were part of an inglorious past that gave you chills even just thinking about it. I thought all that nonsense was buried with the expunging of such fraudulent big league players as Alex Sanchez and Warren Morris and Kevin Witt and Nate Cornejo. Never could it happen, right — with All-Stars named Sheffield, Rodriguez, Cabrera, Ordonez, Polanco, and Verlander?
For Pete’s sakes, this 0-7 start is getting stupid now. The Tigers, for whatever reason, have come out of the gate in a collective trance. They are playing the worst baseball this town has seen since, well, 2003. It’s creepy how bad they’ve been. And then I had to go and look at the calendar and see that chilling comparison.
Now, don’t worry. I’m not saying the Tigers will lose 119 games. But they could indeed go to 0-9, very easily. They have two more games against the defending champion Red Sox, in Boston. Do YOU see an end to the bleeding happening in Beantown?
It’s quite simple. Someone has to go out and just pitch their rear end off. It remains the best way to stop extended losing streaks. You usually don’t snap these things with a 10-8 affair. When the Tigers lost 19 straight in 1975, it took a Ray Bare two-hit shutout to keep the streak from reaching 20. When you don’t give up any runs, it’s impossible to lose, right?
Last Saturday, Dontrelle Willis was asked to be the stopper, with the streak at four. But his wildness caught up to him. Then Justin Verlander was asked to be the stopper the next night, on national TV. A gut-wrenching error by Carlos Guillen opened the floodgates and torpedoed Verlander. Yesterday, the Tigers turned to wily veteran Kenny Rogers. Maybe he could be the stopper. But the Tigers themselves were shutout (refer to the last sentence of the previous paragraph).
Tonight, Jeremy Bonderman is being given the ball, with the expressed charge to keep it simple, stay within himself, and while he’s at it, throw a shutout. It’s the only way to guarantee the Tigers picking up their first victory of 2008.
Someone may yet pay for this slow start, i.e. the rest of the American League. There’s still every chance that once the Tigers get a win or two, and start to relax and have fun again, that someone is going to pay. The Yankees made the league pay last year for their 21-29 start.
Someone has to pitch a kick-ass game. Will it be Bonderman, tonight? The odds are against it, I’m sad to say. But it needs to happen, and quick.
Dominik Hasek has 389 career NHL victories. He has a lifetime save percentage of .922. He’s won an Olympic Gold Medal, and a Stanley Cup. He is the possessor of 81 shutouts. Lord knows how many more he’s had ruined in the final few minutes of games already in hand. Even today, at age 43, he’s stopping pucks at a rate of .902 with a 2.14 GAA, and five shutouts.
Chris Osgood has 363 career NHL victories. He has a lifetime save percentage of .907. He’s won a Stanley Cup. He is the possessor of 47 shutouts. Today, at age 35, he is stopping pucks at a rate of .914 with a 2.09 GAA, and four shutouts. He made the All-Star team, in a year in which he was supposed to be a backup who was going to play in perhaps 25% of his team’s games.
For those of you not keeping score at home, that’s 752 victories, 128 shutouts, two Stanley Cups, and GAAs in the low 2.00s. And some 81,000 minutes played between them.
So it makes one wonder if NBC hockey analyst Pierre McGuire took one too many pucks to the head while reporting on the games this season from his location at ice level, between the benches. Because McGuire went on record with this curious statement.
The Red Wings, McGuire says, “are in trouble (for the playoffs) because their goaltending is unproven this year.”
Hmmm.
Coach Mike Babcock posed something else, far less curious.
“Didn’t we just win the Jennings (Trophy for least amount of goals allowed)? Ozzie’s led the league in goals-against average. I don’t know.”
Me neither.
It’s true that goaltending is still the fulcrum upon which every team’s playoff chances are supported. And it’s also true that bad goaltending is as much of a factor, if not more so, in a team’s chances than good goaltending by the opposition is.
But come on, Pierre; unproven?
Just what IS proven, then? What do a team’s netminders have to do to convince blabbermouths like McGuire that they’ve got the goods? If allowing the fewest amount of goals than anyone in the league isn’t enough, then what is?
To give McGuire, a former coach, the benefit of the doubt here, I’m going to presume he means that, because of Hasek’s injury troubles this year — and I must reveal that Dom’s save pct. this year was the lowest it’s been in 15 seasons — it’s been difficult for him to get into the pre-playoff groove that Hasek prefers to be in. But that’s not what he said. Regardless, I’ll let Pierre slide a bit here.
Is it a legitimate concern? Goaltending is always a concern, but less so when you have the experience between the pipes that the Red Wings have. And let’s not forget that the Red Wings were only a fluke goal and an ill-timed giveaway away from perhaps reaching the Cup Finals last spring — largely because of the solid netminding that Hasek provided them.
Oh, well — it’s the eve of the playoffs, when even the mighty have to be dissected and presented to the public with possible concerns. Real or imagined.
The critically-acclaimed Monday Morning Manager (indulge me) returns this coming Monday. For all you newbies to WHYGJG, MMM is my weekly take on the Tigers: a recap of the previous week’s games, and a look ahead at the schedule. As usual, it will be filled with whining, over-praising, and a failure to put things into proper context. In other words, it’ll be a blog being a blog.
Bet ya can’t wait, right?
This is what I was afraid of, if you want to know.
The 2008 Tigers, I feared, would be under such a cinder block-heavy weight of expectations and pressure; you know, to score 1,000 runs, to flick opponents off their shoulder like gnats, to be the Yankees (or the Red Sox) of the Midwest. And that weight, I fretted, would lead to playing tight, especially out of the gate. If the Tigers could getaway with relatively little trouble, say going something like 7-3 in their first ten games, then a lot of that heaviness would go away.
Fears realized.
The Tigers could still go 7-3, but they’d have to rip off seven straight wins to get there, thanks to their opening sweep at the hands of the seemingly improved Kansas City Royals — a team that suddenly looks like it has the pitching staff to be taken seriously.
Already, manager Jim Leyland had his first meltdown. Only took three games for Leyland to toss around words like “dead” and “not professional” and “not prepared.” Twenty-nine innings for him to wonder about his team’s toughness. Maybe this really IS New York, Great Lakes version. Even the Yankees didn’t get this kind of a tongue-lashing from The Boss after three games.
“We’ve got a target on us,” Leyland said. “We’ll find out how good we are. We’ll find out if we are tough enough. I haven’t seen enough toughness in the last few days. I’m very disappointed in that.”
I’m not sure if it’s a lack of toughness so much as it is wanting too badly to burst out to a roaring start. I think a lot of folks — Tigers players included — had visions of 11-3, 9-2, and 8-1 wins over the Royals to start the season. But these Royals starters came into town and poured water all over the Tigers’ book of matches. There was more life at a funeral home than there was out of the Tigers during the Royals series. So far, the highlights have been two solo HRs — one by Miguel Cabrera in his first game, and the other by Carlos Guillen, which tied the Opening Day game in the 8th inning. That’s pretty much been it, folks.
Magglio Ordonez and Placido Polanco, who hit .363 and .341 respectively in 2007, are clueless. Cabrera sat out yesterday’s game with an injury, though he hopes to play today. And Gary Sheffield hurt his finger badly, and the thoughts of Sheff sitting for any length of time ought to give you chills. This offense is already anemic with him IN the lineup.
Still, it’s only three games — which in a 162-game season is not even two percent of the schedule. The concern, though, comes from the worry that this 0-3 getaway could get crazy and be 2-8 in a heartbeat — as the Tigers get more and more frustrated and play as tightly wound as the core of the baseballs that they are failing to strike with any authority at the moment.
In 2006, Leyland had his famous meltdown on Easter Sunday after the team looked listless and uninterested in a game against the Indians. That has been hailed as a turning point in that surprising season. This year’s outburst — to the media (the ‘06 rant was levied privately to his players) — beats ’06’s by several games. No coincidence, as the stakes and the expectations are exponentially higher now.
The Tigers haven’t worn a target — Leyland’s word — this bright and big in years. It didn’t take long to wonder how it would look on them, did it?
In the Tigers’ revamped, might-score-1,000 runs-lineup, Gary Sheffield’s role has changed.
Oh, he’s still the no. 3 hitter — and wearing no. 3, a la the Yankees of the 1920s, who ushered in the use of uniform numbers by correlating them with a hitter’s spot in the order. Hence Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig wearing nos. 3 and 4, respectively. Yes, Sheffield is still very key — a player that the Tigers once again can ill-afford to lose for any length of time.
But Sheff’s new importance — emphasized more now with the addition of Miguel Cabrera — is to wear pitchers down, and to make them work very hard to get him out (if they do at all), all while also setting the table for Magglio Ordonez, Cabrera, and company.
Sheffield was at his best in this department yesterday during the Tigers’ Opening Day loss to the Royals. He drew four walks, one of them his patented, digging out from an 0-2 hole masterpiece. The fact that he didn’t score is no reflection on him, but if he continues to grind out at-bats like that, he’ll score plenty.
Think about it. Very few walks come on four straight pitches. So each walk probably expends about six or seven pitches, on an average. Those pitches add up. And Sheffield’s amazing ability to draw walks — or at least work deep into a count — is reflected in these head-spinning numbers (thru last season):
Career strikeouts: 1,042
Career walks: 1,377
And this from a guy who’s closing in on 500 home runs.
The amount of times Sheffield strikes out on three straight pitches is almost non-existent when compared to the times he works that 0-2 count full. He may not always walk, but he coaxes four or five more pitches than most batters would in that situation; again, those pitches add up over the course of a game.
It’s true that plowing through this Tigers lineup will be no picnic for starting pitchers this season. But one of the biggest reasons this is so is because of Gary Sheffield’s patience, which is uncanny for a power hitter of his magnitude.
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Other Opening Day Notes:
Miguel Cabrera IS a monster of a man, isn’t he? Sheesh. But he’s sculpted, not like a Cecil Fielder or Steve “Bye Bye” Balboni — more like a younger Frank Thomas. He’s that sometimes overused word: a specimen. And it’s lovely to think that he’s locked up for eight years.
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So Brandon Inge threw a runner out at home plate — from centerfield. Yet another example of his athleticism at work. If he only knew how valuable he is as the team’s Super Sub — maybe even more so than if he was shackled at third base, despite his abilities there.
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Speaking of 3B, and of Cabrera, one of the national scribes was wringing his hands over Cabrera’s defense, citing his 23 errors last season. He feared that Cabrera’s glove was as bad as his bat is good. Nonsense. First of all, I can tolerate some errors from my third baseman. They’re usually tough chances, and very few games are lost because of bad third base play. Twenty-three is a very acceptable number from an everyday third sacker.
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By the way, I vote for having Miss America throw out the first pitch every year — whether if she’s from Michigan or not.
This is how old Tigers ace Justin Verlander is: 25. This is what he’s done so far: won Rookie of the Year; pitched in a World Series; made an All-Star team; thrown a no-hitter.
Jim Bunning didn’t do all that. Mickey Lolich didn’t do all that. Denny McLain didn’t do all that. Jack Morris didn’t do all that (though he came close).
Want me to go back further?
George Mullin didn’t do all that. Hooks Dauss didn’t do all that. Tommy Bridges didn’t do all that. “Prince” Hal Newhouser didn’t do all that.
Justin Verlander is all that, and he’s 25.
Say hello to your next Tigers homegrown Hall of Famer.
Roll your eyes all you want. Mock my boosterism as nothing more than over-exuberant, hometown bias. Here, I’ll call the men in the white jackets myself, to save you the trouble. Guffaw from now until nightfall, for all I care.
Verlander, I’m telling you, will find himself enshrined in Cooperstown, N.Y. when all is said and done.
Don’t tell me about injuries and bad luck and flashes in the pan. Put a sock in it if you’re going to warn me of arms busting at the seams or flames burning out. I don’t want to have this conversation with you if you mean to dissuade me with sensible, even-handed talk. My mind’s made up. My decision is as final as an umpire’s, no matter how wrong he may be.
But I’m not wrong here, not on this one. Video replay will exonerate me, some 15 years from now, or more.
Not to mention how heartily I’ll be laughing at you as we watch Verlander step up to the podium in Cooperstown one August day, perhaps two decades from now, as he unfurls a speech from his breast pocket and starts in on the thanks and the memories.
I’ve already got one of your arguments countered.
Sophomore jinx? HA! Here’s what Verlander did in his rookie year of 2006: 17-9, 3.63 ERA, 186 IP, 124 strikeouts. And here’s what he did in 2007: 18-6, 3.66 ERA, 202 IP, 183 strikeouts. He gave up 187 hits in 2006, a little more than one per inning. Last year, Verlander surrendered but 181 hits, about 0.9 per inning.
The kid got better in his sophomore year.
Oh, and there was that no-hitter last June, against Milwaukee.
Hold your horses. I’m not using a no-hitter, by itself, to support my claim. Lots of mediocre, even bad, pitchers have rendered teams hitless. It’s one of the beauties of baseball, as far as I’m concerned – that the nondescript can rise up for one day and get all Cy Young-ish on us.
It’s how Verlander tossed his no-no that impressed me. No Tigers pitcher had thrown a no-hitter, at home, since Virgil Trucks did it in 1952. Not Bunning. Not Lolich. Not McLain. Not Morris. Others have done it to the Tigers in Detroit, though. Nolan Ryan and Steve Busby both got the Tigers at Tiger Stadium in 1973. Morris’s no-hitter, in Chicago in 1984, was no work of art. And Jack would be the first to agree with me on that. He walked six and threw a lot of pitches. I’ve seen him pitch many games more brilliantly that weren’t close to no-hitters, but they were classics because of his guts, his determination, and because of the situation.
Verlander showed me a lot of those things when he handcuffed the Brewers last June.
He was rarely in trouble. Yeah, he got a couple good defensive plays, but every pitcher gets those. He worked quickly, as is his trademark, not letting the enormity of the moment alter his approach. He went right after the Brewers, in complete control.
But it wasn’t just that he threw a no-hitter. Verlander is displaying now the kind of brazen, fearless competitive spirit that the great ones who’ve stood on a pitchers mound have shown throughout baseball history. He’s morphing into a blend of Morris, McLain, and Lolich – the three most recent Tigers pitching greats: Morris’s ferocity, McLain’s cockiness, and Lolich’s reliability.
As the Tigers stumbled their way through the 2006 World Series, I remember turning to one of my colleagues and gushing that, no matter the result, the exciting part was the experience the younger players were getting by having taken part in a championship series so early in their careers. Their baptism by fire would sure to pay off later, I reasoned. Verlander was one of the players I especially had in mind when I waxed philosophical about a dream season ending in a nightmare.
Verlander has a relatively easy, smooth pitching motion that doesn’t appear to be extra taxing on his powerful right arm. He’s a rhythm pitcher, and opposing batters try to disrupt him by stepping out of the batter’s box. Let ‘em try. He just stands there, on the mound, eyes boring into the hitter, calmly waiting for him to once again be ready.
There’s a certain nastiness that needs to show itself on the mound. It doesn’t have to extend any further than that, though some of the greats have been known to be grumpy bears on the day they pitched, from the moment they rolled out of bed. Bob Gibson, it was said, on his pitching days could part a room like Moses did the Red Sea, because he was so surly.
I’ve seen Verlander in the clubhouse before a game in which he’s scheduled to pitch, and there’s none of that Gibsonesque meanness. Instead, there’s looseness, joking, and a twinkle in the eye. Then he goes out there and hands you your rear end.
Justin Verlander is 25 years old. He’s 35-15, with over 300 strikeouts and a no-hitter in his first two seasons. And he’s just getting started.
Goodness gracious.
I remember being in my swimming pool when I heard the news on the radio, blaring from the patio.
“We like Juan. We want Juan to stay. We think we’ve made a very fair offer. The ball’s in his court now.”
Words to that effect came from the misguided lips of Tigers GM Randy Smith, who was explaining, in the summer of 2000, how the team was pushing hard to keep OF Juan Gonzalez in Detroit for many years to come. The Tigers had acquired Gonzalez, the enigmatic slugger and two-time AL MVP, from Texas in December 1999, knowing full well that he wasn’t signed beyond the 2000 season. In return, the Tigers sent OF Gabe Kapler, IF/OF Frank Catalanotto, and P Justin Thompson to the Rangers.
Smith’s courtship of Gonzalez was painful to watch. It seemed as if Smith was the only one who didn’t know that Gonzalez had no intention of staying in Detroit beyond the one year. Then, as I listened incredulously in my pool that summer day in 2000, it was confirmed.
Smith, with the apparent blessing of owner Mike Ilitch, was dangling something like seven years and well over $100 million at Gonzalez. And Smith was genuinely hoping the moody, sour Gonzalez would take it.
The Tigers had just moved into Comerica Park for the 2000 season, and if you think it’s a pitcher’s park NOW, let me remind you that the original dimensions of CoPa were so brutally unfair to right-handed hitters as to be cruel. The left field line was nearly 350 feet away, and the left-center alley was about 400 feet from the batter’s box. By the time Smith made his ridiculous offer, Lord knows how many of “Juan Gone’s” would-be homeruns and doubles were caught by tickled outfielders. Those lost hits didn’t do anything to lighten Gonzalez’s mood.
And Smith wanted Gonzalez to shackle himself to baseball’s Yosemite Park for seven years?
Well, Gonzalez rebuffed the Tigers and became a free agent, right on schedule. After managing just 22 HRs, 67 RBI and a .289 BA with the Tigers, Gonzalez became an Indian and did 35-140-.325 with the Tribe, playing in the much more realistic Jacobs Field.
Of course, Smith’s ill-advised trade and subsequent failure to secure Gonzalez for the long term turned out just fine for the Tigers. That contract would have been the biggest albatross ever saddled on a big league team in baseball history. For Gonzalez turned out to be a fraud, an injury-riddled bad apple who’d already peaked, despite his last hurrah in 2001 with the Indians.
So news of Miguel Cabrera’s new contract extension with the Tigers should be met with relief and assurances. Cabrera, just 24 (he turns 25 in April), is six years younger than Gonzalez was when Smith tossed all that dough at him. His best years are ahead of him, not behind. Plus, the team is a lot more attractive than it was when Gonzalez was here. The early-21st century Tigers were God awful, and no doubt Gonzalez saw that coming, too. Plus, the dimensions of CoPa have been drastically altered in left and left center. Look no further than Magglio Ordonez, or Gary Sheffield, to see that Comerica is no longer a barrier to high-octane offensive production for right-handed hitters.
All I know is, Mike Ilitch should thank God that Juan Gonzalez rejected the panderings of silly little Randy Smith back in 2000.
When Tigers manager Ralph Houk made out his lineup card for Opening Day, 1977, there was a nod to history on it.
Batting cleanup was Willie Horton. Nothing strange there. But this was:
Horton LF
Willie had been the Tigers’ designated hitter since 1974, when injuries and other players’ youth shoved him out of playing in the field. But Houk had announced toward the end of spring training in ‘77, after some rumors to that effect, that Horton would jog out to left field, his old haunts, in front of the Tiger Stadium faithful.
According to Retrosheet.org, Horton saw little action in left, making just one putout. He went 1-for-4 at the plate.
Yet something was going wrong with Horton, and I’m going to ask him the next time I see him.
It wasn’t the first time that Willie let his emotions get the best of him. In 1969, the year after the Tigers won the World Series, Horton got off to a slow start at the plate. The fans were turning on him. It got so bad that Horton ripped his uniform off in anger and dropped out of sight briefly for a day or so. I asked him about that years later, long after he retired. He confirmed it.
So Horton played Opening Day, but was out of the lineup for the next few games. It was reported that he was unhappy — maybe with Houk, maybe with management. Nobody was certain.
Then, suddenly, Horton was gone, traded to the Texas Rangers for an average reliever named Steve Foucault, one-for-one.
Willie Horton for Steve Foucault??
It was true that Foucault was several years younger than the 34-year-old Horton, but it seemed like a bad deal for Detroit. After all, when you trade Willie Horton, you’re not just trading a baseball player; you’re trading an institution. Shouldn’t that have been worth something to Tigers GM Jim Campbell?
I suspect that Campbell traded Horton to get rid of him, not all that concerned with what he got in return. Because if he exercised patience and his usual guile, Campbell almost certainly could have gotten more for Horton than Steve Freaking Foucault.
So here’s my theory — one that I plan on proposing to Horton.
Campbell traded Horton because either a) the Tigers were tired of his complaining, or b) Horton demanded a trade. And it didn’t really matter where, or for who. Nobody gets traded in the days after Opening Day; it just doesn’t happen.
Something went wrong, and fast, for Campbell to deal Horton so haphazardly.
At the risk of coming off uninformed here, I will confess to not reading Horton’s biographies (there’ve been more than one), and so the reasons for the trade to Texas may be detailed in one of them. If so, then in the words of Gilda Radner’s Emily Litella character, “Never mind.”
But one way or another, I’d like to know.
Willie Horton for Steve Foucault, straight up.
Something’s not right.
Do we REALLY need to start the baseball season in March?
I’m as eager to see the Tigers as anyone, in what could be a very fun summer, but we’ve waited this long; another week wouldn’t have killed us. Instead, you have the Red Sox and A’s opening in Japan on TUESDAY, and the Tigers, along with just about everyone else, open on March 31.
And if you ARE going to start in March, then why the heck are the Tigers opening at home? One of those opening west coast trips, which I usually found annoying, would have been nice, if baseball’s going to be so relentless in kicking things off so early.
Hey, do we even need 162 games? Would it be horrific to end things on September 21 and play the World Series before the trick-or-treaters prowl the streets?
When the Tigers won the Series in 1984, it was October 14. Now, that’s not even halfway thru the championship series.
Granted, some of my crankiness has to do with the rough Michigan winter, which is showing no real signs of letting up. But even if it were 50 and sunny out, I’d say the same thing, honest. We don’t need March baseball, other than for spring training. I’m sorry; I just don’t think it’s necessary.
The regular season does end September 28, so I’m sure that’s one reason why MLB is starting so early. But I go back to the 162-game schedule. Too long? Start around April 5, 6, or 7. End no later than September 30.
Or here’s another radical thought: DOUBLEHEADERS. And I don’t mean those ridiculous day/night affairs. A good, old fashioned twin bill on Sunday afternoons. I know — less concession money that way and less ticket revenue. The almighty dollar wins again. But more DHs — and I don’t mean designated hitters — would help MLB pack its 162-game schedule within a decent time frame.
Spitting in the wind is what I’m doing. I’m aware of that. Not gonna stop me from venting, though.
New York has been known to swallow players whole. Some just can’t handle the fish bowl, mainly because in New York, sometimes they reach into the fish bowl and dangle you, as you gasp for oxygen.
Ed Whitson comes to mind. The Yankees signed the 29-year-old righthander before the 1985 season, from the San Diego Padres. But things eventually got so bad for Whitson, totally vilified by the ravenous Yankees fans, that he was no longer deemed fit to start home games. He was gone by early 1986 — literally driven out of town by the paying customers.
Jason Grilli flirted with a minor degree of Ed Whitson Disease last season in Detroit.
His ERA was curiously far higher at Comerica Park — supposedly a pitcher’s ballpark — than on the road. He blew leads at home. He functioned as a gas can for opponents’ rallies. And the more it went on, the more personal it got. The boobirds came out. Grilli’s entrance to a game at CoPa was distinguishable — even if you were in the washroom — because of the distinct sounds of catcalls and epithets being hurled his way from the denizens.
Then Grilli got the gas can out again — this time off the field. He went public with his feelings, and took the rancor to a higher, more personal level. He committed the cardinal sin of the harrassed ballplayer: giving his enemies even more fodder for their cannons.
It was wondered if Jason Grilli would ever be able to competently pitch again at Comerica Park — as a member of the Tigers.
Grilli didn’t always find the home white uniforms friendly in 2007
Things got better in the season’s second half. Grilli pitched more like the guy who was a steady rock in the Tigers’ bullpen in 2006. And, to be fair, it wasn’t like he was the only relief pitcher who could be judged as a guilty party. The entire bullpen, just about, fell off from its 2006 pace — a big reason why the Tigers watched October baseball at home.
Yet Grilli became the poster child for the bullpen’s nonsense during the latter part of the season’s first half. And he didn’t handle it perfectly.
Now, Grilli is among a quartet of pitchers that manager Jim Leyland hopes can do, as a “committee” — that lovely baseball word for when you don’t have a stud — what Fernando Rodney and Joel Zumaya cannot do while their elbows and shoulders and heads recover from injury.
Grilli, fellow righthander Zach Miner, and lefties Tim Byrdak and Bobby Seay make up the quartet. Each pitched well at times in 2007. Seay was maybe the most consistent. So it’s essential that each of them is squared away between the ears when the season begins.
Grilli, for his part, has already gone on record in defense of the bullpen — himself included — maintaining that the team will be just fine with the non-starting arms that the Tigers plan to employ. I hope he’s right.
I also hope that he learned his lesson from last season. As bad as the treatment was that he received from the fans last year, it could have been far worse — if his slump continued, or if he kept opening his yapper about the boobirds. Fortunately, neither happened, and things died down.
Very unlike what happened to Ed Whitson in New York in 1985.
Joel Zumaya will never be the pitcher that he once was. You can mark my words. Put them in a time capsule if you’d like, with my name on it. Engrave it in stone, if you want — again with me attributed. Tell everyone you know that I said it would be so.
Good thing that I have complete confidence in Tigers manager Jim Leyland, pitching coach Chuck Hernandez, and GM Dave Dombrowski. They all know, I’m sure, that Zumaya — the young fireballer with the propensity for curious injuries — needs a head coach almost as much, if not more, than a rehab guy.
They say Zumaya — out with a shoulder injury suffered last fall when some heavy boxes fell on it in California during another of that state’s natural disasters — won’t be ready until mid-season, at the earliest. What we see when he comes back remains to be seen.
But what isn’t a mystery — again, mark my words — is that Joel Zumaya won’t be the 100 mph, flame-throwing stud that he was before all this injury nonsense started. He’s going to have to reinvent himself somewhat, and that’s not a bad thing. Maybe this will teach him more about the subtleties of pitching. He may not have to undergo the drastic transformation that Frank Tanana did, when Tanana had to switch from being the Angels’ left-handed Nolan Ryan into a — pardon the crudeness of this term — junkballer, but Zoom-Zoom is going to lose something. Count on it. And how he responds to that is where the need for a mind coach comes into play.
I’m also troubled because of some comments Zumaya made before spring training started, when he declared to Tigers fans that his comeback from this latest injury was personal. He talked of throwing 100 mph again. He went on a cockeyed rant about it, truthfully. It was disturbing, and I hope someone slapped some sense into him after that.
Zumaya’s explosive fastball sets up his nasty breaking stuff nicely, but he can still do that, pitching in the low-to-mid 90s. If his injury robs him of even the low-90s fastball, then he’s going to have to develop another pitch. It may not come to that, but you can kiss 100 mph goodbye. And if he’s hell-bent on doing that, then he’ll indeed turn into Mark Fidrych, as my friend Big Al so often likes to remind us.
“Come on, we all know Zoom has a million dollar arm, and a 10 cent head. In June, Zumaya will be be riding a dirt bike, while playing Guitar Hero, in midst of moving his family, hear his elbow pop, and undergo Tommy John surgery in July. He’s another Fidrych! FIDRYCH, I TELL YOU!”
But Fidrych flamed out simply because he couldn’t overcome injuries. Zumaya, if he goes the same route, will have gotten there because he refused to acknowledge that he cannot be what he once was — that he had to adapt and change his style. Not an easy thing for a young player to admit.
And that’s what worries me.
He actually looked pretty darn good in the batter’s box — his lefthanded stance appearing competent and big league-like. And not like a pitcher with a bat. He looked position player-ish.
Actor Tom Selleck, dressed in the creamy whites of the Detroit Tigers, stood in against the Reds’ Tim Layana in spring training, 1992 — and I remember watching the at-bat. Perhaps on purpose, Selleck’s appearance coincided with a rare spring TV game, beamed back to Detroit.
Layana didn’t baby Selleck, and the 47-year-old Detroit native didn’t go down easily. Selleck struck out, but not before fouling off several pitches — much to the delight of the Lakeland crowd, especially the females, no doubt.
Selleck was preparing to shoot a baseball movie, and figured his hometown Tigers would be the most logical choice to hang out with as he got himself ready for the role. Selleck, as you recall, used to wear a Tigers cap religiously while playing in Magnum, PI. Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammell even had bit roles in one episode, in their playing heyday.
And who can forget country singer Garth Brooks and his frequent flings in spring training, with a variety of clubs?
Tigers manager Sparky Anderson was more than happy to indulge Selleck, who was a lifelong fan of the team.
Thursday, actor Billy Crystal will suit up for the Yankees, playing in a spring training game. His appearance will come one day before his 60th birthday. Crystal, like Selleck, will get a chance to don the uniform of his boyhood team.
I have no problem with such stunts — and let’s face it, that’s what it is — in meaningless games. No harm, and the fans get a kick out of it. The chance of injury is slim.
Of course, just as Layana no doubt didn’t want to be known as the pitcher who gave up a hit to a 47-year-old actor, whomever Crystal faces is sure to bear down as well. No Denny McLain-like grooves down the middle, as if Crystal was Mickey Mantle in 1968. Unlikely, anyway.
I had nearly forgotten about Selleck’s celebrated at-bat until the news broke of Crystal’s romp, which brought those Magnum memories back. Good memories, I might add.
Spring training can use something right about now — with three weeks still remaining.
The Dodgers are leaving Vero Beach — not that you care.
I’m not saying that you should, but maybe it would be nice if you did a little bit.
I’m biased here. I’ve been a fan of the Blue since the early-1970s, when I bought one of their team yearbooks at Tiger Stadium. I thought it was so cool that you could buy another team’s yearbook at the old ballpark. So I bought the next few in succession, making sure that at least one trip to Tiger Stadium ended with me taking a Dodgers yearbook home with me.
Their yearbooks kind of sucked, though — if you want to know the truth. The Tigers always put out first-class ones, and you’d think a team with the tradition the Dodgers have would be able to follow suit. But where the Tigers’ yearbooks were on heavier stock and full of color photos, the Dodgers’ version was more like a program — thin paper and mostly black-and-white pics. There really was no comparison. But I bought them anyway, because I had adopted the Dodgers as my second-favorite team.
Dodgers fans watch their team at Holman Stadium in Vero Beach
It’s not all that popular to be a Dodgers fan. I found out through the years that the team is hardly beloved. In fact, many folks flat out hate the Dodgers, though I’m not sure why. They haven’t even won a playoff series since 1988, when they won the whole thing under Kirk Gibson’s leadership. Ahh, there it is. You think the fans around Detroit are still smarting over Gibby leaving for LA as a free agent?
Anyhow, the Dodgers, after this spring, are ending their 50+ year relationship with Vero Beach as their spring training site. Next year they’ll train in Arizona. They’re not just relocating within Florida — they’re leaving the state entirely.
Dodgertown in Vero Beach is hallowed for many people. The players are revered down there like royalty. It’s like Lakeland with the Tigers, but even more so. Dodgertown is like Little Los Angeles, in terms of how faithful the folks are to their Blue. And I’ve never been there, but then again, I’ve never been to London, yet I know that it rains there a lot. It’s amazing what you can learn if you read.
I’m sure there are many heartbroken fans in Vero Beach, watching this camp with a much different eye, knowing it’s the last one. I doubt too many of them will follow the team to Arizona in 2009.
The Dodgers say they made to move because of costs and wanting the team to train closer to California. Not sure why all of a sudden those are issues after all these decades, but there you have it. Certainly the willingness of their new spring home to build a new facility played into it.
The Tigers won’t play the Dodgers anymore in spring training after this season, another casualty of the Blue moving westward. The Dodgers tend to do that, you know — move westward.
I know that Brandon Inge can walk and chew gum at the same time. I’ve seen him do it. So I know he can multi-task.
But Inge is apparently finding it difficult to think and hit at the same time. He sits in his catcher’s crouch and purports to being concerned with how he can possibly hit with any effectiveness while he’s thinking about catching Tigers pitchers.
“You’re always thinking (when you are catching),” Inge told the Detroit Free Press after Sunday’s game, in which he caught Kenny Rogers. “There is no downtime between pitches” to adjust.
“The way I felt out there today, I’ll be a .200 hitter,” he said.
Looks like someone is trying to give himself a built-in excuse. Or is holding his team hostage.
I like Inge. I didn’t always. I thought he came off like a crybaby after the Tigers signed Pudge Rodriguez, displacing Inge as catcher. I felt like his reactions and words were strange indeed, for a less-than-.200 hitter (at the time).
But he’s engaging. He’s involved in the community. He has a solid family life. And he’s turned himself into one hell of a defensive third baseman.
But he still struggles with the stick at times, and that was one reason why the Tigers pulled the trigger and made the Miguel Cabrera trade. Inge is displaced again. And he’s not been shy to express his dismay about the situation.
It’s a strange, almost bizarre scenario being played out in Lakeland. Spring training started with an unprecedented presser, with manager Jim Leyland and Inge announcing that … Inge wasn’t happy, and that the team knows he isn’t happy, and that the team wishes it could accomodate him, and that everyone loves Brandon Inge, and if we can trade him we will, but if we can’t we won’t, and there’s no hard feelings. Then Inge said he’s not happy, but that he’s a team guy, and he wishes he could be accomodated, and that he’s a Tiger for now, and he wants to play third base, and if he can’t play third base in Detroit, he’d like to do so somewhere else, but if he stays in Detroit, there’ll be no hard feelings.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen around the Tigers.
But I’m a little disturbed by Inge’s recent comments, because he seems to be positioning himself for failure, and — more disturbing — there’s a passive-aggressive thing going on here.
“Hey — don’t be surprised if my hitting sucks this year,” he’s saying, “because I told you I didn’t want to catch, and you made me catch, and now this is what you get.”
That’s my take on it, anyway.
But someone should tell Inge about Rodriguez and the dozens of catchers whose likenesses appear in Cooperstown, in baseball’s Hall of Fame. They seemed to be able to “think” and hit at the same time.
Inge is trying a new approach at the plate, his goal being to cut down on strikeouts and raise his batting average, even at the cost of reduced power if necessary. And he’s telling everyone that all this might be derailed should he be forced to catch.
A more cynical person than me might consider that a cop out — an excuse in waiting. An even more cynical person might think it’s a way to force the team’s hand and trade him, sooner than later — by threatening poor plate performance due to all the thinking going on.
I think the Tigers should be realistic, and accept the fact that they’ll probably have to get rooked in a trade in order to rid themselves of the distraction that the Inge situation is causing. He doesn’t have great trade value right now, due to his poor 2007 and the Tigers’ lack of any real bargaining power here, not to mention the size of Inge’s contract. So it might be a case of addition by subtraction, as opposed to addition by addition; who the Tigers receive may need to be of secondary concern to the benefits of getting rid of Inge.
I don’t want the Tigers to trade Inge, necessarily. I think he could be a terrific “super sub” — a modern day Mickey Stanley. But he’s becoming more of a sore thumb, and doesn’t appear to particularly care about that. Strange behavior for a quote-unquote team guy, if you want to know.
I’ve been around long enough to know that when a guy starts planting the seeds for failure, then he’s already halfway there. At least.
I’m sure there are plenty of things more frightening than a slapshot from Bob Davis, but I’ll be darned if I can think of any right now.
Davis – and I’m using his real name here, for I feel no need to protect the innocent, since he’s not in my book – was the kid who was slightly bigger than everyone else. But he was no bully. He just happened to be able to terrorize us with his slappers.
The game was street hockey, though the action mainly occurred on our driveways. And nothing was greeted more warmly than a fresh dusting of snow. The phone lines in my Livonia neighborhood would start sizzling, even before the snow could finish falling.
“You look outside?”
“Yeah.”
“Hockey?”
“Where?”
And that was about the extent of the formalities of planning. A house was chosen – usually mine or Steve Hall’s, because both of us possessed a hockey goal, complete with netting. Then the gang of us – anywhere between three and six – would gather, some with plastic sticks, others with wooden ones. Our object of choice was either a tennis ball or a plastic puck. The usual equipment for boys of our age, and I’m talking 13-to-15 years old. Hall played hockey for real, so he had some goalie equipment, the amount of which that was worn varying from kid to kid, depending on how bold he felt. I was a full equipment guy – a baseball chest protector to go with the trapper, waffle glove, cage mask, and leg pads. Unless Davis wasn’t around, in which case I might eschew the mask. Hey – I fancied myself a handsome kid, and Davis’s shot was just menacing enough to threaten that, had I gone mask-less.
The snow was vital because we would use it to provide a slick coating for the driveway. But there was a process. Functioning like human Zamboni machines, we would use our sticks, boots, and even a broom from the garage to get the snow just right. It couldn’t be too thick, lest the ball or puck not move well. But it couldn’t be too thin, or else you’d fall too easily. It was an art, I tell you, getting that driveway covered with the film of snow perfectly.
The driveway was too small for a real game, and besides, we only had the one goal. So it was an all-out assault on the goalie. We set up a little game, thanks to a stopwatch I received for Christmas one year. One person would be the timekeeper. The others would take the role of goalie and shooters. The shooters had sixty seconds to score four goals. How we came up with such a ratio, I’m not sure. But as sure as I am that I’m breathing right now, thems were the rules, folks.
The timekeeper was to stop the clock after every goal, to give time for the ball/puck to be placed at the “point” – also known as halfway down the driveway from the garage. Then the ball/puck would be teed up, the timekeeper would nod, and the action would begin again. The timekeeper was also responsible for keeping track of the situation.
“Two goals. Twenty-seven seconds left,” or something like that, he would crow into the winter air. He was also under strict orders to count the time down, loudly, in the final 10 seconds, if a fourth goal was still needed. He also served as referee, his word on disputed goals or those scored after time had run out being final.
But back to Davis and his slapper.
All of the above was needed when Davis wound up for his slapper
Like I said, Davis was big for his age, and he could really thwack the ball/puck. The fellow shooters had the advantage of being able to scatter when Davis, playing the point (the shooters would rotate positions, like in volleyball; this was all organized stuff, you know), would begin his wind up.
The goalie had no such option to his avail.
What was worse was that Davis, for all his firepower, was dreadfully lacking in accuracy. Plainly put, Bob had no idea where the ball/puck would go after he thwacked it. It was like stepping up to the plate against Ryne Duren, the drunk, wild Yankee of the 1960s.
I don’t think I actually saw Davis’s stick hit the ball/puck, ever, because my eyes were always closed – even when I was a scattering-out-of-the-way shooter.
It was like being on the firing line. Here was the three-step process:
1. Davis winds up
2. I close my eyes – squeeze them shut, actually, cringing
3. A or B occurs
“A” was that the shot was off target, in which case you’d here the smack of the metal garage door being pummeled. “B” was that it was spot on, and it either hit you – and hurt you, despite the gear – or it went into the net.
I was deathly afraid of “B” and no goal.
We had one of those garage doors with the rectangular windows in it. Drive around any subdivision built after 1975 and if you find one, give me a holler and I’ll buy you lunch – after calling you a liar. Well, Davis broke many of those windows, and my mother knew it. She didn’t really seem to care. Perhaps it was a resigned feeling. Of course, Davis was almost bigger than her, too.
But Davis’s presence was great, because it provided an edge to the game. The unpredictability and instability of his slapshot was something to be feared. He was the North Korea of street hockey.
With all the shoveling to be done lately, I’ve been thinking a lot of those perfectly-snow-coated driveways. Today my aim is the cleanest driveway possible. But occasionally I get the urge to toss away the shovel and break out the broom.
“Hockey?”
God bless Hank Steinbrenner.
Proving that the nut — and I use that word purposely — doesn’t fall far from the tree, George’s son and one of the principal leaders of the New York Yankees lashed out at the Boston Red Sox in an upcoming article in the New York Times’ Play Magazine.
It’s great stuff, because it adds some much-needed fuel to a Yankees-Red Sox family feud that had been drying up in recent years. Part of the evaporation has to do with the fact that the Yankees have become increasingly irrelevant, not appearing in a World Series since 2003, and not winning one since 2000. The Red Sox, meanwhile, have won two championships in the past four seasons — including the remarkable comeback in the ‘04 ALCS from an 0-3 deficit against the Yanks.
All of it has been making Hank Steinbrenner chew glass. And in the Times piece, he levels both barrels at Red Sox Nation.
“Red Sox Nation? What a bunch of [expletive] that is,” he said in the interview. “That was a creation of the Red Sox and ESPN, which is filled with Red Sox fans.
“Go anywhere in America and you won’t see Red Sox hats and jackets, you’ll see Yankee hats and jackets. This is a Yankee country. We’re going to put the Yankees back on top and restore the universe to order.”
The words are so over the top that they read like something taken from one of those satirical pieces at TheOnion.com.
Hank’s words, I think, are great for baseball. It’s always nice to have a loose cannon in our midst. Charlie O. Finley played that role to perfection when he owned the Oakland A’s in the 1970s. Before Finley, you had Bill Veeck, who was part baseball owner, part circus barker. Then, of course, came Hank’s dad, who took over the Yankees in 1973 promising to be an “absentee” owner — perhaps one of the biggest lies in the history of the world.
No wacky owners as of late — just goofy managers like the White Sox’s little punk, Ozzie Guillen. So it’s nice to see Hank Steinbrenner stoking the fire. Agree with me or not, but pro sports are always better served when there’s a goofball with a loose mouth wearing the black hat.
Hank’s assertion that “We’re going to put the Yankees back on top and restore the universe to order” is dynamite, especially the way it ends. “Restore the universe to order”? Who is he — a pro wrestler yapping about the upcoming match? Regardless, I love it.
It’s also funny that Hank is so infatuated with the Red Sox, when there may be two or three teams better than them in the American League; the Tigers, the Indians, and the Angels might all win more games than the Red Sox and the Yankees will in 2008.
But that’s OK. Let the Yankees and Red Sox have their Hatfield and McCoy thing. The beauty of it is, contrary to what Hank believes, most of the nation doesn’t like either team. But that’s our little secret. Don’t tell Hank.
The oldtimers will remember Dick Radatz, a.k.a. The Monster. He would take the ball in the late innings, all 6-foot-6 of him, and plow thru the order, quelling the enemy rally — back when closers didn’t just wait until the ninth inning to jump into the fray. Radatz — a Detroit kid — mainly did his thing with the Red Sox. He played for the Tigers briefly in 1969. He averaged well over a strikeout per inning for his 635 career IP.
The 1970s brought us more crazy-looking, crazy-acting characters out of the bullpen. There was the Mad Hungarian, Al Hrabosky — who would turn his back to the batter, go through some sort of ritual, then smack the ball angrily into his glove and turn, revealing that bushy Fu Manchu mustache and wild-eyed look.
Rich “Goose” Gossage, another Fu Manchu guy. A sprawling, intimidating windup that ended with the thwack of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt, the sphere of horsehide’s flight undisturbed by the Louisville slugger designed to obstruct it.
Then came the 1980s. Rob Dibble. Bill Caudill, The Inspector. Charlie Kerfeld. Kent Tekulve, who was once described as being so skinny that he looked like a giant pair of scissors on the mound. Bushy-faced Bruce Sutter.
And so on.
The common denominator? Theatrics. Gimmicks. Odd body shapes. Odd body movements. Reputations that preceded them. And usually more than one strikeout per inning. The beauty of Charlie Sheen’s “Wild Thing” character in the Major League movies — the Indians closer who comes into the game to an almost rock star-like reception — was that it really wasn’t that far off the mark from reality.
The Tigers do not have the rock star closer on their roster.
Todd Jones is pushing 40, is a good old boy from Georgia, and averages no where near a strikeout per inning. In fact, most of Jones’s saves — and there’ve been 301 of them — are predicated on the opponent striking the ball with his bat, hopefully at someone for an out. It’s not the sexiest way to end games, and that’s what makes people around here nervous.
Jones relies on his control and location to get batters out, and that may be a great approach for starters, but it’s an unordinary way for a closer to make a living.
Truth be told, even if Jones WERE that sexy, overpowering closer in the mold of an Eric Gagne or Gossage, there’d still be hand-wringing. There always is, when you’re talking about the one guy who frequently stands between victory and heartbreaking defeat. But the fact that Jones uses brains and not brawn when it comes to closing games makes, for some reason, his job security all the more flimsy in many people’s minds.
Todd Jones makes people nervous in Detroit, and it’s almost as if all those saves he registered happened by accident — like the thug who protests that his victim “rammed his face into my fist ten times”, in explaining away an assault. Couldn’t have been something Jones did; must be something the batter didn’t do.
It’ll be another summer of drama around Comerica Park in the ninth inning this season, for Jones isn’t going anywhere, the Tigers have no intentions of getting anyone else, and so you pretty much just better learn to deal with it.
I must admit to occasionally being wistful. I, too sometimes wish that Jones was someone else — a power pitcher, specifically. I wish he could come in, blow people away, and put everything to bed without ratcheting up my blood pressure. But that’s just not who he is. The nice thing, though, is that he KNOWS that’s not who he is. So he doesn’t try to be that pitcher. He stays within himself, and enjoys the ninth inning tension more than you know.
The funny thing is, for his lack of strikeout ability, Jones rarely gives up that baseball dagger — the walk-off homerun. He manages to keep the ball in the park most of the time. Now, he may surrender a string of hits that may lead to some damage, but he doesn’t usually give up the knockout punch. If you’re going to beat Todd Jones, you’re going to have to do it on points.
May as well accept it, folks. Jones is the Tigers closer, he is who he is, and that’s about it.
But he must be doing something right.
It just isn’t baseball season until Gary Sheffield throws out the first bitch.
Sheffield is again in the news, which means that someone asked him a question.
In his latest rant, Sheff goes off on agent Scott Boras, who Sheffield says took money from his Yankees contract that Boras wasn’t entitled to. Among other things, Sheff calls Boras a “bad person” and that things will get “ugly, very ugly” as soon as he can REALLY say what’s on his mind — when the legal proceedings are over and done with.
And, as usual, I’m sure fans and media across the country will vilify Sheffield — even though this time the target is a sports agent, which isn’t exactly in the same category as children and animals when it comes to effusing sympathy from the general public. So maybe the fallout from Sheffield’s latest diatribe — spoken eagerly with the intention of it being oh, so very public — won’t be as vitriolic.
But look — if you don’t want to know what Gary Sheffield thinks, then the solution is simple: don’t ask him. Frankly, I find his unfiltered honesty refreshing. He simply answers what is asked of him. Does he enjoy the consequences? Well, he admitted in his Boras rant that even his wife and family thinks he’s “psychotic” because he sometimes thrives on the negative reactions to his words. But so what? That’s his prerogative. The bottom line is, he doesn’t say things just to say them. He won’t give you one answer on Monday, and a different, sugar-coated one on Tuesday.
Sometimes I just don’t know what my colleagues in the media — or the fans — want out of an athlete. If he speaks his mind, he’s volatile and militant. If he gives processed, cliche-filled answers, he’s mocked for his triteness. If he doesn’t speak at all, he’s aloof and a bad apple.
The media, especially, has no idea how good they’ve got it, as long as Gary Sheffield is still in the big leagues. He should be a writer’s dream, for all his colorful copy. They love to hate on him, so what will they do when he goes away? Some will say that they’ll be thankful when Sheffield fades into the sunset. Same thing with Bobby Knight. But all I know is, college basketball is more boring now with Knight gone, and so will baseball be when Sheffield hangs up his spikes and rests his jaw.
Don’t ask, and he won’t tell.
In 1983, when the Baltimore Orioles won the World Series, their left fielder had 34 HR, 124 RBI, scored 97 runs, and batted around .270. It was MVP-like production.
Only, the Orioles’ left fielder wasn’t one person. It was the two-headed monster of John Lowenstein and Gary Roenicke. Lowenstein started against right-handers; Roenicke was the guy who got most of the at-bats against left-handers. Together, the two of them made one helluva player.
The Tigers, 2008 version, have the same kind of two-headed monster in the making, if pre-season indications are correct. The at-bats figure to go largely to the left-handed hitting Jacque Jones, and the right-handed hitting Marcus Thames. Manager Jim Leyland is expected to platoon those two, barring something unforeseen.
And the two of them might just make one helluva player.
Jones (top) and Thames (above) might be better, together, than any left fielder in the AL Central
Not that they aren’t solid players all by their lonesomes. Jones, who came over from the Cubs in an off-season trade, was on fire after the All-Star break last summer. And he has a decent resume, including some serviceable years with the Twins, where he was a sort of Tiger killer. Thames is very well-known around these parts — a brutally strong man who has been slugging one home run every 12-14 at-bats in a Tigers uniform.
The Tigers haven’t really used the two-headed monster approach with any success in recent years, so it’ll be fun to see Jones and Thames share left field and the no. 7 or 8 spot in the batting order — flying under the radar amongst all the All-Star sluggers the Tigers employ.
Jones arrived early to camp in Lakeland, Fla., getting in some swings before the complex begins to grow in population today, when position players are expected to report. Some analysts believe his slow start last season was due to that being his first year in the National League. But now Jones is back in the more familiar AL, and back in the Central Division, as well. He could be primed for a big year, combining with Thames to give the Tigers an All-Star-like performance in left field.
Too many cooks may occasionally spoil the broth, but in left field, the mantra for the Tigers is “two heads are better than one.”
Especially when each of those heads is strong on their own merit.
Please, do not take this as any sort of dismissal of what Jim Leyland did in 2006. Let’s make that clear. But baseball history is filled with those skippers who take chicken feathers and make chicken salad for a short period of time, before the ingredients get stale and you’re ready to snap a clothespin on your nose.
Leyland’s 2006 magic, which resulted in taking a below-.500 team all the way to the World Series in 12 months, should never be forgotten. It was one of the most stunning turnarounds in Detroit sports history.
But frankly, that might prove to be the easiest season Leyland will ever have in Detroit.
This is the 2006 version of Leyland’s monkey; 2008’s has the potential to be more King Kong-like
It’s one thing to guide a team thru the waters when there isn’t much expected out of it. Had the Tigers capsized, it would have been written off to the growing pains suffered under a new leader. But the Tigers didn’t capsize, though they rocked and swayed down the stretch. Yet they made the playoffs and righted themselves in October. It was a marvelous job of managing.
But that and a quarter will get you a cup of coffee right about now.
Now, the talk is World Series — and the players haven’t all reported to spring training yet. Perusing the Net, national baseball writers are using superlatives to describe the Tigers like never before.
“Will the Tigers score 1,000 runs? 2,000?”
“Will they win 110 games? More?”
And so on.
So now is where Leyland REALLY earns the big bucks — when there is suddenly a Yankees-like approach to the season: World Series or bust.
It’s heady stuff, and not since 1985 — and before that, 1969 — have the Tigers been roundly looked at as World Series contenders so seriously. Those were the two years after their most recent world championships, so it was natural that they were deemed the “team to beat”. But when was the last time that a Tigers team that didn’t even make the playoffs the previous season was hailed as odds-on favorites to go all the way? Maybe never?
So this is what Jim Leyland must do: cobble together a team of superstars into a driven, focused bunch that won’t get sucked in by its own press clippings. He must deftly use a shaky bullpen to complement his talented starting rotation. But the biggest job he has is to make sure the Tigers are OK between the ears.
No sneaking up on people this time. No feel-good stories here. Just the realization of so many people’s expectations, which are the highest.
It’s Yankees-like pressure, and it hasn’t been felt around here in eons.
Never will Leyland have a tougher time of it in Detroit than this season, methinks.
They are still four of the greatest words that a sports fan — especially a baseball devotee — can hear.
“Pitchers and catchers report.”
Go ahead and bask for a moment. I’ll wait.
Soft, soothing music as visions of leather mitts and batting cages dance in your cranium.
You back now? Good.
Spring training for the Tigers starts this Thursday — Valentine’s Day, appropriately — when the battery mates show up in Lakeland, Fl. But spring training, for all its splendor and all the warmth it brings to the chilled hearts up north, is also Winter Meetings, Part II.
Many a cunning trade has been made under the shades of the palm trees in Florida and near the prickly cacti of Arizona in the months of February and March. They usually occur late in spring training, after teams have a better idea of what they have and which prospects and longshots are either in or out. It’s a terrific opportunity to fill some holes, and sometimes even at a bargain basement price.
So there should be some hand-wringing, but not panic, as the Tigers shake out their bullpen, which appears to be the only real Achilles heel on a ballclub that many feel — present company included — can go deep into October. There’s still about seven weeks until Opening Day. The feeling here is that GM Dave Dombrowski and manager Jim Leyland are going to reserve their judgement of the pen until the final couple weeks of March. Then, if they see someone that has become available, they might make their move.
Ahh, but what if they don’t?
What it boils down to are two crucial innings: the seventh and the eighth. Oh, so many games are decided in these two frames. It’s why I’ve constantly resisted the notion of turning Joel Zumaya into a closer — when I feel he’s much more valuable earlier in the game. But I digress.
If the Tigers can somehow, from within their present group — even if one of those individuals isn’t currently on the 40-man roster — putty together a bevy of arms that can keep things under control until Todd Jones arrives in the ninth, then a move may not be necessary right away. Remember, Zumaya is done until well into the summer, out with another freak arm injury.
Fernando Rodney might as well eschew his no. 56 and don a big, fat question mark on the back of his jersey. So many eyes will be on him shortly, he’s going to get a complex. But it stands to reason; Rodney is, without question, the “X” factor of the bullpen. Injuries and inconsistency — the two seemed to feed off one another — turned his 2007 season into a roller coaster, and in the process he sort of fouled up everyone’s plans. The rest of the bullpen wasn’t good enough to pick him up, and that (along with Gary Sheffield’s bad shoulder) was a big reason why the Tigers’ playoff hopes were torpedoed. Games the Tigers were winning in the late innings in 2006 were being lost in 2007.
There’s a mix of youth and inexperience in the pen, but whether it adds up to be enough talent to complement the Tigers’ rich offense is cause for the hand-wringing.
But no panic button yet. The Winter Meetings, Part II, haven’t even started.
Call it another Hot Stove League game — something to while away the time until the pitchers and catchers report to Lakeland, and we can start talking about current events on the field again.
Something to ponder while the snow piles up outside: which current Tigers player would make the best manager when he retires?
I’ll make it easier for you: eliminate all the pitchers, including Kenny Rogers. For whatever reason, pitchers traditionally have made lousy managers, with few exceptions: Tommy Lasorda and Bob Lemon come to mind, and that’s about it. So that’s 40% of the roster you don’t have to consider, right off the top.
First, let’s rewind. Had I posed this question some 20 years ago, I’d wager most folks would have gone with Alan Trammell. He seemed to have “manager” written all over him. He was, and still is, an unabashed Sparky Anderson protege. I still think Tram could be a winner in MLB, with the right roster. But it was easy to see Trammell as a manager, while he was an active, cerebral shortstop in Detroit.
Let’s go around the horn …
C: Ivan Rodriguez. Pudge as a manager? I don’t think so. He has the fire, but I don’t know that he’s patient enough. I can see him as a frustrated, Ted Williams-type. I don’t think he’d enjoy the daily interaction with reporters, either.
Vance Wilson. Oh, absolutely. This guy could manage right now, probably. I can see him working his way up through the Tigers system. He may even run the Tigers someday. Don’t laugh.
1b: Carlos Guillen. Guillen could be OK, if he came out of his shell a bit. He fits the mold because he wasn’t a star right away; he had to work hard and be a rank-and-file guy for some pretty good Seattle teams. Those types sometimes have a better sense of what it takes to be successful in the big leagues.
2b: Placido Polanco. Not a manager type, but I see him as tomorrow’s Rafael Belliard — an infielders coach and a trusted manager’s confidante.
3b: Miguel Cabrera. Too early to tell. He’s still a kid, for gosh sakes.
ss: Edgar Renteria. I don’t see it, but maybe he would do it in a Winter League or in the low minors.
lf: Jacque Jones: Not feeling it here.
cf: Curtis Granderson: Still young, but out of all the under-30 stars in baseball now, Grandy might be in the Top Five in the Potential Manager category. Patient, affable, and knowledgeable, Granderson might have the goods. Excellent with the media, too.
rf: Magglio Ordonez: I don’t know why, but I can see Maggs not really being heard from again after his playing days are done. Another Chet Lemon. Seems like he’d just as soon fade into the sunset.
utility: Brandon Inge. Interesting case here. I think he could do it, but how he’d do with the super egos, I’m not sure. Also might be a tad too glib. But he’d be fun to cover.
dh: Gary Sheffield. OK, now here’s where you may be surprised. I believe that Shef, of all the Tigers, would make the best manager. The bigger doubt is whether he’d even do it.
Sheffield: he’d have the fire to lead a ballclub; but would he do it?
He has so many of the right attributes: knowledge; exposure to big media markets; courage; approachability; a “pizzazz” factor. He’ll utter something outrageous at times, a la Ozzie Guillen, but it won’t be for shock value; it’ll just be what he believes. I’d like to see it happen, but like I say — would he even be interested?
Another question: how many of the most successful managers of all-time were considered to have a bright future when they started? In other words, you could play this game throughout history, and maybe not even mention some of the best to ever patrol a dugout. Those you thought would be good, weren’t. And vice-versa.
So it’s a meaningless little game that we just played. What else do you expect in the days leading up to spring training?
Sorry, Leo Durocher, but nice guys don’t always finish last.
I’m not one to get caught up in how much dough a professional athlete makes. I still follow baseball statistics, not salaries. If a batter comes up in the bottom of the eighth with runners in scoring position and the game on the line, how much he’s being paid isn’t even on my radar. I’ve managed to keep the game wholesome in my mind, in that regard.
Salaries, though, are very much part of the game — I know that. Especially in the winter months of the Hot Stove League, when there’s not much else to talk about. It’s also when most contract extensions are signed.
So I must comment on the Tigers locking up centerfielder Curtis Granderson on a brand-new extension that could carry him all the way to the 2013 season in Detroit. Grandy made about $650,000 last year. He’ll make about nine times that now, thanks to a $30+ million extension.
Not to get too fawning here, but just about every father with a daughter should hope that she marries a young man like Curtis Granderson. At 26, it’s scary to think what he can still accomplish on the ball field, and exhilirating to think of how many people he’s yet to help and serve with his charitable work and donation of time.
One of the game’s most approachable players, Granderson is one of many key components that the Tigers are locking up for the longterm, as they try to remain elite for years to come. Having good people like Granderson in the clubhouse goes a long way toward that goal.
Granderson: chisel his name at leadoff for the next five years; the community will benefit, too
I wrote a couple summers ago that Granderson would eventually make this town go crazy as the Tigers’ leadoff hitter and centerfielder. I believe it even more after his monster 2007 season, in which he batted .302, with 38 doubles, 23 triples, 23 HRs, 74 RBI, stole 26 bases, and scored 122 runs. Past MVPs haven’t had as nice numbers as those, if you want to know.
But it’s more than what he does in uniform that will make Detroit fall in love with Granderson. With the contract extension all but ensuring that he’ll remain in town for several more years, if not for the rest of his career, I can see Granderson becoming as much of the fabric of Detroit and the state of Michigan as any Tigers player in recent memory. We might, MIGHT, be seeing a Hall of Famer forming before our very eyes, and when you combine that with a sense of duty and giving back that Granderson has already displayed, then you have the makings of that special player who isn’t just a player — he’s a local icon.
Already, Granderson has hosted a benefit celebrity basketball game, traveled to Europe as an MLB ambassador, and participated in countless other charitable events, since beating Nook Logan for the starting CF job in spring training, 2006.
Is this too much praise? Am I putting the cart in front of the horse? I don’t think so. There’s no reason to believe that Granderson won’t continue his prowess on the field. And there certainly is nothing to indicate that his off-the-field goings-on will subside.
Granderson’s mother, Mary, gushed these words — and doesn’t every parent want to be able to say the same of their child?
“As a parent, and especially as a mother, you always want your child to be respected and loved because of the individual they are,” she told the Free Press. “You look at them growing up, and you have all these plans for them. It’s been one of those things in the back of my mind, that I wanted him to be a whole person, a good person.
“And he grew up to be that.”
Indeed.
Thanks to those who played my little Super Bowl trivia game this weekend. Here are the answers. The winner will be notified tomorrow. And he (or she) will walk away with a cool $25. Not bad for a little blog contest, eh?
1. Super Bowl V was the only time the Cowboys wore their blue jerseys in the big game
2. Craig Morton was the other losing no. 7 for Denver (Super Bowl XII)
3. Don McCafferty of the Colts coached the Lions in 1973, and died in July 1974
4. Desmond Howard was the MVP of Super Bowl XXXI
5. Both CBS and NBC televised Super Bowl I
6. Preston Pearson played for champs in both Dallas and Pittsburgh
7. Doug Williams was the first African-American starting QB, and he won the MVP in Super Bowl XXII
8. John Taylor caught the game-winning pass from Montana in Super Bowl XXIII
9. Hank Stram (KC) and Weeb Ewbank (NYJ) were the two AFL-winning Super Bowl coaches. Ewbank coached the Colts to the NFL Title in 1958
10. Bill Walsh of the 49ers dressed like a bellhop in Detroit in 1982
11. Mike Bass was the interceptor of Yepremian’s “pass” in Super Bowl VII
12. The six current NFL teams that have never appeared in a Super Bowl are: Detroit, Cleveland (the new version), Jacksonville, Arizona, Houston, and New Orleans
13. Namath made his guarantee at a dinner the Thursday night before the game. The famous poolside photo of Namath was taken on a separate occasion that week.
14. Houston (twice) is the only Texas city to host a Super Bowl
15. Two answers are accepted: Buffalo, and Minnesota each have lost four Super Bowls, in addition to Denver
I love super balls. To this day, I can’t resist the urge to slam one down on the ground, and watch it bounce into the air as if it was shot out of a cannon. And they’re reliable. I’ve yet to bounce a dud super ball. Maybe if you left one out in the freezing cold, you might have problems. Otherwise, they’ve always got a (big) bounce in their step.
I’m not even sure if you’re supposed to capitalize “Super” when it comes to those wonderful childhood little balls. Probably not. Maybe that gives them too much respect.
But then again, we capitalize the “Super” in Super Bowl, and those games have been about as reliable as a soggy book of matches over the years.
There’s another of those football games with the funny Roman Numerals coming up this Sunday. It’s the XLIInd version. After two weeks of hype, and a day-long preview on television, the New York Giants and the New England Patriots will battle it out for NFL supremacy. The key question, as it always is, is how long folks will keep watching the game before the food spreads and beverages win over their attention.
If you’re playing the odds, the smart money says that sometime in the second quarter, the game will fade into the background while the nachos, sub sandwiches, and Norm’s homemade salsa take center stage. You might even want to put some dough on not being awake when the final gun goes off.
I’m not being cynical; I’m being factual. Of the XLI Super Bowls played to date, I figure that less than half of them have been truly “super.” Often, the only super things about them have been the margin of victory, or the absurdity of some of the action on the field.
A trip down memory lane…
I. The first game, played in Los Angeles’s Coliseum, is an object of curiosity. NBC and CBS can’t agree on who should televise the contest (NBC did the AFL games, CBS the NFL’s), so they come up with the brilliant idea of BOTH covering the game, simultaneously. It’s the only Super Bowl where the TV crew members almost outnumber the living, breathing, paying spectators.
Super? Naah. The Green Bay Packers pull away from the plucky Kansas City Chiefs in the second half, though tales of Packers receiver Max McGee, who scored two TDs, playing with a hangover become legendary.
II. The Packers again have their way, this time with the Oakland Raiders. Giant robots – one depicting each team – nearly barrel out of control before the game during a show on the field. It’s just about the most excitement all afternoon.
Super? Not even close.
III. The AFL scores its first victory – the improbable upset by the New York Jets over the mighty Baltimore Colts. It’s the Joe Namath Guarantee Game. Colts players still brood about the loss, and even a win in Super Bowl V two years later isn’t a salve for their wounds.
Super? Most definitely, if only because of the upset factor, and Namath’s growing charm and blossoming into a superstar.
IV. The Chiefs upset the Minnesota Vikings, and the AFL goes 2-2 against the NFL before the 1970 merger.
Super? Yes, because the AFL proved that the Jets weren’t a fluke.
V. Rookie kicker Jim O’Brien wins it for the Colts at the gun with a field goal, beating the Dallas Cowboys.
Super? Nope, because even though there was drama at the end, the game itself was a turnover-plagued, poorly-played affair.
VI. The Cowboys beat the Miami Dolphins, 24-3.
Super? Read that sentence again, and you tell me.
VII. The Dolphins finish their perfect season by beating the Washington Redskins, 14-7.
Super? No. The final score was not indicative of how much the Dolphins dominated the game. The only fun was watching Miami kicker Garo Yepremian try to throw a pass after a blocked FG attempt.
VIII. The Dolphins repeat, beating the Vikings in Houston.
Super? According to those who covered the game, nothing could have been super about the game being in Houston.
IX. The Pittsburgh Steelers win their first-ever championship, beating the hapless Vikings.
Super? Yes, mainly for seeing longtime Steelers owner Art Rooney, who also played and coached for the team, finally get his brass ring.
X. The Steelers win again, beating the Cowboys in Miami.
Super? I’m going to say yes, mainly because of Lynn Swann’s acrobatic performance – making two brilliant, now-famous catches.
XI. The Raiders beat the – yep, you guessed it – Vikings, 32-14.
Two things stand out in my mind: Vikes receiver Sammy White getting his helmet knocked off after a brutal hit, and Raiders veteran DB Willie Brown racing into the end zone with an interception.
Super? No way.
XII. The Cowboys handle the Broncos in the Superdome in New Orleans, 27-10.
Super? Umm…no.
XIII. The Cowboys get their comeuppance, getting beaten by the Steelers.
Super? Not really, although veteran tight end Jackie Smith’s drop in the end zone didn’t help matters for Dallas.
XIV. The Steelers cap a run in which they win four Super Bowls in six years, rallying in the fourth quarter to beat the Los Angeles Rams.
Super? Yes – this one was a keeper.
XV. The Raiders win their second championship, downing the Philadelphia Eagles in New Orleans.
Super? I’d say so, because the Raiders were quarterbacked by veteran journeyman Jim Plunkett, whose triumph was a feel-good story.
XVI. In the Silverdome, the San Francisco 49ers usher in their era of dominance by slipping past the Cincinnati Bengals.
Super? Yes. This game had a great goal line stand by San Fran, and it completed Joe Montana’s coming out party, which began a couple weeks earlier in the NFC Championship game when he hit Dwight Clark in the final minute for the winning score.
XVII. The Redskins beat the Dolphins.
Super? Yeah, because it gave us ‘Skins’ RB John Riggins and his back-breaking off tackle run for 40+ yards for a dagger of a touchdown.
XVIII. The Raiders, now in Los Angeles, top the Redskins.
Super? No. The game wasn’t close, although it was Plunkett’s second ring, at age 34.
XIX. The 49ers whip the Dolphins at Stanford University.
Super? Well, since the above sentence reads like a recap of an exhibition game, you can probably figure out the answer.
XX. The Chicago Bears destroy the New England Patriots, 46-10.
Super? Are you serious?
XXI. The New York Giants take care of the Denver Broncos.
Super? Not really. This had minor drama, but the Giants eased away in the second half.
XXII. The Redskins blitz the Denver Broncos.
The Broncos took a 10-0 lead, then watched the Skins score 35 points – in the second quarter alone.
Super? Actually, yes – because this was the first NFL championship game that featured an African-American starting QB, Washington’s Doug Williams, who became the game’s MVP. Also super because Williams was the recipient of this banal question on Media Day: “How long have you been a black quarterback?” Swear to God.
XXIII. The 49ers edge the Bengals on a last-minute TD pass from Montana to John Taylor.
Super? Absolutely. This was Montana at his best: under two minutes left, almost 90 yards to cover, field goal not good enough. Classic stuff. I watched this one with chicken pox and a 101-degree fever. Another super thing.
XXIV. The 49ers demolish the Broncos, 55-10.
Super? HA!
XXV. The Giants beat the Buffalo Bills when Buffalo’s Scott Norwood misses a XLI-yard field goal at the final gun.
Super? Gotta say yes, if only because the miss gave Norwood Bill Buckner-like status in the country’s consciousness.
XXVI. The Redskins handle the Bills.
Super? Nope – although it was the second Super Bowl played in a northern climate (Minneapolis). And the Lions actually made it to the NFC title game this year.
XXVII and XXVIII. The Cowboys handle the Bills each year.
Super? That would be a big, fat NO on both, and the Bills join the Vikings and Broncos as four-time Super losers.
XXIX. The 49ers paste the San Diego Chargers.
Super? This one was over with about halfway thru the first quarter, as 49ers QB Steve Young began raining TD passes over the Chargers’ woeful secondary. So, no.
XXX. The Cowboys beat the Steelers.
Super? Yes. This one was competitive, and it caused old-timers like me to recall the Steelers-
Cowboys Super tilts of the 1970s.
XXXI. The Packers beat the Patriots.
Super? I’d say so. This vaulted the Packers back into championship status after a nearly 30-year drought, and U-M’s Desmond Howard won the MVP award by being electric on kick returns.
XXXII. The Broncos – finally – become champs, beating the favored Packers.
Super? For sure, and we’re on a roll now. John Elway clutches his first Vince Lombardi Trophy after three failures. Good stuff.
XXXIII. Elway has the hang of this thing now – just as he’s about to retire. Broncos win again, beating the Atlanta Falcons.
Super? Naah. Now it’s old news when Elway wins!
XXXIV. The St. Louis Rams win the franchise’s first championship, nipping the Tennessee Titans.
Super? Well, not exactly a glamorous match up, city-wise, but the Rams have an explosive offense and the game comes down to the final moments, when the Titans are denied near the goal line. So, yes – barely.
XXXV. The Baltimore Ravens beat the New York Football Giants.
Super? Blecch. Great defense wins championships, but the Ravens are so offensively challenged, and play such ugly football, that it’s hard to appreciate their superior “D”. So, sorry – nope.
XXXVI. The Patriots upset the heavily-favored Rams on an Adam Vinatieri field goal at the end.
Super? Sure, why not? Despite V’s exception, game-winning FGs are always good drama.
XXXVII. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers are first-time champs, beating the Oakland Raiders.
Super? Well, there was a nifty little subplot, with Bucs coach Jon Gruden going against the Raiders, who fired him a year earlier. But the game itself isn’t all that much.
XXXVIII. The Patriots return to the mountain top, dispatching the Carolina Panthers, 32-29.
Super? Well, the numbers sure are getting longer, if nothing else. But this wasn’t much of a game, despite the close score. Thumbs down.
XXXIX. The Patriots win again – taking care of the Philadelphia Eagles by a nose.
Super? There was some drama here – with Eagles QB Donovan McNabb playing ill, and WR Terrell Owens coming back from a serious leg injury suffered late in the season, to play. Yes – barely.
XL. In Detroit, all the talk was about Steelers RB and native son Jerome Bettis, who was going to retire after the season, win or lose.
Super? Well, the officiating was bad, but Bettis DID go out a winner, and in his hometown. Thumbs up.
XLI. The Indianapolis Colts edge the Bears.
Super? Yeah – the Bears’ Devin Hester ran the opening kick back for a TD, and Peyton Manning wins his first championship, thanks to some big fourth quarter defense.
Final tally: XIX of XLI games were Super, in my book, for a percentage of just over XLVI percent. Like I said, if you play the odds, chances are you won’t be missing much if you gorge yourself and fill your belly with liquid fire.
See you Tuesday.
Jose Canseco has always been a cartoon.
He was a freakish hulk at the plate, waggling his bat with that wide-open stance, with those Popeye forearms of his. He played the outfield with an iron glove. Once, a ball bounced off his head and went over the fence for a homerun. I’m sure they have replays of it on YouTube. In Yankee Stadium one evening, he left the on-deck circle to confront a fan who shouted some things about Canseco and his wife and Madonna. He tried pitching once. And he was a World Champion, in 1989 with the A’s. He mounted several comebacks, and was a journeyman player by the time his career ended.
It hasn’t gotten much prettier to look at after he hung up his jockstrap.
So consider the source — and arm yourself with a whole canister of salt — when you hear Canseco speak of “outing” former and current players in his self-generated and perpetuated steroids scandal.
But what he purportedly tried to do to the Tigers’ Magglio Ordonez has made Canseco less of a cartoon and more of a bad horror movie.
Canseco’s blatant extortion attempt on Ordonez will likely backfire on him
It seems that Canseco “asked” Ordonez, last summer, to invest money in a film project Canseco was spearheading. The project was about steroids in baseball. Only, it was inferred that if Ordonez said no, he would find himself in Canseco’s new tell-all book.
Extortion isn’t the stuff of cartoons.
Ordonez, it was reported, approached GM Dave Dombrowski about the “offer”, but neglected to press charges. Maggs didn’t want to make a mountain out of a mole hill, apparently. That’s very admirable, but it sorta IS a mountain when someone is using such heavy-handed methods to get money from you.
Canseco’s book comes out in March, at which time we’ll all find out to what extent Ordonez is mentioned in it. But revelations of Canseco’s extortion attempt against the 2007 MLB batting champion significantly harms the credibility of the book — even if the information in it is 100% factual. Canseco now comes off looking as someone more interested in financial gain than in trying to expose wrongdoing in baseball. Why else would he try these scare tactics with Ordonez?
We’ll see how much of a distraction, if any, Canseco’s book will be to Ordonez and the Tigers. But if you’re worried, take comfort in the fact that, thanks to Canseco’s boneheaded ploy, Ordonez now looks victimized, as opposed to about to be exposed and vilified.
Looks like Canseco plays life the way he played the outfield: clumsily.
Don’t look now, but it’s coming up on 40 years since the Tigers’ World Championship of 1968.
We passed the 20th anniversary of the ‘84 champs a few years ago, and last year it was the 20th for the 1987 Comeback Kids, who stole the AL East pennant from the Toronto Blue Jays in the final week of the season. It won’t be long before 20 years have gone by since the 2006 AL Champion team. Don’t laugh. I know oldtimers like me certainly aren’t.
The ‘68 team, for whatever reason, seems to elicit more romance than the ‘84 club. Maybe it’s because baseball in the 1960s was at the tail end of another era, when pitchers dominated and there were four starters, not five, and the DH was still a cockeyed idea in someone’s head. Or maybe it’s because the 1968 team played a large role in providing a salve for a city still reeling from the 1967 riots and from the near miss for the pennant. It was also the last year before baseball split into divisions. And, it gave legend Al Kaline his only World Series appearance and victory.
A few of the ‘68 Tigers are gone. Joe Sparma, Ray Oyler, and Don McMahon all died relatively young. We lost Earl Wilson in 2005. Eddie Mathews has long ago passed on, as has manager Mayo Smith.
But many of them are still around, and I wonder if the Tigers have anything planned to commemorate the franchise’s first championship since 1945. They did something way back in 1978, to recognize 10 years, but there was some flack for contriving an “anniversary” so soon after the event. Mickey Stanley, Mickey Lolich, and Willie Horton were still active at the time. Nothing, that I recall, happened in 1988 or ‘98 to honor the team.
It would be nice to end that drought this summer, with some sort of nice ceremony. Forty years ain’t a short time, you know.
Ernie Harwell, Ray Lane, and George Kell are still kicking — the team’s radio and TV announcers back then. Many of the beat reporters and columnists are still alive, too. You could have quite a roster of participants, in addition to the players.
It’s food for thought, especially in this day and age of celebrating things that don’t always have just cause. Forty years ago, the Tigers turned Detroit on and injected the city with baseball fever. It was wonderfully timed, and kept us satiated until the late 1970s, when the team became revitalized.
Give ‘em a Day this summer.
IF Rich Rodriguez did what they say he did, then all I can say is, there’s nothing “Michigan” about that.
I hope that the allegations are either false or at the very least, embellished — the ones that say that new U-M football coach Rodriguez destroyed file upon file at West Virginia regarding his football program. Sources report that Rodriguez was seen shredding documents in the football facility on December 18, one day after being introduced as Michigan’s coach.
Lots of things have to be sorted out before we overreact (HA! As IF….). Like, for instance, the squarely biased feelings at WVA about Rodriguez’s flight to Michigan in the first place. This has been one of the more rocky (to put it mildly) partings of a coach from a major university, and the university and its faithful are hardly blameless for that. Thus, credibility is at issue here over these reports. Also, if files were indeed destroyed, then to what extent? Maybe it was nothing more than a former employee getting rid of what he believed to be personal information.
WVA supporters, in a recent photo
What else needs to be dealt with is why Rodriguez would do such a thing to begin with. Why? What would be a motive? Clearly, it would seem that there’s maybe something to hide, but what? Or was it an act of spite, of malice, in response to the highly personal means by which Mountaineer supporters reacted to “Coach Rod” leaving the mines?
Here’s what’s NOT an issue, though it will be portrayed as such: that the school should have backup files. Irrelevant. Yes, it would seem preposterous that WVA would only have single copies of everything that Rodriguez purportedly destroyed. But, that’s kinda not the point here — if he did it. That’s a separate, internal issue that the university must contend with. It does not absolve Rodriguez of wrongdoing.
But I must say, that if there is some shred (no pun intended) of truth to these reports, and it turns out that this was done in some sort of clandestine manner, then it’s extremely troubling. Michigan doesn’t do things this way. No matter what you think of the program, or where your allegiance is, you have to allow for that. I’m hardly a U-M booster — at times I’ve been very anti-Michigan, in fact — but even in my most punitive moods, I could never agree that Michigan is an underhanded football program. And ask this question: can you even imagine outgoing coach Lloyd Carr being accused of something similar?
This might not be a George O’Leary or Wally Backman moment for Michigan, but it should at least be addressed if it turns out to have happened. (O’Leary of Notre Dame and Backman of the Arizona Diamondbacks were fired shortly after they were hired — both for trumping up their resumes) This is big doings — again, if it’s true — and to ignore it would make Michigan look worse than it already does for POSSIBLY hiring someone who doesn’t do things above board. So far, nobody at U-M is talking. That’s fine for now, as this story is still in its infancy. It won’t be fine forever.
A “Michigan man” doesn’t do the things that Rich Rodriguez is accused of doing. Then again, Michigan didn’t hire a Michigan man; they hired a man they hope will function like a Michigan man.
Clearly, there can be a big distinction between the two types of folks. It’s the risk you take when you hire from without.
What is a baseball Hall of Famer?
Pose that question to 100 voting members of the Baseball Writers Association of America, and see how many different responses you get. Oh, you’ll get overlapping adjectives, like longevity, consistency, and dominance. You’ll also find that some put special weight onto MVP Awards, or Cy Youngs, or championships. This diversity is one reason — maybe the BIGGEST reason — that it’s almost impossible to quantify what qualifies a player for Hall induction.
The votes came in last week, as you know, and only one person was elected: pitcher Rich “Goose” Gossage.
It’s not really fair, or accurate, to label Gossage as just another closer who’s finally getting his due, post-career. Because not only did Gossage begin as a starting pitcher, a la Dennis Eckersley, he also pitched more than just the ninth innings of games.
Gossage was a “closer” at a time when it wasn’t unusual for him or those of his ilk to come into games in the eighth, seventh, or even sixth innings. In 1978, for example, when Gossage was named AL Fireman of the Year, he logged a Herculean (by today’s standards) 134 innings pitched, according to retrosheet.org. Along the way he saved 27 games and won 10 others, with a dazzling 2.01 ERA. Mariano Rivera, widely regarded as the greatest closer of his era and a sure-fire Hall of Famer, routinely pitches anywhere between 70 and 80 innings, or just over half what Gossage logged in ‘78.
1978 wasn’t an aberration for the Goose. He never quite touched 134 IP again, but he was near 100 on several occasions. His saves weren’t the three out, ten-pitch variety. His 21 decisions in ‘78 indicate that; managers Billy Martin and Bob Lemon wouldn’t hesitate to bring Gossage in at the first sign of trouble — and that was rarely just in the ninth.
Why am I going on and on over Gossage, who was finally elected after several rejections?
Well, I suppose it’s to express my support for the voting results, and also to make Jack Morris feel a tad better.
Morris, the almost-Hall of Famer who fell a little short again last week, made several comments publicly in the wake of the tabulation. One of the concerns he expressed was what he perceived to be a sort of over-compensating tendency the voters have toward relief pitchers. Basically, Morris doesn’t want the recent, perhaps trendy movement to recognize relief pitchers — some belatedly — to overshadow the exploits of some arguably deserving starters.
Like himself, of course. But also others he cited, like Bert Blyleven.
It’s a legitimate, reasonable point, and one that I believe isn’t rooted in sour grapes.
For the record, Morris didn’t begrudge Gossage his achievement — in fact, he lauded the results when it came to the Goose. But he also wasn’t shy to express disappointment over his exclusion — and who can blame him?
I took, with great difficulty, an official position on Morris’s candidacy a few years ago, and I’m not comfortable changing it — though it’s tempting. I wrote that Morris, in my mind, was just barely not a Hall of Famer. It wasn’t that some of his numbers didn’t impress me — they did — but the one number, his 3.90 career ERA, was a little too high for my comfort level. His 254 career wins, though, had they been perhaps 25-30 more, might have cancelled out the ERA. I could go with a 280-290 win guy with a 3.90, but not a 254 win guy. You’re free to disagree with my logic, of course.
So the writers didn’t just overcompensate for relievers by electing Gossage, Mr. Morris. Yet I agree with you that they shouldn’t ignore worthy starters while they’re simultaneously recognizing the stalwarts of the bullpens.
Even if you’re one starter who doesn’t quite make the grade. No harm in that, though.
Perhaps no athlete in Detroit in recent memory has bonded so well with fans, yet had so many infuriated with him at the same time, than Tigers (so far) third baseman Brandon Inge.
Inge is drenched in this community, both on and off the field. His biggest fans are those who, in some cases, don’t give much of a hoot about baseball — but who like him and appreciate him for his involvement with children and other worthy causes. He’s adored by teammates, and has made himself into quite a third sacker, considering he has only played the position for a few seasons.
But Inge might be an ex-Tiger when all is said and done this spring training. The mega-trade for 3B Miguel Cabrera could see to that. Unless the 30-year-old (yes, he’s 30) Inge acquiesces to a reduced role in 2008 — i.e. that of a sort of “super sub” who can competently play a number of positions. It was a role that Mickey Stanley gladly played late in his Tigers career, because he knew that was his best chance to remain in Detroit, where he had rooted himself.
But after Stanley, there was another fan favorite who tossed away the catcher’s gear and turned himself into a nice utility player.
Johnny Wockenfuss, he of the corkscrew batting stance and Fu Manchu mustache, joined the Tigers in the mid-1970s as a backstop. But by the time the 1980s were here, Wockenfuss had already worn a first baseman’s glove, patrolled the outfield, and was a decent DH and pinch-hitter. And with some power.
Wockenfuss was well-liked in Detroit, because he looked like the fans: kind of rumpled, a bit weathered, and with lunch pail written all over him. By ‘83, Wockenfuss was also a favorite of manager Sparky Anderson, and came up with some big hits. He wasn’t a Gold Glover, but he wasn’t awful, either.
But the Tigers’ surplus of young talent squeezed ‘Fuss out, and he was traded in spring training 1984, along with Glenn Wilson, to the Phillies for Dave Bergman and Willie Hernandez. That deal worked out pretty well, if you recall.
Will Inge experience the same fate? He wants to play, and sees himself as a starter, as well he should. It’s unclear if he’d be amiable to a reserve role in Detroit. Early indicators are that he seeks a trade. Can’t really blame him, though he’d leave behind a bunch of disappointed fans. He’d also leave behind some who would say “Good riddance”, due to his maddening offensive struggles. He’s not the greatest with RISP, that’s for sure.
He’s a sort of paradox, Inge is. You either love him or hate him, it seems. But I have a feeling that the tears would outnumber the jeers should he leave Detroit.
There have been plenty of early Christmas gifts for the Tigers and their fans since the 2007 season ended. Edgar Renteria, Jacque Jones, Miguel Cabrera, and Dontrelle Willis have been added in trades. Kenny Rogers was re-signed, and Willis was inked to an extension.
But at the risk of sounding greedy and unappreciative, I’ll make another plea to Santa Claus, er, GM Dave Dombrowski.
Where, oh where, is the Tigers’ catcher of the future?
Rodriguez keeps himself in marvelous shape, but the calendar stops for no man
This isn’t the first time I’ve asked such a question. But the answer hasn’t presented itself, and I think it’s something — here I am, sounding like a broken record — that needs to be addressed.
Pudge Rodriguez has turned 36. That’s 66 in catcher years. Remember, the so-called experts warned of Rodriguez’s age when the Tigers signed him in early 2004 — when Pudge was 32. Signs have creeped in that the calendar is catching up with him, though Rodriguez keeps himself in excellent condition. Never have I been in the Tigers clubhouse and NOT seen Pudge giving himself a strenuous workout before a game in the team’s weight room.
But sooner or later, even the most well-conditioned athlete has to bow to Father Time. And at 36, that time surely must be on the horizon for Pudge.
Vance Wilson’s absence in 2007 due to injury was greater than many would admit, or care to notice. But Wilson is among the game’s top backup catchers, and no disrespect to Mike Rabelo, but the Tigers could have used Wilson — even for half the season — on many, many occasions.
Yet Wilson is not the long-term answer. He’ll be 35 in March. No bright catching prospects exist in the Tigers system; it’s the one area where the team is deficient in young talent.
My guess is that the Tigers will utilize another package of prospects and young major league talent to secure a catcher in his late-20s — probably in 2009. Unless a free agent becomes available. Rodriguez could at that point become a DH or a part-time first baseman.
I know it’s too late for this Christmas, Santa Dave, but don’t forget the part of the wish list that hasn’t been crossed off yet.
Often times, sports commissioners don’t define the games over which they preside — it’s the other way around. Baseball, more so than any other sport, proves this theorem.
Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis’s legacy is his swift and severe rulings when it came to the Black Sox scandal of 1919. Few folks, save the most obsessed historians, can tell you much about Landis’s term as baseball commissioner — and it was a long one — but they know that the Judge banished the White Sox players who were involved in fixing the World Series that year.
Ford Frick would be nothing more than a footnote if it wasn’t for his ill-advised addition of an asterisk to Roger Maris’s record of 61 home runs in 1961. Maybe that’s where they get the term “fricking” — as in, “I can’t believe there’s a fricking asterisk next to Maris’s name.”
Bowie Kuhn almost bucked this trend, for he sometimes imposed his will in a proactive manner, i.e. when it came to dealing with matters that he felt weren’t “in the best interests” of baseball. But most of what happened during Kuhn’s administration defined him, not the other way around. Under Bowie’s watch, we saw the lowering of the mound in 1969, the introduction of the DH in 1973, and most importantly, the dawn of free agency. None of these things did he initiate — but how he responded to them and how he shepherded the game through them solidified his place as one of the game’s greatest commishes.
Who knows much about Bart Giamatti — besides the fact that he’s the father of actor Paul Giamatti — other than he was the one who put the scarlett letter on Pete Rose’s lapel?
Now Bud Selig, no threat to the legacies of Landis, Kuhn, et al, has himself an opportunity.
How will Selig commandeer the ship thru the rough waters created by the wake of the George Mitchell steroid report?
How swiftly will Bud react? How significant will be the ramifications — if any? What changes will he make to ensure that this — or anything remotely like it — doesn’t happen again?
Selig has already fumbled many handoffs.
There was the All-Star game tie/debacle several years ago. Then the decree that the winner of the midsummer classic would have home field advantage in the World Series, rendering the regular season meaningless in that regard. His strange silence and ambiguity as Barry Bonds approached Hank Aaron’s HR record was the latest.
But yet there is hope for Selig.
The way he responds to the Mitchell report, which cited some of the game’s biggest stars as users of performance-enhancing substances, will (in my mind anyway) go a long way toward defining Selig’s legacy as a commissioner. So he could still pull this one out of the fire.
If you have some skepticism, you are more than excused.
Can Bud do it? Can he put a stamp on the game that has, so far, branded him as an incompetent and mealy?
The odds are long. Oops — no betting in baseball. My bad.
Twenty-four hours ago, Cameron Maybin was “untouchable.” Andrew Miller was “practically” untouchable. The Tigers’ chances of pulling any sort of deal, much less that of the blockbuster variety, were slim at these Winter Meetings — capitalized because it’s baseball’s. GM Dave Dombrowski said on Monday that the Tigers would be satisfied to go into the 2008 season with the roster they had when the Meetings began.
Something funny happened on the way to status quo.
The Tigers pulled off maybe their biggest and boldest trade since they dealt batting champ Harvey Kuenn for home run champ Rocky Colavito before the 1960 season. A whopping eight-player deal, and the fact that the Tigers are only getting two of those eight players tells you how far they’ve come as a major off-season player.
When you trade six for two, and your front office isn’t brain dead, then you know the two you’re getting are Rolls Royce players, as Dickie Vitale would say. And they are — lefty Dontrelle Willis and 3B Miguel Cabrera come to the Tigers from Florida. These are two huge stars (though Willis is coming off a down year) who are in their mid-20s. Two All-Stars with a World Series title under their belts. The types of players who instantly thrust you ahead of the pack in your division, and maybe in the league. Maybe, in fact, ahead of the other 29 teams in MLB.
But oh, how the Tigers paid to get them.
I was, to put it mildly, shocked when I saw the little chicklet at the bottom of the screen on ESPN News.
BREAKING NEWS: Fla agrees to trade Cabrera, Willis to Tigers
Eyes widened, I waited for the MLB news to flash, after the interminable NBA and NHL scores, and other inconsequential sports drivel.
Marlins agree to trade LHP Dontrelle Willis and 3B Miguel Cabrera to Tigers for six players, including OF Cameron Maybin and LHP Andrew Miller
Oh. My. God.
Despite how gifted Willis and Cabrera are — and they ARE — my first thought went to the Tigers’ rapidly depleting farm system. And to how Maybin was supposedly never going to be traded — no way, no how. All we’d heard since the Tigers drafted him is how he’s a genuine five-tool player who’ll one day make Detroit go crazy. The Tigers all but laughed at the Washington Nationals in 2006 when the Nats wanted Maybin in any deal involving OF Alfonso Soriano. Back to that word, “untouchable.”
Miller was another who you’d figure wouldn’t be going anywhere. The no. 1 pick in 2006, Miller was rushed to the majors after being aggressively signed with the idea that he could be a playoff performer, at the age of 20. That didn’t happen, but you knew the Tigers still had big plans for him in 2008 and beyond. As recently as Monday.
So here the Tigers are, trading their two best prospects — their best prospects in years, according to some — and even though they netted two big fish from the Marlins, the move still makes me squirm a bit. Between the Gary Sheffield trade last year, the Edgar Renteria deal last month, and now this mind-number, the Tigers have SEVERELY cut into their prospects pool. But, on the other hand, your team is now LOADED.
Here’s a possible batting order:
Curtis Granderson CF
Placido Polanco 2B
Gary Sheffield (healthy) DH
Magglio Ordonez RF
Miguel Cabrera 3B
Carlos Guillen 1B
Edgar Renteria SS
Pudge Rodriguez C
Jacque Jones LF
Goodness gracious.
And here’s the rotation:
Justin Verlander RH
Dontrelle Willis LH
Kenny Rogers LH
Jeremy Bonderman RH
Nate Robertson LH
Cripes sakes.
This team could run away with the Central title. It’s that good on parchment, the Indians be damned. Manager Jim Leyland must be beside himself. I bet you he’s already jotted down about a dozen variations of the batting order I took a stab at earlier. I can almost hear him telling the media with typical self-effacing humor, “This team looks good — as long as I don’t screw it up.”
Of course, you gotta perform. But I think the Tigers, having made some major, MAJOR moves since the last out was recorded in 2007, are about as well-equipped as a team can be for a 162-game battle. Yes, the bullpen might still be shaky, but that can be addressed. It’s not like Dombrowski has shown any shyness. Besides, this trade makes Brandon Inge expendable. It’s a “win now” mentality, for sure, but with Willis and Cabrera, it can be win now — and later, too. Willis is 24. Cabrera will be 25 in April. That ought to soothe any concerns — including mine — about “mortgaging” the future. Yet the Tigers sure stunned a lot of folks by trading both Maybin AND Miller. At least they’re in the National League now.
Last year I wrote a piece about how the Winter Meetings seemed to lack that excitement and sense of urgency of years past. About how you just didn’t have any real reason to look forward to them, as in the days of yore. Sometimes they occurred and you barely knew that they did.
But mark December 4, 2007 as the day the Tigers turned baseball on its ear with one of its biggest trades in years — both in terms of sheer volume of players and in star power, present and future. Truly a win-win deal – if Maybin and Miller are as good as we keep being told that they are.
Nicely done, DD — but I’m still a little squeamish. Until Opening Day, when I see the Tigers trot out onto the field and I see, for real, what the Tigers GM has wrought.
There was a time that, had you asked me if we should instill video replay into Major League Baseball, I would have knocked your hot dog out of your hand and dumped your beer on you.
That time is in the past.
MLB, as you might know, is seriously considering using video replay to resolve certain plays, notably home runs (to determine fair or foul or fan interference or over the wall or not) and fan interference in balls still in play. Other situations may become replay-ready going forward, such as whether balls are caught or trapped in the outfield.
What replay will NOT be used for (at least not now) is to determine balls and strikes, out or safe, or if a batter was hit by a pitch or not.
I would have been resistant back in the day because I felt like part of baseball’s charm was the human element in umpiring. Plus, the boys in blue pretty much got everything right — and replay usually vindicated them anyway. But the plays for which replay is being considered are ones that are genuinely tough to call with the naked eye, and I suppose I feel the time is right to let technology in a little bit.
Of course, if rulings on the field are overturned by the cameras, then baseball will have to incorporate contingency plans, i.e. where to place batters, baserunners, etc. A ball called a home run by the umpire, and then overturned, would of course be turned into a ground rule double, with baserunners (if applicable) being placed accordingly. Obviously, balls originally called doubles or triples that end up turning into home runs thanks to replay would have cut-and-dried ramifications.
I must admit, though, that balls-and-strikes, while certainly not replayable, are getting on my nerves — because umpires’ strike zones are seemingly getting more and more varied. Again, I realize this is that human element of which I speak. But there’s human element, and there’s “WTF?” The strike zone is edging toward the latter.
So MLB has my permission to use video replay in the situations earmarked. Nothing wrong with gettin’ a li’l help.
Some of you may know that I’m a tabletop sports game player. You can have your fancy-shmancy X Boxes, Game Cubes, and PS IIs. I’ll take cards and dice, thank you very much, to simulate my pro and college sports.
It might be cold outside, and nowhere near baseball season, but that doesn’t stop the tabletop player from enjoying nostalgic baseball action.
I got the hankering late last week to break out my APBA baseball game. I only have one season — 1974 — and even though I had replayed the World Series a couple years ago (Dodgers swept the A’s, even though the A’s won in five games in real life), it dawned on me that I had skipped the LCS in each league.
So guess who’s rolling the bones to pit the A’s against the Baltimore Orioles?
Thanks to retrosheet.org, I’m able to use the same starting pitchers and exact batting lineups that were actually used in these games.
APBA baseball cards
The A’s won Game 1 in a pitcher’s duel that they broke open late. Catfish Hunter and Mike Cuellar battled for six scoreless innings before Baltimore’s Boog Powell clubbed a solo HR in the top of the 7th. Then the A’s, who’d been leaving runners on base all game long, finally strung together some hits and hung a four-spot on the O’s in the bottom of the inning. The crucial point of the game was in the 8th, when Hunter got into some trouble: bases loaded with one out. But he coaxed Paul Blair to hit into an inning-ending double play. A’s win, 4-1.
In Game 2, the pitchers again were the story: Ken Holtzman for Oakland, and Dave McNally for Baltimore. The A’s used an error by O’s left fielder Don Baylor to score the go-ahead run in the fourth inning. Holtzman was brilliant, and thanks to a scoreless ninth by Rollie Fingers, the A’s won, 2-1.
So the A’s lead the best-of-five series, 2-0, with Game 3 in Baltimore — which I’ll probably play tonight.
After the ALCS, I’ll get rolling — no pun intended — on the NLCS, pitting Pittsburgh and Los Angeles.
I’ll only replay the World Series again if one of the two teams is different.
I have too many tabletop games, in all sports, for one person to own, to be honest with you. Baseball games account for seven of these (APBA, Strat-o-Matic, Pursue the Pennant, Dynasty League, Statis-Pro, Replay, Clubhouse). I know — I’m sick.
They all offer some great features, but I think Dynasty League probably tops them all in terms of realism and encapsulating EVERYTHING that can happen in a real MLB game.
I got a kick out of my interview with actor Jeff Daniels last year, when he revealed to me that he’s a closet APBA player. He told me that, to this day, his wife cringes at the sound of dice rolling.
So it may be the onset of winter outside, but it’s a brisk afternoon in October for me in Baltimore tonight!
They are two of the most hallowed batting records in all of baseball — if not THE most hallowed.
Most career base hits. Most career home runs.
And here we have Peter Rose, the hits leader, banished from baseball for allegedly gambling on the sport. Not even allowed within shouting distance of the Hall of Fame, like as with a restraining order. Come too close, and Commissioner Bud Selig will yell “rape.”
And now here we have Barry Bonds, the home run leader. Indicted, on multiple counts. Could face up to 30 years in the slammer if convicted. It’s not a parking ticket, and far worse than a restraining order.
So that’s where we are — two high-profile records stashed away with the suspected Rose and the indicted Bonds. What a legacy!
Maybe it’s of some solace to remind you that while Rose’s record is nowhere near being threatened, he is still, in many people’s eyes, Hall of Fame worthy. Mine are two of those eyes.
And there’s solace with Bonds, too — for his record won’t last forever, not even close. Alex Rodriguez, should he decide to play long enough, figures to shatter Bonds’s mark, which was confiscated thanks to the magic of creams and pills. So this won’t be a decades-long run, this stint as baseball’s home run king. A little consolation, anyway.
Still, with all this legal trouble swirling around Bonds, the question about where he’ll play in 2008 (he’s a free agent) continues to be talked about — as if it will even matter. This indictment the other day wasn’t a small deal. I mean, he could be looking at 30 years behind bars. What team in their right mind would sign a 43-year-old who’s a court hearing away from wearing an electronic tether?
The Oakland A’s, clearly not of sound mind, are rumored to be interested in Bonds. They’re just across the Bay, so maybe employment with the A’s wouldn’t exacerbate any flight risks. Maybe he could play just the home games, and with a curfew. Not sure.
I jest, but it’s not really all that funny. The all-time hits leader and the home run king are persona non grata within their own sport.
As Casey Stengel would say, “You can look it up.”
My last memories of Jacque Jones are of him and his Minnesota Twins teammates terrorizing the Tigers, back in the pre-Jim Leyland days. I lost track of him when he went to the National League. Even a post-season appearance this year by Jones’s Cubs didn’t clear the fuzz; of course, three-and-out didn’t help, either.
But I’ll get my fill of Jones now, as the Tigers acquired him yesterday for utility man Omar Infante.
The move apparently means the often-rumored Geoff Jenkins-to-Detroit move will not happen, as Jones is a lefthanded-hitting corner outfielder. And bonus: Jones can play centerfield if necessary, spelling Curtis Granderson.
I like how the Tigers are addressing needs swiftly. They moved quickly to shore up their shortstop vacancy, trading for Edgar Renteria. They signed closer Todd Jones yesterday, ensuring he won’t be testing the free agent waters. And now they’ve filled their need for a lefty stick, courtesy the Jacque Jones move.
Jacque Jones
Still on GM Dave Dombrowski’s to-do list: a veteran starting pitcher and some bullpen help. And if the team can re-sign Kenny Rogers, then that will only leave the bullpen for off-season tinkering.
Another backup middle infielder might be needed with Infante’s departure. But the Tigers might be content to go with Ramon Santiago for that role, which would be fine.
The lineup looks solid. Here’s a potential batting order:
Curtis Granderson, CF
Placido Polanco, 2B
Gary Sheffield, DH
Magglio Ordonez, RF
Carlos Guillen, 1B
Edgar Renteria, SS
Ivan Rodriguez, C
Jacque Jones, LF
Brandon Inge, 3B
Not Murderer’s Row, but solid. If everyone does their thing, and tries not to do too much, this lineup will be a nightmare for pitchers. A healthy Sheffield, obviously, is key. A bounce back year from Rodriguez would be nice, too — if he has it in him. Inge could stand to improve at the plate, too.
One thing that hasn’t been talked about too much is the expected return of backup catcher Vance Wilson. No disrespect to Mike Rabelo, but a healthy Wilson (he missed all of 2007 with an elbow injury) will help Rodriguez, and the Tigers, immensely. Wilson is better than Rabelo defensively, and is a more experienced, smarter hitter. It may not look like it if you compare the raw numbers, but I guarantee you that Wilson will give you more quality at-bats over the long haul than Rabelo at this stage of the youngster’s career.
It’s not even Thanksgiving, and the Tigers have addressed concerns admirably and smartly. It’s another reason why, in Dombrowski and manager Jim Leyland, the Tigers have among the best front office and field boss tandems in the majors.
(I can’t believe it’s been NINE days since my last post. I apologize! I’ll try to keep this site updated twice a week)
I’ve always found it ironic that sports agents are hired, partly, to be the mouthpieces for their clients. Yet they are the last people, often times, that you should listen to — if you want accuracy, that is.
Scott Boras has struck again. The super agent represents, among many others, free agent pitcher Kenny Rogers. Throughout the summer, pending free agent Rogers reiterated this salient point: that he really had no interest in playing anywhere other than Detroit, should he decide to pitch at all in 2008. Yet Boras has publicly told everyone to hold the phone; Rogers will test the market, after all.
My first instinct when I read that contention this morning was that it was all a smoke screen; that Rogers will, indeed, be a Tiger next year — and that there’s nothing for Tigers fans to worry about. And, after taking some time to reflect on it and mull it over, I think this: that it’s all a smoke screen; and Rogers will, indeed, be a Tiger next year.
In other words, I don’t believe a word Scott Boras, or any other agent for that matter, says.
Now it may be that Rogers, who’ll turn 43 on Saturday, may have mentioned to Boras that it might be wise to just toss a few bones out there and see who jumps for them. But the agent is trying to portray Rogers as suddenly non-committal, and that the Tigers are on the same level as any other MLB team who might want the lefty’s services. Quite a difference from his client’s own words during the ‘07 season.
To their credit, the Tigers are doing the wise thing and are gauging interest from other free agent starting pitchers. Just to be safe. They still have to treat Boras’s words as more than just empty sabre-rattling. GM Dave Dombrowski has been through all this before.
I would be floored if Kenny Rogers, having decided to continue to be a big league pitcher next season, doesn’t do so as a Detroit Tiger. Despite Scott Boras’s sabre-rattling. But I can afford to be unimpressed with the bleatings of a self-serving sports agent. The Tigers cannot. Even if they tend to agree with me.
When the Tigers lured Dave Dombrowski from the Florida Marlins in November 2001 to be their new, three-headed baseball man — president, general manager, chief executive officer — it was quite a sell job, to be honest. For the Tigers of the early 21st century were a team devoid of much talent on the field, and with a mostly bare cupboard of young talent in the minor leagues. They had a brand-new ballpark with ridiculous dimensions in left and left center field, and after two seasons of Comerica Park, the novelty was already starting to wear off.
How the Tigers managed to get the well-respected Dombrowski to come to Detroit to resuscitate their franchise, after over a decade of poor decisions and horrible drafting, surely will go down as one of the greatest coups in this city’s sports history.
Back then, when Dombrowski addressed the media for the first time as a Tigers employee, wearing a Tigers jacket inside a CoPa suite — the baseball diamond as a backdrop — you might have wondered if even he knew what he was truly getting himself into. Did he have buyer’s remorse?
Dombrowski’s approach is to do whatever it takes to secure solid big leaguers like Renteria
In the early years of his job here, he spoke of the future. The idea was to cobble together a product on the field that, one day, would be good enough to challenge the Yankees and Red Sox and even the Twins for league supremacy. The other phase of Dombrowski’s plan was to fortify the minor league system — one that had become an MLB-wide joke. A third phase was to have the first two phases in place so that he could begin talking as he did yesterday.
“We’re trying to win now,” Dombrowski said in the wake of the news that the Tigers had acquired shortstop Edgar Renteria from the Atlanta Braves. The price for the 32-year-old, five-time All-Star Renteria was pitching prospect Jair Jurrjens and potential big league outfielder Gorkys Hernandez. Two of the Tigers’ brightest young prospects, in other words.
That’s where the Tigers are now. They are in Phase III of Dombrowski’s plan. They now have a big league roster loaded with talent and a feeder system overstocked, to be used as bait for more talented big league talent.
It’s why Dombrowski can talk with the sense of urgency normally reserved for the Yankees, Red Sox, Mets, and other big-market MLB clubs. It’s even being mentioned that the Tigers’ “window” for winning some serious hardware might be closing soon — based on the ages of some of the team’s key cogs.
Talk of windows and “winning now” and trading some of the future for some of the present is all new stuff for the baseball team from Detroit. It was talk that would have seemed absurd as recently as four years ago. Then Dombrowski, perhaps using the same salesman skills once used on him, managed to get Fernando Vina, Rondell White, and most of all, Pudge Rodriguez, to sign with the Tigers in the off-season after the horrific 43-win season of 2003. The path to respectability had begun to be forged. A pre-2004 trade brought Carlos Guillen into the fold. A mid-2005 trade fetched Placido Polanco. Free agency brought Kenny Rogers in December 2005, and another trade sent Gary Sheffield to Detroit last November.
Now, the Renteria deal. And talk, from the GM himself, of winning now.
“You always want to set yourself up for the future, but to get someone like Edgar we knew we’d have to give up some talent,” Dombrowski said. And the Tigers, thanks to Dombrowski and his razor-sharp lieutenants like scouting director David Chadd (swiped from the Red Sox), have managed to put together a model big league organization in relatively short order.
Edgar Renteria is a Tiger this morning because the team saw an opportunity, seized on it, and filled another hole that needed to be filled, thanks to their stockpiling of young, quality players. Just like that.
That’s how the consistent winners in baseball do it. Which is what the Tigers have now become, and clearly intend to remain.
The Colorado Rockies, the way I figure it, are like a once-hot engine that’s been sitting in a cold garage for eight days. In the winter time. In fact, it may be more like they’ve been sitting in the driveway, exposed to the elements: the wind, the cold, the moisture.
It’s the Boston Red Sox that are the warmed up engine, revving and waiting to host the Rockies in Game 1 of the World Series. It’s like two racing competitors, at the starting line, waiting for the flag to be waved — but one of them, the Rockies, has to begin the race with its engine turned off.
OK, OK — enough with the automobile analogies. But you get the idea.
Frankly, this may end up being one of the most interesting Fall Classics in recent memory, if only because I’m dying to see how the Rockies, winners of 21 of their past 22 games, will respond to their enforced eight-day layoff after sweeping Arizona in the NLCS. Aren’t you curious as to whether Colorado can continue to ride the hottest end-of-season streak in baseball history all the way to the world title?
Perhaps my views are tainted by what happened to the Tigers last year, but I believe the Red Sox will make relatively short work of the Rockies — like five games worth.
None of this nonsense about the Rockies’ taking two of three from Boston in Fenway Park way back in June. The Tigers swept the Cardinals in Detroit in 2006, you know. Anyhow, I hope you know that it’s folly to use regular season matchups as any sort of post-season barometer.
No, the Red Sox will win because there’ll be too much Josh Beckett, too much Curt Schilling, Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz, and too much of a playoff-veteran team that, thanks to its 2004 World Series win (which included the famous comeback from an 0-3 hole in the ALCS) and this year’s ALCS comeback triumph, absolutely knows how to win the big games. The Rockies’ run has been fabulous, but except for the one-game playoff against San Diego, the Rockies haven’t encountered any playoff bumps yet. They’ve never trailed in a series, let alone 3-1. So how do we know that they can win under such duress?
But having said all that, I still think it will be an interesting, albeit short, World Series.
The first-ever crowning of an MLB champ in the city of Denver. But it won’t be the home team — it’ll be the Red Sox in Game 5.
The Colorado Rockies are in the World Series. Fancy that. Good for them. They have been virtually indestructible, winning 21 of their last 22 games — including a three-run rally in extra innings to even qualify for the playoffs to begin with. They are, right now, a buzz saw that is slicing through everything in their wake.
But now they face the biggest challenge of them all: the wait between the NLCS and the World Series.
The last thing the Rockies want to do, I would think, is sit around and wait, and wait, and wait … while the ALCS plays out. They have something special going on, and it’s all been predicated on playing games in relatively rapid succession.
Look no further than our own Detroit Tigers of 2006 to illustrate what I’m talking about.
Magglio Ordonez slugged his ALCS-winning home run on Saturday, October 14, giving the Tigers a sweep over Oakland. But then, due to the NLCS going seven games, the Tigers had to wait a whole week before starting the World Series. Their bats and pitchers were out of sorts, and thanks to some crooked pitchers’ throws to various bases, the Tigers fell meekly to the Cardinals.
Some blamed the week-long wait on the Tigers’ poor performance. And those folks would not be far off the mark.
Baseball is a game of rhythm and routine. One-hundred-and-sixty-two games played out, almost every day, for months. It’s not a game built for several days off between matches. Pitchers and hitters alike bask in the consistency of the sport.
So it’s no wonder that the Tigers had rust to shake off in the World Series, and it was a task that they never really completed.
The Rockies have gone through these playoffs with lightning speed. They are dispensing of teams as if they’re on a time clock, which they kind of are — midnight is looming for this year’s Cinderella.
The ALCS looks to be a six or seven game affair, which means the Rockies will have a similar wait as the ‘06 Tigers did. They’d play tomorrow if they could, being on the roll that they are on currently. But instead, they’ll try to bottle whatever it is they’re taking and save it for the World Series. Only, it usually doesn’t work out that way.
AL Champ in six.
I normally take Tuesdays off at OOB, but I’ll go to work today to remind you to do two things: check out my new satirical sports site, “Spoiled Sports,” which is full of fake sports news. Also, support my wonderful wife Sharon as she has just launched a blog for moms and wives and families called “My Li’l Blog Cabin.”
Thanks much! See ya with a new post here tomorrow!
When you’ve followed baseball as long as I have, certain images stay in your mind that remind you of the passage of time, and how the calendar stops for no man.
For instance, I remember seeing Bill Freehan tutoring young Tigers catchers in the late-1970s, one of them being Lance Parrish. Then, about 20 years later, there was Parrish, passing on his knowledge of catching to the next generation of Tigers backstops.
I’m not sure, however, who’s doing the teaching of catchers nowadays in Tiger Town.
The question has some urgency. The Tigers, not surprisingly, just picked up Pudge Rodriguez’s option for 2008, at a cool $13 million. They could have let him go for $3 million. The caveat is that the organization has no real option other than Rodriguez, at everyday catcher. There’s no real help due for several years, and even that is questionable.
The lack of grooming a new full-time catcher could nip the Tigers in the keister if they don’t act soon.
The well-conditioned Rodriguez isn’t well-conditioned enough to play forever
Free agency wasn’t going to be the answer for 2008. Aside from the Yankees’ Jorge Posada (who’s likely to re-sign with New York anyway), the pickings are slim and a trade down from Rodriguez, at least defensively. No catching prospects have been drafted in the early rounds by the Tigers for years. So it became a no-brainer to bring Pudge back, albeit an expensive no-brainer.
There’s no question that Ivan “Pudge” Rodriguez, 36 years old by the time the 2008 season starts, is not a $13 million catcher. But that’s hardly the issue right now.
The real issue is that the Tigers, for all their recent success in developing homegrown talent, have failed when it comes to finding a suitable everyday replacement for Rodriguez. And all their $13 million has bought them is one more year of time, that’s all. Barring a trade or other transaction, the Tigers will be faced with the very same question in October 2008 as they faced last week. Namely, who will catch for them in the very near future?
Rodriguez, for his part, keeps himself in excellent physical shape. Amd that’s terrific. But sooner or later (and definitely sooner), the calendar will move faster than his body can keep up. And the inevitable crash and burn could come rather quickly.
The Tigers, thanks to their exercised option, bought themselves out of trouble for 2008, presuming Rodriguez stays healthy. But they’re tempting fate if they don’t solidify an heir apparent behind the plate. Soon.
As promised, here’s what’s going on:
Browse over to my new, satirical website, Spoiled Sports. It’s sports news, but with a twist. Namely — it’s all fake. Yes, in the spirit of The Onion, I’ll provide you with phony sports news that I hope will kill your appetite for the real stuff.
And, to make things legal, I must remind you: the stories you’re about to read there are NOT true. But they sure are fun to write, and, I hope, to read as well.
Hope you enjoy!
Just want to remind you to visit me tomorrow, October 12, for a major announcement of something new I’m launching.
Want a hint? It’s a bite of the onion.
Some 2007 awards from the Baseball Academy of Arts & Sciences — if a) such an academy existed; and b) if it was populated by warped, mildly inebriated individuals.
Best Performance By An Ex-Tiger Who Played Himself Off The Team (On the field)
Carlos Pena, Tampa Bay. He hit 46 home runs, in a year in which he showed up to spring training just trying to make the team. And he wouldn’t even have done that, but there was an injury to Greg Norton, so Pena made it after all.
Best Performance By An Ex-Tiger Who Played Himself Off The Team (Off the field)
Dmitri Young, Washington. He was named NL Comeback Player of the Year (Pena was the AL’s version), a year after being unceremoniously dumped by the Tigers, mostly for his off-the-field behavioral problems.
Best Re-creation Of The Famous Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson Dugout Confrontation
Michael Barrett and Carlos Zambrano, Cubs. The catcher Barrett and pitcher Zambrano jawed at each other in the dugout at Wrigley, reminiscent of Martin and Jackson in Boston in 1977 — an incident also recreated on the ESPN series “The Bronx Is Burning.” But the Cubs players went Martin/Jackson one better — actually trading punches before being separated. Barrett soon became an ex-Cub.
Best Re-creation Of The Famous 1964 Phillies Collapse
The New York Mets. Like the ‘64 Phils, who blew a six-game lead with ten games to play, the ‘07 Mets sunk faster than a hot air balloon made of lead and piloted by Shaun Rogers. They had a seven-game lead as late as September 12 over the (ironically) Phillies, before going down the tubes. And you thought the Tigers late season slump was bad!
Best Comeback By A Player Who Never Really Left
Roger Clemens, Yankees. The Rocket pulled his usual “I’m not sure I’m going to pitch again” act during the off-season, and this time it lasted well into May before Clemens finally announced, in dramatic fashion (over the PA system at Yankee Stadium during a game), that he was pitching for the Yankees in 2007. Even his rehab stints in the minors were shown on ESPN.
Best 180 Act
Ozzie Guillen, manager, White Sox. Less than a year after dissing Magglio Ordonez, who he once managed, Guillen had nothing but lovely things to say about his fellow countryman after Maggs won the 2007 batting crown.
Best Impersonation Of The 1927 Yankees
(tie) Chicago White Sox and Kansas City Royals — whenever they played the Tigers. Had Guillen’s Chisox or Buddy Bell’s Royals had the Tigers on their schedule more often, we may have been looking at a five-way battle for supremacy in the AL Central. Oh, how those teams were thorns in the Tigers’ sides in 2007.
Best Job At Remaining Faithful To A Baseball Adage
Tigers broadcasters Mario Impemba and Rod Allen never used the term “no-hitter” during Justin Verlander’s gem in June — at least not on the air. Their omission — true to the baseball adage that says you don’t mention the possibility while it’s occurring — sparked a mini-controversy, namely: how much responsibility do the broadcasters shoulder to let their viewers/listeners know that history might be in the making?
Biggest Trade Deadline Flop
Eric Gagne, Red Sox. It didn’t harm their playoff hopes as it turned out, but closer Gagne was simply awful after being acquired from Texas. He was so bad that he was banished to set up man for the set up man.
Biggest Mystery
The White Sox extending manager Guillen’s contract for several years. After winning the World Series in 2005, the White Sox have been nosediving. They were tied for last with Kansas City in the season’s final weeks.
Best Example Of Cooler Heads Prevailing
The Mets and GM Omar Minaya, who didn’t act on a knee-jerk reaction and fire manager Willie Randolph in the wake of the team’s collapse. After a day of reflection, Minaya announced randolph would return, admitting in the presser that he needed that day to take a step back and look at things rationally. Good for him.
Best Way To Hit Your 500th HR
Jim Thome, White Sox. Thome hit no. 500 in walk-off fashion. Doesn’t get any better than that.
Saddest New Sight
Base coaches wearing batting helmets, in the wake of the tragic death of minor league first base coach Mike Coolbaugh, who was hit in the head by a batted ball and died shortly thereafter.
Better Late Than Never
MLB’s suspension of umpire Mike Winters, for baiting Padres OF Milton Bradley with profanity. The incident led to Bradley’s ejection and a season-ending knee injury after he was restrained by his manager. It’s about time the men in blue were reeled in a bit.
Best New Addition — For Half A Season
Prior to injuring his shoulder just after the All-Star break, new Tigers DH Gary Sheffield was every bit the catalyst that was expected, and then some, for the team’s offense. With Sheffield at full strength, the Tigers were 57-36 and their lineup fed off each other — and Sheff. After he got hurt and was far less than 100%, the Tigers finished 31-38, and struggled to score runs consistently.
Worst Stadium
The Metrodome, Minnesota — 26 seasons and counting.
Before reading my take on the Lions, check a couple things out.
First, my lovely wife, Sharon, has started a new blog — aimed at moms and wives and families. It’s called My Li’l Blog Cabin. Guys, tell your wives and girlfriends about it. Ladies, visit her and see if you can relate. It’s about real life and being a mom and being married to me — which automatically qualifies her for the Congressional Medal of Honor, as far as I’m concerned.
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Also, don’t forget to come back this Friday, the 12th, for a major announcement of something I’m launching. I think it will be fun, and a departure from the drivel served up here.
Thanks!!
I know I promised my wacky postseason awards for today, but things got a little crazy around the homestead. Instead, I’ll leave you hanging all weekend; they’ll appear here on Monday.
We apologize for any inconvenience.
No, not THAT kind of birth. Mrs. Out of Bounds and I are done adding to the world’s population.
But if you only visit me one day next week, make sure it’s Friday, the 12th.
I’m launching something new, and I hope you’ll find it enjoyable and fun. I’ll sprinkle hints in this space throughout the week, starting on Monday.
You may now spend your weekend thinking about what it might be…..
2007 Postseason Prognostications
I’m not the predicting type, normally. My last greatest call was Gerry Cooney KO-ing Ken Norton in under a minute of the first round back in 1981 (I predicted the fight would last 58 seconds; it lasted 54). Seriously. I’m Jimmy The Anti-Greek. Or maybe I’m Jimmy the Geek. Whatever.
But in the spirit of good humor, if nothing else, here’s a look at how the 2007 MLB playoffs might go — if we lived in a world where I was ever right about such things:
American League
New York vs. Cleveland: It’s tempting to just look at the Yankees’ 6-0 record against the Tribe in ‘07 and say that means a win in the ALDS, too. But we all know that today’s game is tomorrow’s momentum, and regular season matchups usually mean little. Yet, having said that, I’ll still take the Yankees in four because I think they’re due for a postseason explosion, and I believe the loss to the Tigers last year got under their skin more than poison ivy.
Los Angeles vs. Boston. Intriguing matchup. Two teams that recently ended being vexed (Angels in 2002; Red Sox in 2004) for years. And the Red Sox eliminated the Angels in 2004. But I look at the Red Sox and their resilience in fending off the Yankees, and their desire to make amends for their awful ‘05 postseason and ‘06 absence, and I like Boston in five.
National League
Colorado vs. Philadelphia. Wow. How do you handicap this one? Both teams qualified thanks to miraculous comebacks. The Phillies finished 13-4 to overtake the Mets. The Rockies sprinted to the finish 13-1 to leapfrog the Dodgers and the Padres. Both teams will be riding high emotions, but that usually dissipates after the first game. I guess I’ll go with the Phillies in five, mainly because I like their overall team strength and their pitching is a tad better.
Chicago vs. Arizona. Another difficult series to pick, because neither team has any playoff success to brag about in the last, oh, 95 years or so. (I know, the Diamondbacks haven’t been around that long, so chill). The Cubs’ regular season record wasn’t all that impressive (the Tigers would have won this division handily), but neither was that of the ‘06 Cardinals, and they won the whole enchilada. As much as I hope I’m wrong, I’m sticking with the Diamondbacks in four. Why? pitching, and there’s a reason the D-backs won 90 games and the Cubs fell far short of that. They’re the better team.
So that’s all, folks. Oh — and this time I’m picking Cooney over Norton in 22 seconds. Fighters lose a lot of stamina in their 50s and 60s, after all.
Coming Friday: My slightly warped end-of-season awards!
The 2007 season isn’t over yet, and already the first salvo has been fired in what might end up being a fusillade of discussion in the coming months.
Steve Phillips, the erstwhile GM of the New York Mets and now blabbing into a microphone in front of the cameras at ESPN, was Q’d on today’s Detroit Free Press website about a myriad of Tigers-related things. The question was put to him about Barry Bonds joining the Tigers out of free agency this off-season.
Some excerpts from his answer:
I think there is a way that with (Gary) Sheffield DH-ing, Bonds DH-ing, Sheffield playing left field, (Cameron) Maybin playing from leftfield from centerfield, you can maybe mix and match some playing time. Protect Bonds, protect Sheffield, get Maybin playing time for a young player, and have one of the most dynamic offenses around. Now there’s going to have to be some making up between Sheffield and Bonds for that to happen and it may be a pipe dream but you know what, Barry Bonds in that Tiger lineup with that left-handed bat it would really make a big difference.
And this:
Jim Leyland can manage Barry Bonds, I really believe that. I think it’s a lot more about the Sheffield, Bonds relationship and whether that would be manageable.
And:
A one year deal at 8 million for a guy that can put up Bonds type numbers, especially if you have a team where you might have to mix and match some playing time with young players and old players it’s a pretty nice combination and I think a worth while investment. I never would have said that a year ago.
Besides speaking in run-on sentences — or at least being transcribed that way — Phillips is among the first mainstream media folks to seriously broach the subject of Bonds becoming a Tiger. But not the first people to do so. Internet chat rooms and message boards have been burning thru their CRTs with chatter of Bonds-to-Detroit, mainly because of the slugger’s relationship with Tigers manager Leyland.
This is far from the end of the speculation and debate.
My guess is that once the World Series is over, and the Hot Stove League starts firing up its furnaces, and until Bonds signs elsewhere (he’s committed to playing in 2008 and badly wants 3,000 hits, which he’s nearing), we’ll be inundated with the virtues or horrors of Barry Bonds wearing the Old English D.
You’ll hear why hiring Bonds as the much-needed lefthanded power bat is a smart move, albeit expensive. You’ll hear folks threatening to revoke their membership as Tigers fans if the team dares to bring in such a scofflaw. And you’ll hear stuff like the following, from bottom feeders like me.
Bonds with the Tigers wouldn’t bother me from an ethical standpoint, even though I believe he used performance-enhancing substances. This is because most every other team, with the same needs as the Tigers and with the money to afford it, would sign him as well. It’s about winning baseball games and filling holes in your lineup.
My concern would instead be about his age and one-dimensional status (he’d be strictly a DH), and his apparent fragile relationship with Sheffield. I’m not convinced that Bonds and Sheffield have major problems. When I asked Sheffield what he thought about Bonds breaking Hank Aaron’s home run record, shortly after it happened, Sheff said definitively, “I think it’s great.” Almost as if he especially thought it was great.
Regardless, I would have no major problems with Barry Bonds as a Detroit Tiger. I know others feel differently. In fact, check out the new poll on this page and cast your vote.
And brace yourself for an offseason of heated debate about the subject.
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What do YOU think?
I’d like to hear your thoughts on the notion of Barry Bonds becoming a Tiger in 2008. Drop me a line at gregger63@gmail.com, or post a comment here, and vote in the poll on this page in the blue box.
The story might be apocryphal, as it’s been attributed to many umpires, but it nonetheless captures how umpiring used to be, back in the day.
A batter gets called out on strikes, and tosses his bat into the air. The arbiter says, “Son, if that bat comes down, you’re out of the game.”
It used to be that I admired baseball umpires, the Men in Blue. They were beyond reproach, and when the heat was on, it was the players or the managers who lost their cool and acted the fool.
But along the way — and I’m guessing it began occurring in the 1990s — umpires became more and more irascible and confrontational. It was a time when many of the old guard from the 1960s and ’70s were retiring.
It’s only gotten worse in the 21st century. Players are met more and more with glares and long stares at even the slightest hint of disagreement. The umpires are no longer the reactors — they’re proactors to a further degree than I can remember.
Mike Winters, umpiring a San Diego Padres game over the weekend, has been suspended by MLB for his actions in that contest, in which he — according to baseball officials — baited Padres outfielder Milton Bradley, which led to a vicious argument and Bradley badly hurting his knee while being restrained by his manager.
It’s funny that it should happen with Bradley, who’s not exactly a choir boy himself. But good for MLB, because this baiting of players by umpires has gotten way out of hand. Winters was suspended, baseball said, for using profanity when Bradley asked him whether he’d told another umpire that Bradley had thrown a bat toward that umpire.
It certainly isn’t the first time an umpire has used profanity, but in the old days, it was in response to a first strike by a player or manager. Today’s umps are letting the “F” bombs fly FIRST, and are generally acting as if they are above all, including the very rules they are employed to uphold.
Let’s hope that the suspension of Winters, an MLB ump since 1990, sends a message to his brothers in blue: players may be a pain in the keister, but it is they who fans pay to see. And initiating confrontations that are destined to result in ejections isn’t what an umpire’s role is designed to be.
The Tigers have a few needs heading into the 2008 season, and one of them ought to be a lefthanded-hitting bat with some pop. Pop, not popgun. They have plenty of the latter. Sean Casey, with his measly three home runs. Mike Rabelo, with his zero dingers when he bats from the left side. He doesn’t have any the other way, either. Only Curtis Granderson and Carlos Guillen (against righties) are threats to park the ball into the seats from the left side of the plate. And neither of them would I consider power hitters, per se. Even not per se.
It seems that the lefty power bat that they could have used has decided to realize his potential a few years and two teams too late.
Carlos Pena, playing first base in near total anonymity for the annually wretched Tampa Bay Devil Rays, hit his 40th home run recently. That’s 40th — as in one season, not for his career.
Pena watching another one fly out of the park, no doubt
I cannot lambast Tigers management on this one. I said my share of “good riddances” when the Tigers lopped Pena from the roster late in spring training in 2006. I, like them, grew tired of waiting for the talented but mega-frustrating Pena to put it all together. And his strikeouts were creating more wind than Lake Michigan in a Chicago winter.
He skidaddled off to Boston, played unremarkably, and landed in Devil Rays camp this spring, looking for a job. Many thought this would be his last chance to prove that he’s a major league hitter in anything more than just theory.
Well, Pena has put it all together, alright. And not just in theory. Oh, he still strikes out more than a geeky, pimply kid at a school dance, but you can maybe live with those Ks if they’re part and parcel of a 40-home run season. He has had some monster games for the Rays, but like I said, their games are like trees that fall in vacant woods; do they make a sound?
Pena, for sure, is doing his best to make noise. He finally, at age 29 and with his fifth big league team, seems to be shedding the word “potential” from his bio.
And, in cruel irony for the Tigers, he appears to be just what the team needs right now.
He was always a fine fielder. That hasn’t changed. But how nice would Pena and his 40 homers from the left side look in Detroit right about now?
It’s all a matter of timing. The Tigers didn’t get it right, as it turned out, and Pena has, by hooking up with the talent-starved Devil Rays and resurrecting his career.
When is he a free agent?
All hail the Cleveland Indians — your 2007 AL Central champs. They deserve it — every bit of it. They played like champions do, beginning in early August, when they came to Detroit, saw, and conquered the Tigers, 2-out-of-3. They turned it on when you most need to, while the Tigers sputtered, gasped, wheezed, and took forever to get their motor restarted. When they finally did, winning 10 of 12 recently, it was far too late.
The Indians are going to the playoffs with the same recipe as most playoff-bound teams use: comeback wins, a solid staff ace, and a decent bullpen. They also did it despite an off year from Travis Haffner, who some had penciled in as an MVP candidate back in April. They did it despite a wretched stretch of baseball in the first few weeks following the All-Star break, when it seemed neither they nor the Tigers wanted to win the division. They took the division from the Tigers, make no mistake. It wasn’t handed to them. The Tigers may have did some extreme disservice to their cause with some bad July and August baseball, but the Indians took advantage of that and created separation from themselves and Detroit — like a good NFL wide receiver does.
Congratulations, too, to the New York Yankees, your AL Wild Card representative. Nothing was handed to them, either. In fact, they just might win the East Division before all is said and done — 1978 Redux. But the Red Sox will still make the playoffs, anyway — thanks to the Wild Card, which has now taken all the starch out of this Yankee charge. How dramatic can it be, when the Red Sox will qualify for the October tournament whether they win the division or not? My case in point against the Wild Card — Exhibit A, in fact.
The Yankees and the Indians are going to the playoffs and the Tigers are not, mainly because the Tigers had too much to overcome: injuries; an inconsistent bullpen; a vanishing act by Jeremy Bonderman; a complete lack of timely hitting in August. You know it’s not your year when Gary Sheffield — who rarely plays the field — hurts himself badly, diving for a ball because he was playing the field. It’s not your year when Kenny Rogers goes down for 80% of it. Not your year when Joel Zumaya misses May thru August. Not your year when last-at bat victories are as rare as moments of dead air during The View.
But mainly, the Tigers will be watching October baseball on Fox because they don’t deserve to be playing it. Simple as that. They played their worst baseball of the year when their playoff competition was playing its best — and that’s pretty much the long and short of it. They let too many big leads get away. They had an apparent allergy to winning games in the late innings. Their starting pitchers played a frustrating game of “Guess which of us will show up today?” They didn’t get anywhere near the production from the lower third of the batting order as they did in 2006 (Brandon Inge and Craig Monroe — pre-banishment to the Cubs — were quiet; Sean Casey lost his so-so power). Meanwhile, the Yankees went into turbo mode after the break, and the Indians found their mojo just in time, and refused to let go.
If this was the NHL, the Tigers would be in, as a fifth seed. They’d open up the first round at fourth-seeded New York. But this is baseball, where, despite the Wild Card, you still have to squarely earn your playoff stripes — not merely survive the regular season to get in, as in hockey.
High marks to the Indians and the Yankees. They got it done when it mattered most. But there was one good thing: this is the first time the Tigers have had back-to-back winning seasons since 1987-88 — nearly 20 years ago. So they were no one-year wonder. But they do have one year to wonder.
The last time the Tigers were in Minnesota, they had just wrapped up a three-game sweep, all victories by one run. They were 57-36, about a week or so after the All-Star break. Most everyone had them back into the playoffs. Barring anything unusual, like injuries and team-wide slumps. You know, things of that nature.
Well, here the Tigers are, back in Minnesota, some 54 games later — one-third of a season. And they are no longer favorites to make the playoffs; not even close. And much of that can be blamed on injuries and team-wide slumps — things of that nature.
Just after the Tigers returned home from Minny, Gary Sheffield got hurt, making a rare appearance in the outfield. Then Kenny Rogers got hurt again. Then, the starting rotation, supposedly a strong suit, began tearing away at the edges. Sheffield came back, got hurt again. The hitters couldn’t buy a clutch hit to save their souls. Only now are the Tigers starting to come out of it, and it’s probably too late. They’re 7-2 in their last nine, but that only makes them 23-31 since their last Minnesota visit. One-third of a season, playing 69-93-type ball. No wonder they’re on the outside looking in, when it comes to the playoffs.
I call it the Curse of the Twins. Those pesky, frustrating Twins, with their abhorrent excuse for a baseball stadium. It’s almost like the Curse said, “OK, you swept the Twins — FINALLY — in Minnesota. Well, now you’re gonna PAY.” Sheffield, in fact, got hurt in the very next game.
Oh, where would the Tigers be with a healthy Sheffield for 162 games and a healthy Rogers and a healthy Joel Zumaya? Where would they be with more consistency from their pitching staff? Where would they be with some more hitting with RISP?
Most likely not where they are now, struggling to keep afloat in the American League whirlpool.
Those Twins — they can get ya, even from the graveyard.
They’ve said a lot of things about Gary Sheffield over the years. They’ve said a lot of it this year, too.
Too opinionated. Speaks without thinking. Can be disruptive to a team’s chemistry. Has an ax to grind. A wearer out of welcomes.
But they’d better not say this: Gary Sheffield dogs it for his team.
Sheffield, the Tigers’ DH/sometimes outfielder, is playing with a sore shoulder. That’s the Reader’s Digest version. The fuller-length version, the one that could fill up some space in a medical journal and a page or two in media notes, is that Sheffield shouldn’t be playing baseball at all — instead he should be shut down, someplace warm, and do nothing baseball-related until next spring training. He shouldn’t be where he is now, in the #3 spot in the Tigers batting order, trying to give it a go after at least two cortisone shots and much shorter rests than are necessary. He shouldn’t be anywhere near a baseball stadium, but yet here he is, because he knows his team needs him — for even a Gary Sheffield at 60-70% is better than most of what MLB’s personnel has to offer.
“You’ve got your teammates coming to you and saying, ‘No matter how you feel, you’re out there and it makes a difference,’ ” Sheffield said yesterday to the Free Press. “When your teammates say that, it makes you feel good inside. It makes you want to go out there and try harder. No matter what I go through, I still give the effort.”
Isn’t that what matters most, anyway — how much effort you’re giving forth as a player? How hard you’re willing to work to give your team a chance to win, even if your shoulder feels like it’s been stomped on by some elephants?
Not speaking out against former managers, as Sheffield did earlier this summer about Joe Torre. Not being indignant about steroid use, as he was when the Barry Bonds chase of Hank Aaron reached its crescendo. Not, basically, simply giving honest answers to every question that’s put toward him, as Sheffield has done this season, and as he’s done all his previous seasons.
If you don’t want to know, then don’t ask him. That’s pretty much the rule of thumb when it comes to talking to Sheffield. Yet the media always acts so stunned when they get spin-free answers from him.
“Gary Sheffield should just shut up!,” anti-Sheff baseball fans have wailed. Sure — he’ll shut up. As soon as the reporters stop asking him questions. Sheffield doesn’t call press conferences. He doesn’t wave reporters to his locker. I know this to be true. The only reason controversy follows him is because it’s stalking him — baiting him with questions designed to elicit the very responses that they receive.
All I know is that Sheffield is sticking it out with the Tigers during this final, frantic — and sadly, probably unsuccessful — push for the playoffs. He’s playing with a shoulder that shouldn’t be played on, for a team that he wasn’t even a part of nine months ago. He’s doing it, because he knows he’s needed.
“He’s rusty and he’s sore, but he’s playing for the team,” manager Jim Leyland said yesterday. “There’s no question about that. He’s a proud guy. He knows he’s not right.”
But he’s out there. Maybe the anti-Sheff fans are the ones who should just shut up.
Last year, it was all we heard. It was, we were told, one of the turning points of the season — and it had happened the day after Easter. Yet it was supposedly one of the things that helped propel the Tigers to the 2006 playoffs.
“It” was manager Jim Leyland’s tirade against his ballclub, behind closed doors but audible to reporters, after a humdrum loss to the Indians. The Monday game was the last of a four-game set and also “getaway day,” that baseball term for the last game played before traveling. And the Tigers, Leyland felt, were already mentally on the plane to Oakland. After winning two of the first three games of the series, the Tigers sleepwalked against the Tribe. And Leyland let them know it. Big time. Then he held a brief, terse postgame media session before ordering reporters out of his office.
Last year, if you asked any Tiger who was present, you’d have been told that Leyland’s rant was much-needed, and that it resonated for the entire season. You’d have been told that, at that moment, Jim Leyland secured a firm hold on his ballclub.
So where’s the rant this summer? Where’s the outrage?
The Tigers are 16-29 in their last 45 games, a .356 winning percentage. Extrapolated over an entire season, that’s a 58-104 record, which brings back chilling memories of just about any season from 1994-2005.
The hitters can’t buy a clutch single, or even a gosh darn sacrifice fly, to save their souls. The bullpen leaks like an old radiator. The starting pitching is Jekyll and Hyde. There’s an overall malaise. Even so-called “big” victories, like the 3:30 a.m. homer to beat the Yankees, don’t seem to have any carryover effect at all. It’s like the Tigers’ momentum is magically erased when they get out of bed the next morning.
It’s probably desperate bleatings from an ink-stained wretch wearing a sour puss, but I’d have liked to have seen another Leyland explosion, somewhere during this horrific 45-game stretch. Maybe he’s already done it, again behind closed doors but just not as loud so as to alert the media guys. Even if he has, fine. Do it again — and make it a little more public this time. Light into these guys a bit. All I hear is how good of a team the Tigers have. As recently as last week, the malaise still dripping over the team, Leyland spoke enthusiastically about the playoffs and about how good of a team he has.
Enough.
Yes, injuries (read: Gary Sheffield) have played a factor into why 2007 ain’t 2006, or anything close to it. But there are still enough big league ballplayers in the Tigers’ clubhouse to make a go of things, if only they’d engage in outpatient surgery to have their noggins removed from their posterior.
The endless array of popups and strikeouts with runners in scoring position and less than two outs is mind-boggling, considering we’re talking over a quarter of a season of bad baseball. The inability of the bullpen to hold a lead, or the silly game of “Guess which starting pitcher is showing up today?” the rotation has been playing, is getting real old.
Yet Leyland — and I like the guy, don’t get me wrong — just seems helpless, without any energy or vinegar. Enough is enough. Can’t he kick over a buffet table or toss some equipment around? Heck, when was the last time he even got kicked out of a game?
The Tigers are sinking like a lead balloon, and I wish the skipper would act like he’s offended by what he’s seeing. Then again, it’s probably too late anyway.
I fear he had his chance, but now it’s gone.
Buddy Bell: self-ziggied. Will manage the Kansas City Royals through the end of the season, then he will don a suit and tie and sit in the brass’s suite at Kaufman Stadium, working in the Royals’ front office.
Phil Garner: ziggied unwillingly. Ordered to stop managing the Houston Astros immediately. Just two years after leading an improbable second half charge all the way to the World Series.
Alan Trammell: safely ensconced on Lou Piniella’s bench as his right hand man, helping the Cubs try to capture the NL Central flag.
Bell, Garner, and Trammell. Three former Tigers managers of the past decade. Two of them out of the dugout (or soon will be). The third, Tram, still alive and kicking, in a playoff chase — something he never sniffed as Tigers skipper.
And don’t forget Kirk Gibson, recently in the Tigers’ small coaching office — now helping the Arizona Diamondbacks as their bench coach. The D-Backs are also very much alive in the postseason chase.
The Tigers haven’t found a whole lot of stability in the manager’s office since Sparky Anderson retired to California in 1995. Not surprisingly, they haven’t found a whole lot of winning, either. But the men that they’ve dismissed haven’t set the baseball world on fire, either — save for Garner’s miracle year of 2005.
But Trammell, the poor soul who had to manage a group of minor league ballplayers in 2003 — and thus won only 43 games — has landed squarely on his feet, and with one of the game’s better managers, for one of the game’s most storied (albeit not successful) franchises. And with a chance to experience October baseball for the first time since a player in 1987.
I don’t think there’s any question that Trammell’s hiring was mostly a public relations device when Tigers GM Dave Dombrowski tabbed him in late 2002 to take over a very bad ballclub. Management knew the product on the field was likely to be hideous. So why not try to divert some attention to Trammell and his lieutenants, the coaches from the ‘84 team? And who knows? Maybe Trammell can learn a thing or two about managing along the way. Certainly he would learn about abject failure.
It’s fitting and proper, I think, that Alan Trammell, battle-worn and having survived his managing stint with the woeful Tigers, is now enjoying his just desserts — even as his old club struggles to stay in their own playoff picture. Though he’s a self-admitted Tiger at heart.
It may be harsh and even wrong to say that the Tigers used Trammell from 2003-05. But it really wouldn’t be too far off the mark. It’s even likely that more qualified candidates were overlooked so that Tram could be hired. If the Tigers didn’t use Trammell, they came awfully close. But that’s probably all a family secret.
Alan Trammell wears Cubbies pinstripes today. He wears them, at Lou Piniella’s side, in first place.
Good for him.
I don’t know if anything can be done, anymore, to pull the Tigers up from the undertow that’s dragged them down since sweeping the Twins in Minnesota in late July — a series that has appeared to have cursed them. They are 11-23 since that sweep. When the wheels appear to be coming off, a quick, easy fix isn’t an option.
But if I was GM Dave Dombrowski (and if my facial structure and eye color changed, and my chin was indented, then MAYBE I might look like him), I’d be in search of another bat, preferrably a lefthanded one.
What, no pitching? Well, it would seem to be far more likely to find a hitter than an arm at this point of the season. Plus, as inconsistent as the pitching has been, it’s been the team’s maddening inability to get, in manager Jim Leyland’s words, “a lousy single, or even sacrifice fly” at crucial moments that has cost them more ballgames than the pitching has. Time and time again, Tigers hitters are coming to the plate with a runner on third base and less than two outs, or a runner at second base. And time and time again, those hitters are popping up or striking out. Maddening. And unacceptable.
The Tigers’ current #3 hitter, Casey, has three homers. That’s unacceptable.
Outfielder Craig Monroe is gone, mainly due to such shenanigans. He was hitting in the low .200s, and in the low .100s since mid-June. But Monroe may have the last laugh. He’s in Chicago now, traded to the Cubs. The first-place Cubs.
With Gary Sheffield out for an undetermined amount of time, the need for another bat, preferrably an experienced one, is almost mandatory. And one that swings from the left side of the plate would be even better. With the exception of Curtis Granderson and Carlos Guillen, the Tigers are woefully punchless from the left side. Sean Casey has three home runs. Backup catcher Mike Rabelo has none. All the power hitters are righthanded, making the Tigers’ suddenly inadequate offense even more susceptible to good righthanded pitching, which the AL is full of.
I’m not suggesting that the Tigers have to now rely solely on home runs to score. But a decent lefthanded power hitter would make the lineup more balanced and keep opposing pitchers a little more honest. I’m hoping that one can be had at this late juncture.
It still might not be enough to save the season, but one thing’s for sure: it can’t hurt.
I want you to take a step back and try to answer this question objectively.
Do the Tigers, to you, “feel” like a team that’s headed for the playoffs?
There’s no right or wrong answer here. If you answer in the affirmative, then that’s terrific. You’re able to look past the many warts and injuries and the current 11-22 slide and stand firm in your resolve. I admire you. If you answer no, then you are, perhaps, biased by this 33-game funk, which is a violation, I suppose, of my order to answer the question objectively.
I fall among those biased by these last 33 games, but I also like to think of myself as a realist.
Its hard to imagine, but the Tigers had the best record in baseball after 93 games (57-36). They had just swept the Twins in Minnesota. Despite injuries to the pitching staff, things looked very promising.
But then Gary Sheffield hurt his shoulder, and the starters stopped giving quality starts, and the bullpen started to implode, and the breaks started going the other way, and…
The Tigers haven’t won more than two in a row since that sweep in Minnesota in late July. Sheffield’s shoulder is troubling him again. A nasty flu bug is just now completing its run thru the Tigers clubhouse. The bullpen remains shaky, despite the return of Joel Zumaya. The starters remain unreliable, unable to consistently pitch deep into ballgames. And it just doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of ending anytime soon.
The Tigers don’t need to win eight or nine in a row. They’re still just 1-1/2 games out of first place, thanks to the Indians’ recent stumbling and bumbling. But they do need a nice little 10-4 or 8-2 stretch to regain some confidence and maybe jump start things again. I’m just not sure if it’s in them.
The Tigers won, 2-1, behind the great pitching of rookie Jair Jurrjens and a 2006 dose of relief pitching. But those kinds of games have been few and far between. And the offense was silent — managing just three hits. Last night, the Tigers left two runners on base in the 7th inning. OK — they were still only two runs behind, clawing back from an 8-3 hole to creep within 8-6. Still two more at-bats to make up those runs. But the bullpen, once again, failed them, giving up a three-spot in the top of the 8th. Those kinds of things just suck the life out of a team. The Tigers made it interesting in the ninth, but couldn’t get over the hump, thanks to that three-run eighth by the Indians.
The hitters are striking out far too often, especially with runners in scoring position, and double-especially when those runners are on third base with less than two outs. One of baseball’s cardinal rules is to at least put the ball in play in such situations.
Like I said, I just don’t have that playoff-loving feeling. But those that do aren’t wrong — just incredibly optimistic. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Every once in awhile, if you’re lucky in life, you meet a guy like Jay Strassner.
Chances are, 99% of you don’t know who Jay was. But it doesn’t matter, for each of you, as I said, has met someone like him in your life.
Jay Strassner was 62 when he collapsed and died suddenly last Monday from a presumed heart attack. He was still working as a part-time cable TV sports announcer Downriver (south of Detroit for you non-Detroiters), which is how I met him, back in the early-1990s.
I worked in cable as a producer/director from 1986-1998, and Jay was our Ken Rosenthal for high school sports broadcasts. Our Jack Arute. Our Craig Sager. Sometimes he worked in the booth, but mostly he was on the field or on the court, gathering info on injuries or simply giving us his perspective. Bob Zahari, our play-by-play guy, would get the cue from me that Jay was ready with a report.
“Now let’s go down to Jay Strassner,” Bob would say, and Jay would do his thing.
But it wasn’t what he did that made Jay special. It’s who he was. He worked a full-time job, so that meant he rushed to wherever we were broadcasting that evening, always with a smile and a happy attitude. And always with professionalism, even though we were paying him peanuts — if we were paying him at all. He was a big, teddy bear of a man who had a round face and a simple outlook on life. And he simply loved helping us cover high school sports. In fact, his last gig, I’m told, was a Junior League World Series game in Taylor.
I remember Jay losing his brother, circa 1992 or 1993, I believe. I wondered if that would affect somehow his being available to us. It didn’t. We all offered our sympathies, of course, but Jay seemed much more interested in doing the game he showed up to do.
I lost touch with Jay after I left the company, but I was no less shocked and saddened by the news of his passing last week.
They’re having a memorial service this evening in Riverview (another Downriver suburb). I imagine it will be filled mostly with smiles and laughter, as opposed to long faces and sadness. It better be — Jay would insist on it.
Bob should now say, “Let’s go UP to Jay Strassner.”
In the end, they’re still the Milwaukee Brewers.
I was waiting for this all season, and now here it is — the collapse of the usually-awful Brew Crew, which bolted out of the gate 24-10 and had folks calling them the “Tigers for 2007.” But now the Brewers sit, wobbling, on top of the NL Central division by a half-game, with a very unimpressive 62-59 record. They’ve lost 13 of 18 and are 38-49 after their 34-game start.
Yeah, they have some nice young talent: Prince Fielder, Ben Sheets, Jeff Jenkins. But they were 75-87 last season and haven’t been good in eons. And they don’t have several ingredients that enabled the Tigers to make such a drastic climb in 2006 — namely manager Jim Leyland; a bevy of young, power arms; veteran stars; and GM Dave Dombrowski.
After sweeping the Brewers in Milwaukee this week, the Cardinals — yes, the stumbling, bumbling St. Louis Cardinals — are just 2-1/2 games behind, and only one back in the loss column. Lou Piniella and Alan Trammell’s Cubs are in second place — and they’re my favorite to win the division.
The collars are shrinking around the Brewers’ players necks. This is a real pennant race now, not the let’s-pretend-they’re-important games of April and May. The Cubs charged, cooled, but are getting warm again. LaRussa and his Cardinals are somehow in the thick of things despite an under-.500 record. This race is reminding me of the 1973 NL East, won by the Mets, who finished just a couple games above .500 — and who were in last place (five teams in front of them) as late as late August. Thanks to the expected descent of the Brewers, this is now a three-mediocre-team race.
The Brewers of 2007 are NOT the 2006 Tigers. Yes, the Tigers limped across the finish line last season, but they still won 95 games, thanks to an incredible 76-36 start. That’s the first 112 games, Brewers fans — not 34. I knew your team wasn’t all that good. It just took a little longer than I thought to be proven right.
CUBS WILL WIN!! CUBS WILL WIN!!
Jason Grilli, a few days ago, trotted out a typical athlete’s response to the boo-birds of his hometown.
“I’d like to go to where those people work,” the Tigers reliever said, “and boo them at their office.”
This retort is flawed in many ways, not the least of which is that the ones doing the booing aren’t being paid millions to perform — nor are those folks charging admission to see them work. Or $5.00 for a hot dog while they’re watching.
Grilli is a frustrated pitcher right now. He’s had a devil of a season, and he seems to save his worst performances for Comerica Park. He is greeted with boos when he runs to the mound, and that shabby treatment is usually reserved for a maligned closer — not a long reliever.
They booed him again Monday night, when the A’s were having their way with the Tigers. Grilli had done nothing, to that point, to deserve being booed, except to have his name announced on the PA. He gave up an infield single, but then got some strikeouts to end the inning. He could be seen yelling some epithets as he walked to the dugout. Don’t know to whom those f-bombs were directed, but the fans could have been a target.
Grilli’s improper response came late last week, when he poured some gasoline on a Tampa Bay rally, giving up a grand slam to Johnny Gomes to spoil Nate Robertson’s victory. The Tigers won anyway.
With Neifi Perez banished, out of the fans’ nightmares for good in 2007, Jason Grilli has seemed to taken on the role of the Tiger pinata. Before Monday night, I hadn’t witnessed a Tigers pitcher being booed as he entered a game since … perhaps Todd Jones, after some rough outings. But this was no mixed reaction, as with Jones or even Fernando Rodney, who can also be maddening. These were flat-out boos — no mistaking it. It was the fans saying, “We don’t want you in this game, nor on our team, for that matter.”
I can see where such a reaction would cut through Grilli, whose dad pitched in Detroit in the mid-1970s. He’s a good guy who doesn’t take his roster spot for granted. But his frustrated reaction was framed wrongly. Comparing yourself to a regular Joe Shmoe who doesn’t get booed in his office is silly and simple-minded.
When the Tigers win, it’s usually not because of Jason Grilli, and when they lose it usually can’t be blamed on him, either. Same with Neifi Perez. Yet these two are maybe the most vilified of all the Tigers. Fans are funny.
These are the Sterling Heights Yankees.
And that handsome young man in the front row, second from left, is “Out of Bounds” fan and all-around great kid, Ryan Wietchy.
Back in May, if you recall, I had lunch with some terrific sixth-graders at Penna’s in Sterling Heights as part of a magazine assignment. The idea was to expose these youngsters to career choices. One of the kids I met was Ryan, who wanted to be an accountant. He ended up visiting “OOB” and becoming a fan.
Yesterday I received an e-mail from Ryan. Here’s a portion:
“Each year, my baseball team, called the Sterling Heights Yankees, attends the Tigers game as the “Pepsi Team of the Day.” This year we went on August 3rd, against the White Sox. During the pre-game ceremonies, we had our picture taken. Early in the game, my team was featured on the scoreboard along with a live clip of us. We sat in Kaline’s Corner, located right around the right field foul pole. Even though the Tigers lost against the White Sox it was still an enjoyable evening. Since you cover the Tigers and are a fan of them, just like I am, I figured I’d send you our team photo. I have attached the photo onto this e-mail.”
As MasterCard would say, priceless.
So I’m posting this photo of Ryan and his Yankees. And I must thank him for curing the little writer’s block I had today. This post is better than anything I could have come up with.
By the way, Ryan says that if accounting doesn’t work out, and since he loves sports and likes to write, that he might give sportswriting a whirl.
That is, if the baseball playing falls through. Believe me, Ryan — it’s a lot more profitable being written about than doing the writing!
As the minutes dwindled before the 4 p.m. non-waiver trading deadline on July 31, one Tigers player wondered, for a moment, if he’d be reunited with a former teammate.
“I was watching TV and there was like eight minutes left and they said, ‘Deal imminent to Detroit.’ So I called Jack and said, ‘Are you coming to Detroit?’ He told me he didn’t know; he was watching the same thing I was,” first baseman Sean Casey told me yesterday.
So it was that Casey flirted with the idea of Pirates shortstop Jack Wilson joining him in Detroit for the stretch run, and maybe beyond. Casey and Wilson played with each other in Pittsburgh in 2006, before Casey was dealt to the Tigers at last year’s deadline.
I suggested to Casey yesterday, before the Tigers’ dud of a loss to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, that Wilson could still be a Tiger soon — if he’s able to clear waivers in a trade. Wilson would be insurance if the unthinkable happened to Carlos Guillen — or at least to give Guillen a break. Casey, excited on July 31 about the prospect, still likes the idea of Wilson in a Tigers uniform.
“He’s a great player, man,” Casey said. “He’s one of the best shortstops I’ve played with. He can flat out go get it. I think he’d be great here. He’s a great player. I mean, he’s with the Pirates now. I don’t know. He’s a good guy, he can hit. Good baseball player.”
Wilson told a Pittsburgh newspaper that he would waive a no-trade clause to join the Tigers.
Wilson is “a great player … he can flat out go get it,” Casey says
“Anytime a contender shows interest, it’s something to think about,” Wilson said in the published piece about the Tigers. “I’m a Pirate and I hold that very dear, but …”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence — not when you toil near the division basement and a first-place team (which the Tigers were at the time) is rumored to want you. Later, it was confirmed that Tigers GM Dave Dombrowski did indeed have talks with the Pirates about Wilson, who makes around $6-7 million per year.
As for himself, Casey — also a guy who can hit — spoke casually yet confidently about his season, although he’s only hit three home runs in 2007.
“I’ve had seasons where I’ve hit a lot of home runs, and seasons where I’ve hit eight or nine,” Casey said. “I hit a lot of balls to right center, and those aren’t home runs (at Comerica Park),” he added with a big laugh.
“But I have 26 doubles and I feel like I’m swinging the bat pretty good,” Casey says — and he does have a .290+ average.
I asked him what his hitting approach is at Comerica Park, considering it’s not all that friendly to guys who hit the ball in the gap who can’t run real well.
“I just try to hit the ball hard somewhere. I don’t really have a different approach here versus someplace else.”
So you don’t try to jack one out, if the situation calls for a homer?
“No. I’ve never done that my whole career, man,” he says with laughter, “and I’m not going to start now!”
Will the congenial Casey, a.k.a. The Mayor for his back-slapping, happy-go-lucky demeanor, be joined by Jack Wilson before long in Detroit?
Something tells me that ship hasn’t left the port yet.
***************************************************
A few weeks ago, in a column over at Out of Bounds, I wrote about Gary Sheffield’s playing in the Junior League World Series in Taylor, back in 1982. I used to direct TV coverage of the games in my cable days (1986-93). And I recalled Sheffield’s Tampa team winning the tourney as the South representative. The JLWS is for 13-year-olds, while the more popular Little League World Series (Williamsport, PA) is for 12-year-olds.
Yesterday I asked Sheff if he recalled that experience.
“I remember everything, man,” he said with a grin.
He then proceeded to tell me what diamond he played on, where it faced, and on what side of the park it was on. This was 25 years ago.
Sheffield pitched and played infield in the JLWS.
Speaking of Tampa, was it worse to lose to the Devil Rays than, say, Cleveland or New York?
“Nope. Doesn’t matter who we lose to. We have to play better. That’s it.”
Sheffield also said that he watched Barry Bonds’s 756th home run as it happened, with his wife.
“I think it’s great,” he says of Bonds’s accomplishment.
Does Sheffield think of 500 home runs, which he’s approaching?
“Naww. That’s just a number,” he told me.
What about when you get to 499?
“Then I’ll start swinging for the fence, to get it over with.”
I wonder how many baseball fans knew of the word “asterisk” before 1961. That’s when commissioner Ford Frick deemed that one of those little starry thingies would be placed next to Roger Maris’s name in the record books as he chased Babe Ruth’s single-season home run record. Frick’s reasoning? Maris would be setting the record in a 162-game season, while Ruth clubbed his 60 homers in a 154-game season in 1927.
Maris had a great line about the asterisk and its “justification” by Frick — a sort of baseball scarlett letter, if you will.
“He says there should be an asterisk because I didn’t do it in 154 games,” Maris said to the press. “But which 154?”
You can see Maris’s version, too — if you look at how he did it. Maris didn’t hit home run #1 until April 26, 1961 — in the Yankees’ 10th game. So Maris, if you want to get technical, hit his 61 in the team’s final 152 games — two less than Ruth in ‘27.
756 Home Runs
Today, there doesn’t need to be an asterisk, or a star, or a small “x”, or a tiny agate dagger next to Barry Bonds’s name as the game’s all-time home run king. Ford Frick’s punctuation was force-fed onto an unwilling and confused public — and on Maris. In Bonds’s case, the public is placing its own asterisk onto the whole deal.
The asterisks are practically visible, like in that new cell phone commercial where the young lady shows up at the competitor’s store and sees “Dating Game” and “Mike Douglas Show”-like stars all over the place, as reminders that there’s always a catch. Ask anyone about Bonds and his accomplishment, and the asterisks start floating around that person’s head immediately. You can hear their influence in the person’s voice as he tries to explain his feelings about seeing Henry Aaron’s 755 fall. Very few people, if any, that I’ve heard — from Bob Costas to Joe Fan — have sounded resolute one way or another. Everyone seems to be having a difficult time getting their arms around this situation. And that ambiguity is probably indictment enough of Barry Bonds.
Me? I didn’t stay up to watch Bonds past his first at-bat last night, a double. It’s not that I willingly avoided it. I just didn’t care enough to tune in. It wasn’t until this morning, when I flipped on ESPN, that I found out Bonds had hit no. 756. And even then I didn’t have much reaction.
I remember when Aaron was about to surpass Ruth. It was Monday Night Baseball, from Atlanta. The whole world, it seemed, was tuned in with me as I watched in our family room. What other channel was there to watch than ABC, channel 7 in Detroit, that Monday evening?
But last night I was definitely unimpressed — at least enough to not bother to watch it happen, live. The hundreds of replays were enough to satisfy my minimal curiosity. Like I wrote a little while ago, we won’t have to suffer Bonds all that long. Alex Rodriguez will surely pass him before we know it.
There are asterisks galore out there right now when it comes to Barry Bonds. By now we all know what those little starry thingies are called. This time, it didn’t take a stilted, jealous commissioner to place them there, as in the case with Ford Frick and Roger Maris. But nor did they appear magically, out of the blue. Bonds himself knows how they got there, even if he refuses to acknowledge it.
Go A-Rod!
When he says things like, “We left 40 points on the field,” he’s derided. When he speaks with unbridled enthusiasm that borders on dementia about the football team for which he plays, people chuckle and roll their eyes. When he insists that the winning will come, and come soon, he’s practically disregarded.
But Roy Williams, the Lions’ premier wide receiver — at least until a kid named Calvin Johnson unseats him — should start to be recognized as something else . He’s the face of the team, the spokesperson, the leader even. And the Lions haven’t had one of those in …. quite some time.
Think about it. Who’s the last Lions player whose words you looked forward to hearing, if only because they teetered on outrageous? Who was the last Lion to have a smile that lights up the entire locker room. Who was the last Lion to do something silly on the field, like Williams does with his enthusiastic “first down” dealio? And, most importantly, who was the last Lion to begin to master his position to the point where he should be considered among the top five in the entire league at it?
Williams added to his unusual legacy this week by snatching two youngsters out of the crowd at training camp, because they were wearing his no. 11 jersey, and making them water boys for the afternoon. He provided each child with not only lifelong memories, but autographed footballs and some one-on-one time.
It was great, impromptu P.R. stuff. The kind that will take your mind, albeit briefly, off the Lions’ brutal won-lost record since 2001.
“…we went to Dallas and scored 39 points when everybody was clicking,” Williams says in defending his outrageous comments after Opening Day ‘06
Williams was at it again yesterday. Speaking to the Free Press, he defended his comments made after last year’s Opening Day loss to Seattle, when he spoke of those 40 points left behind, somewhere on the Ford Field turf.
“People didn’t understand that,” Williams said. “In Week 17, we went to Dallas and scored 39 points when everybody was clicking. So that’s the kind of offense we’re in. We’re a little bit more comfortable now. So hopefully this year we can put up 40 points a game.”
Like I wrote before about QB Jon Kitna’s brazen, maybe wacky predictions of 10+ wins in 2007, give me players who think like the glass is half full, if not about to overflow, any day over the dour, gloomy athlete who doesn’t believe in what’s going on around him.
Chris Spielman is one of the best linebackers in Lions history, for my money. He was one of those special athletes to come thru Detroit whose words I hung on. If you asked Spielman a question, he’d give you the straight dope. No sugar coating. When the Lions got blown away in Philadelphia in the 1995 playoffs, Spielman looked at his eight years with the team and then at his birth certificate, and decided enough was enough.
“The wheels are coming off here,” he said as he fled to the Buffalo Bills. Straight dope.
Spielman, last week, was asked about the Lions and Kitna’s predictions.
“I wish he would have said they (the Lions) were gonna go 16-0,” Spielman said. “I want my quarterback, especially, to think we’re going to win every game. Every player should feel that way.”
Spielman saw 12-4 and 10-6 seasons as a Lion, as well as 4-12 and 5-11. He saw playoff games (one win) and seasons in which the playoffs were out of the question in October. But I doubt he ever went into a campaign thinking the Lions were going to blow, even when it was painfully obvious that they were.
Roy Williams is flashy. He’s colorful. He’s outspoken. He’s optimistic to the point of being maddening. But he is not a clown. He is not a snake oil salesman, like so many others we’ve seen. And he just happens to be one of the elite wide receivers in the National Football League.
Face it: when he talks, you listen. Whether you roll your eyes or not.
Maybe the Chicago Cubs are being stoked by fear. Maybe they have no intention of seeing steam shooting out of ears or eyes turning green or a pudgy body bursting out of its baseball double knits.
Yes, maybe the fear of manager Lou Piniella is what explains the Cubs’ current ascent into a first place tie with the Milwaukee “We were never that good to begin with” Brewers.
About two months ago, things couldn’t have looked much more bleak for the Cubbies. Their catcher and one of their pitchers but a new meaning into the term “battery” — in their own dugout. The team was miles below .500. Piniella — gasp! — hadn’t been thrown out of a game, though he was heard taking his team to task publicly. Then Piniella finally was tossed, but he reacted so violently that the league slapped him with a suspension. The Brewers had started 24-10 and looked like Tigers 2006 Lite.
But look who is atop the NL Central, neck and neck with the Brewers, who are just 34-40 since their hot start?
Former Tigers manager Alan Trammell is Piniella’s bench coach. So, good for Tram, too.
Clearly, it can’t JUST be the fear of the explosive Piniella that is doing it for the Cubs — or else the Tampa Bay Devil Rays would be a postseason threat. But Tampa Bay never had Alfonso Soriano, or anyone close to him. Nor did they have the consistent pitching and timely hitting and solid defense — all of which is being used, once again, as the formula for success by a big league team. The Cubs.
It was Piniella, don’t forget, who orchestrated the stunning 4-0 sweep/upset of the Oakland A’s by the Cincinnati Reds in the 1990 World Series. He’s gotten a lot out of little talent before, the Tampa experience notwithstanding.
To be truthful, the NL Central isn’t the prettiest of divisions. The Cubs aren’t rising to the cream of the league. But they are a first place team for a franchise that could use some bragging.
Lou Piniella’s Cubs are tied for first. Spread the word.
Between the time that Babe Ruth swatted three homers in one game in Pittsburgh as a Boston Brave in 1935 — nos. 712, 713, and 714 — and the time that Henry Aaron cracked no. 715 in 1974, almost 40 years passed. And now, as Barry Bonds lurks, some 31 years have gone by since Aaron’s last home run.
The good news, for Bonds haters, is that you won’t have to see Barry on the home run throne for nearly as long as that.
Nobody knows, of course, how many roundtrippers Bonds will end up with. He says he wants to play in 2008, but that might be all. So give him another 30-40 dingers, as a rough guess. That would put him close to 800 home runs.
But it will be Alex Rodriguez, the greatest home run-hitting third baseman since Mike Schmidt, who will be your next king of the four baggers. And A-Rod will do it in the next 8-10 years, tops.
It’s amazing to me, but Rodriguez is basically a 500 home run guy (he has 499 right now) at age 32. Think about that for a moment. Bonds is 43. If Rodriguez chooses to play into his 40s, he’s liable to knock on the door of, dare I say it, 1,000 home runs.
If continued to be blessed with good health, Alex Rodriguez will shatter anything that Barry Bonds has to offer when Bonds hangs up his spikes and puts his syringes and creams away for good.
Now, how long we’ll have to wait for someone to pass Rodriguez is another story.
Rodriguez, it says here, will eventually be taking aim at 1,000 home runs
Clearly, this is a record that should have Ken Griffey, Jr.’s fingerprints on it, too. Injuries will forever cause us to wonder, “What if?” in reference to Griff. Hence the caution about Rodriguez. No one knows what will go snap, crackle, or pop at any given time in even the most conditioned athlete’s body. But if Rodriguez can stay off the DL for the most part, he will hands down be the next home run champion.
Is that good or bad? Well, it’s distinctly less bad than having Bonds up there, but I’m not sure about how good it is, simply because A-Rod is far from a universally-liked, respected player and person. He’s not … Griffey, Jr., for example. But he’s not Bonds, and that is probably good enough for most folks.
When Aaron hit no. 715 on April 8, 1974, the thought of anyone hitting nearly 300 more than that would have been stuff of fantasy. 1,000 home runs. An insane number, back in the day. Yet Rodriguez, I am telling you, has a legitimate crack at it. He figures to end 2007 with anywhere between 515 and 520 dingers. That would put him 480 to 485 away from 1,000. He’s 32. He can play, we would assume, another 10-12 years — especially with the DH rule. Could Rodriguez swat 480 homers in 12 seasons? Better question would be, if he’s healthy, why COULDN’T he?
But forget about 1,000 homers for the moment. It’s not going to take anywhere near that for A-Rod to be A-1 in terms of all-time home runs. I’d say 780-790 would do it. And he’s going to get there in a flash. That will be child’s play for him.
Alex Rodriguez has 500 home runs at age 32. You do the math.
The non-waiver interleague trading deadline is next Tuesday. Simply put, it’s called “THE” trade deadline because teams can deal freely. Any trades made after July 31 have to involve players being put through waivers first — an extra step that has stonewalled deals in the past.
The Tigers, for the second consecutive year, figure to be placed under the heading of “Buyers” — that category of teams who are looking for players to boost their playoff runs. The “Sellers” are the teams either hopelessly out of contention, or too cheap, or both. Even when the Tigers were Sellers, rarely was anyone buying what they had on the lot. The Tigers had Edsels for sale in a market full of Corvettes.
I thought it would be fun to take a look at some trades the Tigers have made in pennant races of the past — the ones that occurred AFTER the non-waiver deadline.
1967. The Tigers snag Hall of Fame slugger Eddie Mathews from the Braves. Mathews, already over the 500-homer mark, sticks around past the ‘67 pennant disappointment and is a member of the 1968 champs.
1968. Two veteran pitchers join the Tigers. Don McMahon comes over from the White Sox in late July, and one of my all-time favorites, Elroy Face, is acquired from the Pirates on August 31. I like Face because he is the author of one of baseball’s great anomalies. In 1959, Face went 18-1 as a reliever for the Pirates. But as a 40-year-old with the Tigers in ‘68, he gets into just two games for a total of one inning.
1972. Lots of acquisitions by GM Jim Campbell. Lefty Woodie Fryman, catcher/outfielder Duke Sims, and first baseman Frank Howard are the biggest names. Fryman goes 10-3 down the stretch, Sims contributes power and a .300+ average, and Howard cracks a couple of homers in September. Howard, incidentally, joined the Tigers too late to be included on the playoff roster, so Hondo — who always played on bad teams in Washington — had to be a 6-foot-7 cheerleader in the heartbreaking ALCS. The Tigers lost the series, 3-2, and Howard may have been able to make a difference. But he was ineligible.
1984. Nothing earth-shattering here. The big move that year came in spring training, when Bill Lajoie swindled the Phillies for Willie Hernandez and Dave Bergman for John Wockenfuss and Glenn Wilson. The Tigers acquired lefty reliever Bill Scherrer in late August.
1987. The John Smoltz year. Need I say more? Smoltz-for-Doyle Alexander won the division for the Tigers. You know the rest.
1988. The Tigers finish second, but on August 31 they make a flurry of moves, acquiring Fred Lynn from Baltimore, and pitcher Ted Power from Kansas City. It’s a crazy day. For Lynn and Power to be eligible for playoff rosters, they have to physically be in the same city as the Tigers are as of midnight on the 31st. Power makes it to Chicago easily, but Lynn’s plane touches down right around the witching hour. It’s determined that if the Tigers win the division, a special meeting will be convened by MLB to decide Lynn’s fate. The Tigers finish a game behind Boston. No meeting needed.
1993. The Tigers finish a distant second this time, but they are on the fringes of contention when they trade for Eric Davis (Dodgers) on August 31. Davis swats a homer in his first Tigers game, but is injured (again) in 1994 and is out of baseball in 1995. He returns in 1996.
2006. I’m watching the Tigers on a Friday night in mid-September and all of a sudden I see Matt Stairs pinch-hitting. I didn’t even know the Tigers had acquired him. Stairs plays the last couple of weeks, and contributes a game-tying, ninth inning homer in the season finale, but the Tigers lose the game and the division anyway.
2007. We’ll see if the Tigers feel they’ve addressed their needs sufficiently enough at the July 31 deadline without having to make any waiver deals afterward. Who’s going to be the Todd Bertuzzi of baseball?
Was checking my Site Meter yesterday and I noticed these repeat visits from the Abel to Yzerman site, so naturally I wondered what was up and ….
Out of Bounds, it seems, was named their featured blog of the week!
Click here to read all the too-kind things Ken said about me and this site. I will be sure to contact him personally and thank him, too. It’s always nice to get a little love from your colleagues.
Thanks again, Ken!
So what will it be, Mr. Commissioner?
Barry Bonds just hit home run nos. 752 and 753. He only has three more to go before he breaks Hank Aaron’s all-time record, perhaps the most hallowed individual record in all of professional sports. Certainly the “sexiest,” that misused word. He just hit two in one game. The record could fall any moment now, maybe even this weekend. Would you bet against it? Oops — sorry. No betting in baseball. My bad.
It’s getting closer, this record-breaking event — and granted, it’s unfortunately going to be occurring under rather suspect conditions. You know, the whole “did he or didn’t he?” thing re: banned substances, steroids, etc. So here it comes, Bud — and yet we still don’t know whether you plan on passing thru a turnstile, or being secreted thru an undisclosed tunnel, and being present in the ballpark where Bonds’s record-breaking no. 756 will be deposited.
It’s not just a question of protocol and manners, this matter of you being there to greet Bonds as he crosses the plate after swatting the “one.” Your silence and continued refusal to clue us all in has made it that way. It SHOULD have been an innocuous question. It SHOULD have just been a matter of protocol. But because you’ve ducked and dodged the issue, you’ve cast aspersions. You’ve turned your attendance into an approval or disapproval of Bonds and his career.
Selig, NOT answering the most prevalent question of the day
“If Bud’s gonna be there, then he must have no problem with Bonds and the accusations against him, after all.”
“If Bud’d NOT gonna be there, then he obviously isn’t comfortable with this whole thing.”
Normally, we wouldn’t give much of a care whether the commissioner is “in the house” when a milestone is reached or surpassed. But this is no ordinary record, Bud, and it’s not coming under normal circumstances. Yet either you don’t seem to understand that, or refuse to acknowledge it.
Look, all it takes is for you to tell us, one way or another, if you’ll be there. And here’s the great part: despite what we might think, all you have to do is casually give your response — yea or nay — and tell us that the reason for your tardiness is that you wanted to wait until the time drew near and saw what was on your busy schedule. If it’s yes, you can say that a baseball commissioner’s duty dictates that he be there when such things occur. If it’s no, you can blame it on a conflict or that you want it to be all about Barry, without the distraction of your mug.
It doesn’t even matter — or at least it shouldn’t — what your personal beliefs are, Mr. Commissioner. It really doesn’t. I personally believe you should have your fanny in a seat in the ballpark that day, but that’s just me. I happen to be one who thinks sports commissioners have a duty to be present when their game’s “A list” records tumble.
But your delay in revealing your intentions has tied your “yes” or “no” to “approval” or “disapproval” of Bonds — and, in extension, other players of his ilk.
It’s a simple question, Bud Selig: Do you, or do you not, plan on being in the ballpark when Barry Bonds hits home run no. 756, becoming the game’s all-time homer king?
Yes, or no?
It’s going to happen, much sooner rather than later.
We’re waiting…
It was 29 years ago today.
The Yankees found themselves 14 games behind the Red Sox in the old AL East. They were sitting at a very un-Yankee-like 47-42, while Boston was tearing up the league at 61-28. Then, a few days later, Yankees manager Billy Martin popped off to the media about owner George Steinbrenner and outfielder Reggie Jackson, saying, “One’s a liar and the other’s convicted.”
Steinbrenner, the latter, didn’t appreciate his personal demons being dredged up in the media. He fired Martin and replaced him with the decidedly less flamboyant (and abrasive) Bob Lemon.
From that point on, the Yankees went on a second half charge that I still haven’t seen anything close to being repeated since. Not even the Twins’ relentless pecking away at the Tigers’ lead last year compares.
The Redd Sox clung to a four-game lead when the Yankees visited for four games, beginning September 7. It was known as the Boston Massacre — advantage Yanks. New York demolished Boston by these scores: 15-3, 13-2, 7-0, and 7-4. They had now caught the Red Sox — making up the 14-game deficit in 53 games. You know the rest. The Yankees won the division in a one-game playoff at Fenway Park. The Bucky Dent game.
There is no manager firing this season (not yet, anyway), but the Yankees are lurking, just as they did in 1978.
A couple of weeks ago the Yankees were 13 games out of first place. They were an under-.500 team with rumors swirling about the fate of manager Joe Torre. And again the Red Sox were running away with the division. Not even the Wild Card, were the Yankees in contention for.
Have you checked the standings this morning?
The Yankees are creeping over .500. They’re 47-44 — 5-1 since the All-Star break. The Red Sox lost last night, so their lead over New York is now eight games. Normally a healthy margin in mid-July. But the ‘78 Yankees were six games worse than that, and they came all the way back. As for the Wild Card, the Yankees are seven games behind Cleveland.
It’s not likely, granted, but it’s also not inconceivable that the Yankees, still a talented lot, can catch the Red Sox in the final 71 games of the season. Boston has 69 remaining.
The Yankees of ‘78, though, had far superior pitching than the 2007 version. No question about that. And they had the clutch-hitting Jackson and the eerily calm guiding hand of Lemon, the new manager. Under Bob Lemon, the Yankees finished 48-20 — nearly .700 ball.
But the 2007 Yankees are not beyond a second half comeback. They’ve been scuffling along all season, but maybe they’re poised to put it all together and give the Red Sox a run for their money. Already the lead has been shrunk from thirteen to eight.
Don’t count them out, those Yankees. They lurk, and you can bet the Red Sox — and their fans, especially — can feel the breathing against their necks, however faint.
I hope this isn’t how it ends for Julio Franco. I hope the last at-bat he had — albeit a base hit in Houston on July 7 — isn’t the last of his career and he didn’t know it. I hope HE gets to decide when it ends — and with the proper send-off by fans across the country.
Franco, who’ll turn 49 next month, was cut by the New York Mets yesterday. Officially he was “designated for assignment.” Same thing. He certainly won’t be sent to the minors. His hit in Houston only raised his BA to .200 this season (10-for-50), so once again the emotion-less baseball decision had to be made. Such decisions have no room for nostalgia or warm-and-fuzzy feelings.
A couple years ago, Franco — whose first MLB game was April 23, 1982 for the Phillies — said in an interview that he’d like to play in the majors until he was 50. And who could have snickered at the time, for as recently as 2004 — at age 46 — Franco was hitting .309 in over 300 AB for Atlanta. Even last season, with the Mets, Franco hit a respectable .273 in 165 AB. He was a serviceable player — a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter — for a playoff team. None of this half-a-player, DH stuff. He came within a whisker of playing in his only World Series.
Franco as a Phillies rookie in 1982 …
… and as a 48-year-old Met in 2006
I’m not delusional. I knew that one day, this day would come — the day when Franco’s employer decided that there was no longer a place on the roster for his battle-weathered body. But I guess I always hoped it would happen in the offseason — if at all. I always wanted Franco to be the one to decide when his career was over, not some general manager.
The funny thing is, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays brought him into a game as a pinch-hitter once, to give him one last at-bat in the bigs. He struck out. That was on September 22, 1999. He returned to the bigs two years later, and has been there ever since — until yesterday.
Maybe this isn’t the end of the line. The pennant races are heating up. Maybe another team — indeed even an AL club so that Franco could go the 1/2-player route and be a DH — will take a flyer on him. Or maybe he’ll keep himself in shape over the winter and put out feelers to other big league clubs for at least a spring training invite. Maybe.
Julio Franco might not be a Hall of Fame player, in some people’s eyes. I think with nearly 2,600 hits, that he is Cooperstown-worthy. But I would challenge you to refute this: Julio Franco was a player with Hall of Fame dedication and commitment.
I hope I can stop using past tense, and only use it when Franco himself decides it’s time. I know baseball doesn’t work that way. I wish it did.
Tony LaRussa, in one fell swoop: alienated his star player; betrayed his league; and sent people scurrying to see whether he is on the verge of dementia.
LaRussa, the manager of the NL All-Star team, found himself in the following situation last night: bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, down by one run. And Albert Pujols, his brutus of a slugger, on the bench, still unused. And that’s where Pujols remained, while LaRussa let Phillies outfielder Aaron Rowand bat for himself.
Now, this is not to slight Rowand, or any All-Star for that matter. They wouldn’t be suited up if they couldn’t play the game a little bit. But Pujols is a special talent that shouldn’t be gathering dust in the dugout, especially with the game, home field advantage in the World Series, and league pride on the line. The NL hasn’t won the midsummer classic since 1996. Even LaRussa himself admitted before the game that his stars were getting cranky and embarrassed by that fact.
So Pujols stayed anchored to the bench, Rowand made an out, and the AL’s dominance continued.
LaRussa’s explanation? He was “saving” Pujols in case the game went into extra innings, because of Pujols’s ability to play different positions.
BUZZZ!! Thanks for playing, Tony — we have some lovely parting gifts for you.
Pujols, for the record, lit into his manager a little bit, wryly observing that he didn’t fly all the way out to San Francisco to not play. His words belied someone who was understanding of the decision, as LaRussa purported Pujols was. LaRussa, don’t forget, had a dust-up with third baseman Scott Rolen in the NLCS last year — a little feud which threatened harmony going into the World Series. That was about playing time, too.
I don’t know what LaRussa was thinking of. How does he suppose a Pujols at-bat with the bases loaded, two outs, and a one-run deficit is going to lead to anything other than these two results: an NL win, or an AL win? No ties! If Pujols connects, it ain’t gonna be for anything that’s only gonna drive in one run at that point.
The “play for extra innings” explanation was something LaRussa used in the 2005 game, too, when he kept Pirate Jason Bay out of action.
It’s one thing to piss off a player from another team, but why in the world would you risk ticking off your star player — especially when you have an entire second half of a season in which to co-exist? Not to mention blowing a chance to win a game that was very much there for the taking.
All because you’re “saving” Albert Pujols for extra innings?
In an All-Star game, you don’t leave any guns unfired. Especially your own.
I’m sure Pujols won’t hold this snub over LaRussa’s head the rest of the summer. Doesn’t seem to be his style. But it won’t be because LaRussa deserves any sort of slack. Maybe Tony just didn’t want to be accused of playing favorites.
But with his “non-move” last night, the only people he seemed to be favoring was the American League team. And they’ll take it.
I’m assuming the team photo still is on display, somewhere in the nifty press box overlooking the manicured ball field in Taylor, in the heart of Downriver. It’s where they play the Junior League World Series every August.
The JLWS is the version for 13-year-olds that isn’t nearly as popular, or as famous, as the Little League version, for 12-year-olds, played at Williamsport, Pa. The LLWS gets plenty of face time on ESPN and in the newspapers and on the Internet. Of course, it’s been around a lot longer than the JLWS has been.
I’m no expert, but I have some history with the JLWS tournament, run spectacularly well by Greg Bzura and his crack staff. From 1986 to 1993, I directed TV coverage of selected games that week for Maclean Hunter cable television, which became Comcast – as did just about every cable system in this country, it seems. For eight years, I saw wonderful baseball and dramatic championship games played by kids representing different geographical regions of the country, plus Canada, Asia, Central America, and Europe.
Hard to imagine them today, as men in their mid-20s to early-30s. Or women. That’s right – there was at least one girl, that I know of, who was allowed to play. For years, the tournament allowed one team from Michigan, being the host state. And in 1987, the Michigan team had a girl – first name Jennifer (last name forgotten, sadly). I remember she got into a game and played right field. I’d be tickled to find out what she’s doing today, as a 33-year-old.
The tournament pre-dated me by about five years or so. And in the press box (the new one; the old one burned down just weeks before the tourney in the early-1990s, but that’s a whole other story) were displayed the team photos of the past champions. One team photo had always struck me, and I was sure to look at it every year when we were setting up our cameras, lights, and microphones.
It was the 1982 championship photo, of the team from Tampa, Fla., representing the South Region. The photo intrigued me because it included a genuine success story. No need to wonder what happened to one certain first-time teenager.
Gary Sheffield was in the back row, smiling broadly. He was undoubtedly a key cog on that Tampa team. I wonder if he waggled his bat menacingly in the batter’s box back then, too.
When I was first aware of the significance of Sheffield’s participation in the JLWS, he was still a young major leaguer, maybe all of 25 years old. I was nearing the end of my run as a TV director, and Sheff was just getting rolling at becoming a future Hall of Famer at the highest level of professional baseball.
I always sought out the Tampa team photo with Gary Sheffield, because I thought it was very cool that he performed on the quaint diamond in Taylor, complete with its berms and grandstands.
Little did I know that he would still be in the big leagues, some 14 years later. And still mashing those unsuspecting baseballs.
Sheffield swings and connects with a ferocity that I’ve never seen by any other dude of his ilk. He deposits homeruns with such rapidity and efficiency that they are as if shot out of a cannon from home plate. No high, majestic fly balls – at least hardly ever. Instead, a Gary Sheffield homerun is off the bat and over the fence so fast, the poor outfielder reacts like a deer caught in the headlights – spooked, but unable to react. Let’s put it this way: a mortal ballplayer’s homeruns are like the line at the Secretary of State’s office at lunchtime. Sheffield’s are like the self-serve checkout when you have one item – and no one in front of you.
It’s not just homeruns, either. Everything Sheffield hits – and I mean everything – is swatted as hard as advanced trigonometry. Even the outs. He doesn’t just swing the bat; he uses it as a weapon of mass destruction.
When the Tigers acquired Sheffield last November from the Yankees in a trade involving a pitching prospect, I knew his history, certainly. I knew of the menacing bat-waggling. I knew of the vicious swing. I knew of the episodes of petulance and insolence with other employers. I just had no idea how much of a positive effect he would have on the Tigers lineup.
Magglio Ordonez is flirting with a batting title. Nowadays he hits in the stratosphere of .360, .365, .370. Numbers of Tony Gwynn, or Wade Boggs. Or Tyrus Raymond Cobb. Or Teddy Ballgame himself, Ted Williams. Never has Ordonez, a fine hitter, come anywhere near the average he messes with today as a Tiger All-Star starter. But never before has he had someone of Gary Sheffield’s brilliance hitting in front of him, either. Coincidence? I’ll have to give you a big, fat NOOOO on that one.
Sheffield, quite simply, makes the entire batting order, from one thru nine, better. That’s it. Nothing fancy. No more eloquent prose than that. He makes every batter better. Maybe that should be his slogan. “Gary Sheffield: Making Every Batter Better Since 1988.”
It was in ’88, as a skinny 19-year-old, that Sheffield debuted in the big leagues, with the Milwaukee Brewers. The game was played at Tiger Stadium. A few days later, he smacked his first homerun. The date was September 9, 1988. Ronald Reagan was still in office, for crying out loud. His most recent dinger – number 475 – came Thursday afternoon off Cleveland ace C.C. Sabathia. In between the Brewers and the Tigers, there have been stops in San Diego, Florida, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and New York.
Part of the reason for his vagabond-like resume has been the lasers that come out of his mouth, instead of his bat. It’s been his unfiltered honesty that’s gotten him into hot water in other baseball cities.
But you won’t find Gary Sheffield ducking anyone, or anything. When he was struggling to hit his weight in April, he answered every question about the slump patiently and completely – and with some charm.
I was one of the questioners in the season’s young weeks, and we spent ten minutes together, chatting about a variety of baseball items. Then he went out and took another 0-for-5 collar.
I saw him again, on Thursday, before the Tigers stomped all over the Indians. He is in a slump no more. He is Gary Sheffield again. And I had meant to ask him about the Tampa JLWS team from 1982, but I forgot. I’ll hit him with it next time. Mainly I want to know when and why he started waggling his bat.
It’ll be like asking John Hancock why he started signing his name that way, I’ll bet.
Andrew Miller is 22, 6-foot-6, lefthanded throwing, and will one day be a son-of-a-bitch to bat against in the big leagues. Already, after just a handful of MLB starts, his manager has suggested that Miller might be approaching SOB status.
“When he releases the ball, it’s like he’s three feet away from home plate,” Jim Leyland said a month or so ago about his rookie pitcher’s long frame. He used the comparison to help justify why he was keeping Miller on the staff — and in the starting rotation –when injuries called for shuffling and demotions.
Miller was splayed on the sofa in the Tigers’ clubhouse, relaxing before yesterday’s game with the Indians when I asked him when he could feel as comfortable calling himself a big leaguer as he was on that faux leather couch.
“I don’t think anyone with three or four (major league) starts should ever feel that way,” he told me. “Especially with a team like this, where we’re expected to win. I know that if I don’t perform, I don’t have any job security whatsoever.”
We said Andrew Miller was young. We didn’t say that he’s naive, though.
“We’re expected to win here,” Miller says of the Tigers
Miller is 3-2 with a 3.81 ERA after five starts in the bigs. He’s shown definite flashes of why the Tigers were in such a rush to sign him last summer after making him their first round draft pick (University of North Carolina), and why they wanted to see him in MLB games, pronto (he pitched in eight September games in 2006 with a 6.10 ERA in 10.1 IP). He’s also shown signs that some big league hitters aren’t impressed yet. He’s given up four homeruns, for example, in 28.1 IP in his 2007 starts.
“I think coming up last year has made things easier this season,” Miller says. “They were important ballgames in September (that he pitched in). They — I mean WE — were trying to win the division. The fact that there was that extra pressure is certainly helping (now).”
To fans and other observers, it might seem like a no-brainer that the Tigers keep Miller around for the duration this season, giving Leyland three lefty starters and yet another power arm — the kind of arm that the skipper likes in pennant-affecting regular season games and in the postseason. But the only no-brainer thing that Miller will concede to is that his performance and his performance alone will be the thing that determines whether he stays or he goes.
“There are a lot of guys who can start for us,” Miller says. “I have to pitch pretty well to stick around. I know that if I don’t perform well, I could very easily lose my job.”
As for his manager’s embellishment of his height and its effect on opposing hitters, Miller downplays his size.
“I don’t think about it. I think it probably is somewhat of an advantage, but when I’m throwing a pitch, I’m not thinking about using my height extra on a certain pitch or anything like that.”
Little comfort, I would guess, for hitters to know that the giant 60 feet, six inches from them isn’t thinking about how menacing he looks on the hill.
We ended our discussion, and Miller went back to perusing the latest issue of Baseball America, relaxed and comfortable on the sofa.
Not to disprespect the rookie’s caution, but I think he ought to get used to how that sofa feels.
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P.S. I was at CoPa yesterday working for Michigan In Play! Magazine, the July issue of which should be out soon. I write a column for Jack Rosenberg’s publication, called “Word Around the Campfire” — a compendium of things I’ve seen and heard in locker rooms and streets about Detroit sports. In August, Miller’s relationship with veteran lefty Kenny Rogers will be included in “the campfire.” MIP is available at about 400 locations in Metro Detroit, and it’s FREE. Log on to www.michiganinplay.com/acquisitions for a location near you.
All those who thought Dmitri Young would again be an All-Star, raise your hands. Now do so without blushing.
It was only last September when Young was banished from the Tigers, unceremoniously and strangely, during a rain delay at Comerica Park. It was the culmination of a sordid year of off-the-field troubles and injuries. Cancer in the locker room, folks whispered when he left town, the pennant push in full swing. Odd timing, too, for it appeared that Young was getting his stroke back after his early season troubles.
The free-swinging Young bats at a .335 clip in 2007
Anyhow, Young’s career, while maybe not over, appeared on life support at the time. It was highly questionable whether any big league team would give him another shot, though being a switch-hitter with his resume probably gave him a better chance than the bleak picture the pallbearers with pens painted.
That team was the Washington Nationals. A chance for Young to be reunited with Jim Bowden, the Nats GM who was in the Reds’ front office when Young played there. Bowden, it’s presumed, did some due diligence. And he knew how good of a hitter Dmitri Young could be, when he was on his game and there weren’t any distractions.
This season, Young is a National League reserve — the Nationals’ lone representative, and it’s not a charity move by Tony LaRussa. It’s not a pity selection, because the Nationals have to have a player on the roster. Young, as of Monday, was hitting .335 with seven homers and 38 RBI. I’d say a .335 hitter isn’t on the All-Star team because of his good looks.
Yes, this might be a very nice “feel good” story if only it wasn’t for the off-the-field issues that plagued Young in 2006 — and for the continued perception that his character is less-than-spectacular. It would be easier to embrace his All-Star selection if there wasn’t the domestic violence charge brought against Young a year ago spring. Or the whispers of his destructive ways within the Tigers clubhouse. Or one of the most heinous of charges in pro sports — that he doesn’t always stay interested. That he, in other words, dogged it for the Tigers last season.
The Dmitri Young, “cut-in-September-and-an-All-Star-next-July” story would be a much nicer one if we didn’t have to cut through the thick brush that is his reputation and criminal charges.
We might even applaud him, for example.
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.
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.
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.
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)
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?
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 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.
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
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!
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.
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.
June can be a lovely month: weddings, graduations, school letting out. The weather can be the most pleasant of all the summer months — usually not too hot or too cold. Just right. And there’s baseball — the season officially starting to get a little serious.
The 162-game season, with its marathon mentality, is always going to provide plenty of ebb and flow. Ups and downs. A rollercoaster, that overused description.
Yes, June can be a wonderful month — and it has a better chance of being that way if your baseball team doesn’t get pulled down by that force field known as the “June Swoon.”
The Swoon has jumped up and yanked away pennant hopes — both false and real. It has caused entire city populaces to run around in panic. It has brought more weather to already craggy manager faces.
I’m not sure what it is about the year’s sixth month, but it has been an absolute death knell for so many squads, so many times in the past.
The Tigers, 25 years ago, had one of their worst June Swoons ever.
As is typical of the Swoon, it had no real warning signs. The Tigers, in 1982, sprinted out of the gate, their record sitting at a spiffy 36-19 on June 12. They led the pack. Everything was clicking.
There is an annoying name now for any hit, walk, hit batsman, sacrifice fly, or homerun that produces victory for the home team during its final at-bat. The walk-off________.
Such a nonsensical phrase didn’t exist in 1982, but had it, it would have been used quite a bit in reference to the Tigers in June. Their 36-19 record turned to 37-33. Fourteen losses in fifteen games, including a ten-game losing streak. And many of those losses came in their opponent’s last at-bat. A walk-off________.
Sparky Anderson, the white-haired leader, was as perplexed as anyone. He’d smoke his pipe after games and try to explain away a season spiraling out of control before July 4th. It was a June Swoon at its worst — wheels tearing away as the carriage careened down the rocky slope.
The Tigers never really recovered in 1982. By the time they righted the ship, too many teams had leapfrogged them in a highly competitive AL East Division. They finished at 83-79 — 12 games behind Milwaukee, in fourth place.
Could the 2007 Tigers be felled by a June Swoon? What team couldn’t, really?
Perhaps it says a lot about how baseball has evolved that when a middle-innings, situational lefthander flees for another team and more money, that his departure is accompanied by some nailbiting and furrowed brows.
In years past, such a personnel move would have been greeted with a yawn. And rightly so. But today, the lefthanded pitcher who can come into games and get lefthanded hitters out consistently is becoming more and more of a precious commodity.
So when Jamie Walker capitalized on this new way of looking at pitching staffs, taking an unbelievable offer from the Baltimore Orioles in the offseason, there was genuine concern in Tigertown. Namely, who would get lefty hitters out, if Walker is not here to do it?
Wilfredo Ledezma? More of a spot starter, long relief guy. Someone who can chuck two or even three innings in a game if need be. Andrew Miller? Starter of the future. Needs to pitch every fifth day — somewhere. But not a situational lefty.
Bobby Seay? NOW you’re talking.
Seay signed with the Tigers as a free agent in November, 2005. He made the team out of spring training last year, but didn’t pitch for the Tigers after early June. This is because with Walker around, there wasn’t much need for Seay’s services. So Seay, who had a mostly undistinguished career with Tampa Bay and Colorado prior to signing with the Tigers, was sent back to Toledo.
This year Seay, 28, is being counted on more and more by manager Jim Leyland to not only get out lefty batters, but some righthanded ones as well. And that confidence is something that the southpaw from Sarasota, FL certainly appreciates.
“Well, with having (Joel) Zumaya out, I think we all have to kind of pick up our roles,” Seay told me before yesterday’s 12-0 skunking of the Los Angeles Angels. “Having Jim’s confidence is definitely a positive for me, and I just look to go out day in and day out and try to get the job done.”
That he has — even though the ERA is a typically misleadingly high 5.40 in 13.1 innings of work. The more relevant stat for a reliever is opponents’ batting average. And despite the slightly elevated ERA, opposing batters are hitting Seay at just a .216 clip.
Seay acknowledges that the bullpen is going through a rough patch currently (its overall ERA is scraping near the bottom of MLB), but he points out that those numbers can be misleading.
“We started off pretty hot,” Seay says of his bullpen comrades. “The bullpen I think, in my opinion, has been pitching pretty well. We’ve just had some tough games where we’ve given up a lot of runs. But for the most part, we’re doing our job.”
It would be naive to say that the Tigers don’t miss Zumaya, despite the team’s winning ways ever since he got injured. But Jason Grilli seems to be getting off the schneide, and even Fernando Rodney has settled down, though he’s been unavailable for a couple of days due to a stiff shoulder that’s not believed to be serious. Jose Mesa is still scuffling along. But Seay has only given up three walks and one homerun in his 13.1 IP — numbers that also bode well for a manager’s confidence in a reliever. And those are numbers that are in alignment with the goals he set for himself prior to the 2007 season.
“Just throw strikes, really. Keep the walks down. Pitch to contact. You know, just not give up any free bases. So far so good, for the most part,” Seay says.
A team’s bullpen often manages to form a bond and camaraderie unlike anything in team sports, because of the time spent together — and its distant proximity from the dugout. Seay says the Tigers have established a definite esprit de corps beyond the left field wall at Comerica Park.
“It’s pretty loose. Jeff Jones (bullpen coach) keeps things pretty loose down there. We know it’s a long season and that we’re going to be relied upon to seal up some wins or hold some leads. I think the spirit down there is pretty good.”
It usually is, when the wins are coming as consistently as they have for the Tigers in May. And Bobby Seay is no small part of that.
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MISCELLANEOUS NOTES
Carlos Guillen is a man of his word.
Before yesterday’s game, working for Michigan In Play! Magazine, I hit Guillen with some questions about his health. I had noticed, as did others, that he was wincing at second base the other night, not long after a ferocious swing at the plate.
“I feel great, my friend,” Guillen said.
The back doesn’t feel stiff?
“Nope.”
He also told me that as far as his reputation for not being able to stay healthy, “What can I say? If you play everyday and expect something to happen … you know, it can happen sitting on the bench.”
Hmmm…I suppose.
So what does Guillen do after proclaiming his great health? Only hit two homeruns and drive in five runs as the Tigers had a field day against the Angels.
That’ll teach me to question a guy’s wince.
******************************
Saw backup catcher Vance Wilson and asked him how close he was to returning from his elbow injury, which has knocked him out all season thus far.
“I don’t know. Not sure. Just trying to get it to loosen up,” he said of the elbow, which is on his throwing arm.
Having as much fun as last year?
“Team-wise, yes. Personally, no,” Wilson told me.
Wilson is chomping at the bit — you can tell. He bounds around the clubhouse and in the dugout — being one of the most active injured players you’ll ever see.
His return shouldn’t be considered a minor addition for the Tigers — no disrespect to current backup Mike Rabelo. For Wilson, at his best, is perhaps the best #2 catcher in all of baseball.
They were flannel, of course — these were the days before double knits were all the rage. And they were remarkably plain and simple. Kind of like the Penn State football duds. I thought they were rather boring when I was a child, but I find myself longing for them now.
They were the Tigers’ old road uniforms — and when I say old, I mean the style that was worn in the 1960s and early-1970s. The 2006 Tigers wore them in Seattle last year for a Turn Back the Clock Game, but in case you missed that, here’s what I’m talking about:
That’s good old Mickey Stanley modeling the uniform for you.
It’s lovely, isn’t it? Plain block DETROIT on the front. Light grey. A number on the shoulder (actually, I think the latest version had numbers on both shoulders. Looks like the number is only on the right shoulder in this pic). The back had the number in dark blue, with no edge or drop shadow. In 1970, all MLB teams (save a few, like the Yankees, Red Sox, and Cubs) sewed names on the backs of the jerseys. I can live with the names. And with this uniform, the players’ names were in the same block, no-frills style as the DETROIT on the front.
The pants had no piping down the sides of the legs, that I can recall, and while searching for images on Google, I saw none. Just plain grey.
Be still my heart.
I think my infatuation stems from the fact that whenever I think of those uniforms, I’m taken back to my childhood — a much simpler time. Plus I’ve been listening in my car a lot to an old audio cassette a co-worker made for me years ago of the classic album, “Year of the Tiger,” which features actual game audio of radio men Ernie Harwell and Ray Lane describing the thrills of 1968 as they originally broadcast them. So I think listening to that is making me long for the old road threads, too.
The plain greys were the road unis that the Tigers wore for the entire decade of the 1960s, and until midway thru 1972, when they changed during midseason (which was odd, come to think of it) to this version:
By the way, Mark Fidrych is on the right in this photo.
Note the thick “D” on Fidrych’s cap. It was orange with a white drop shadow. For the 1982 season, the “D” lost its drop shadow and became the plain orange that the team still wears today, on the road caps.
Yes, I know way too much about uniforms throughout history. I admit it.
Anyhow, the above version that Fidrych is wearing served the Tigers thru the glory days of 1984, all the way until 1994, when the team switched to a similar version of today’s road uniforms. Those had ridiculous shoulder stripes that continued down the sides of the leg. That was scrapped after a couple of years to the current version. Also, the Tigers briefly used this logo on their road caps:
Remember?
The home uniforms have remained basically unchanged — the creamy whites of Greenberg and Gehringer in the 1930s and 1940s are practically the same as the ones of Inge and Bonderman today. And I love that, too.
So there you have it. I think the Tigers should change back to the 1960s’ road duds — at least for more than just one game per year. Maybe they could wear them on Sundays away from Detroit.
Whaddya think?
We don’t ask a lot from Bud Selig, baseball’s farcical commissioner. Rarely do we go to him for any sort of direction or bon mots — mainly because we know we’ll almost always be sorely disappointed.
So is it too much to ask that Selig say something, anything, about his intentions regarding Barry Bonds’ assault on Hank Aaron’s homerun record?
We’ve already heard from Aaron regarding this matter. Hammerin’ Hank has made himself clear: He won’t be anywhere near the ballpark where his record might fall to Bonds. No sir. Fine. We can debate his reasoning all we want (I happen to agree with it) but at least we have something to debate.
After Aaron (it’s not often a record of this magnitude falls when the former holder is still alive) and Bonds, the most relevant person in all this is Selig, like it or not. And the other day, with yet another chance to make his intentions known about whether he plans on being in attendance when Bonds passes Aaron, Selig was coy.
“Is he getting close?,” he asked facetiously. I could abide his droll comment, if it had been followed by anything of substance. Instead, Bud said something about getting back to us on this issue. Good grief.
Selig has been mum for far too long about Bonds and Aaron
OK, here’s my opinion — or what I think I would/should do if I was in Selig’s shoes.
This is a baseball record, not a Bud Selig record. It’s the sort of event that, regardless of the circumstances behind it, should be witnessed by the sport’s commissioner in person — and in full view of the people, not tucked away in some luxury suite. Selig can hold whatever personal view he wants — this is America, after all — but he needs to show up. This is one of those situations when it’s acceptable for Selig to separate his titular duty from his personal feelings. Did NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle shun the presenting of the Vince Lombardi Trophy to Raiders owner Al Davis (twice), despite the two men’s dislike of each other? No. Because it was his duty as commissioner to present the trophy to the Super Bowl winners.
Selig should realize that it’s not going to besmirch baseball if he sits in a box seat and watches Bonds crack his 756th homer. He doesn’t have to cheer and get all googly-eyed. But some polite applause and a handshake won’t harm anything. Maybe he can look at it as a mayor does of another ribbon-cutting somewhere: grip and grin — a photo opportunity. Nothing more, nothing less.
Here’s what he needs to say: “There was never any question, in my mind, that I was going to do whatever I could to be in attendance when Barry Bonds breaks Hank Aaron’s homerun record. I’m sorry for having evaded the subject, but I believe the commissioner of baseball should be in attendance when such an event as this occurs.”
That’s all. End of discussion. He’s just saying he’s going to be there — not that he condones everything that is clouding the moment.
It’s sad, of course, that this should even be an unanswered question. Normally, this would be a slam-dunk, when a record this momentous is eclipsed. But the mere fact that we’re even asking the question of Selig is much more of an indictment of Bonds than it is of the commissioner (though we could debate baseball’s response to the steroid issue for hours on end).
No, we don’t ask much from Bud Selig. Maybe because our expectations are so low.
Greg Maddux threw a complete game the other night. Needed just 96 pitches to do it. Gave up five hits. Got his 336th career victory. He’s 41 years old.
Julio Franco still plays a competent first base in a league where you can’t be half a player to lengthen your career. He still hits a homerun here and there. He’s 48 years old.
Roger Clemens just signed a one-year contract to grace the New York Yankees with his pitching presence. The contract is worth over $22 million. He’s 44 years old.
Jamie Moyer keeps using his creaky left wing to chuck baseballs for the Philadelphia Phillies. He’s 44 years old.
Since when did baseball sign a partnership with the AARP?
Ahh, Maddux was that age on his uniform ten years ago
Franco: Aww, let him play till he’s 50; why not?
No, I think it’s great. They say 40 is the new 30. I believe it. The Red Wings are being led on a long playoff run by a 45-year-old defenseman and a 42-year-old goalie. Kevin Willis, in his mid-40’s, signed a late-season contract with the Dallas Mavericks. And the above mentioned ballplayers are still major contributors to their respective teams.
As for Chris Chelios, the 45-year-old defenseman, and Franco, I’m rooting for both of them to be active players at age 50. It could happen. Franco, in fact, reminds me of George Burns, the old actor/comedian. Many times I truly believed that Burns would never die. And I am getting the feeling that I will never see Julio Franco retire. He seems that constant. I mean, at this point, when do you finally say to him, “OK, Julio — enough is enough”? The guy still plays, he still is a key component — and for a pennant contender. Unreal.
Maddux, the spring chicken of this group, still throws with an efficiency that goes a long way toward explaining his longevity. It just doesn’t seem to be all that hard for him on the mound. I didn’t see the game Monday night against the Reds, his latest complete game, but I don’t need to, to know that it was probably vintage Maddux. The numbers are there to confirm it — the 96 pitches, the five hits. He probably got ahead of nearly every hitter and rarely went to a ball three count. Been there, done that.
Go, graybeards!
I’ll start, I guess. I can maybe sell some stuff on eBay and get the fundraising rolling. Maybe I’ll stand outside the Produce Palace near my home and shake a can, asking for donations. But I wish the good people of Minnesota would gather their own cash already.
I don’t know if there’s pending legislation, or if it’s been tried and failed, but someone needs to buy the Minnesota Twins a new baseball facility. Now. Put all the other problems of the state aside. This takes priority.
OK, not really, but it should be on someone’s to-do list over there. Gosh, I can’t stand that damn Metrodome, which surely must be one of the five worst places in which major league baseball has ever been played.
But I wonder if the Twins really want a new ballpark, after all. As horrible as it is, it does provide them with a sinister home field advantage. And they’ve taken advantage of it, using it to win the 1987 and 1991 World Series.
Ugh.
It’s not baseball that they play in the Metrodome — it’s ping-pong. Or pinball. It’s aesthetically bankrupt, and it so drastically changes the way the game of baseball is played that it should be outfitted with enough explosives to blow it to kingdom come — and then some.
The Tigers are getting ready to play three at the Dome this weekend, and already they’re talking about the roof.
“The color of the ball is the same as the color of the (roof) top,” Tigers outfielders coach Andy Van Slyke said in today’s Free Press, talking about the extra work he was going to have to put Curtis Granderson and co. through before the games. “If you take your eyes off it (the ball), then you might not be able to pick it up again.”
How MLB allowed one of their stadiums to be built with such a brainless deal as the roof being the same color as the baseball, is beyond me. But they did, and that’s only part of what irks me about the Metrodome.
I guess my dander is up because the Twins have played there since 1982 and it was a bad idea even back then, as a brand-new facility. Twenty-six baseball seasons later, it’s still bad. All I know is, the Twins played outside from their inception in 1961 to 1981 — 21 seasons — and so I don’t know why in the world they can’t do it again. At least make the new stadium, if it has to have a dome, equipped with a retractable roof. And paint it this time — something other than white, too.
In my older age I find myself getting cranky easier. And that crankiness is leading me to suspect that the Twins enjoy their awful ballpark just fine, thank you, because it gives them an advantage unmatched in MLB.
Cowards.
Tuesday’s feature, “The Straightaway,” featuring NASCAR commentary from Siddy Hall, will return next Tuesday.
One of my favorite childhood memories, growing up in the late-1960s, early-1970s, was of my dad working outside, the ballgame on the radio, its lazy descriptions in the background. The sounds of Ernie Harwell and Ray Lane, followed eventually by Paul Carey.
Today I try to do the same thing — working in the backyard while the Tigers game fills the air from the boombox turned up high. I did it again Sunday, as the Tigers were trouncing the Royals. Somehow, it’s not the same.
It’s not Dan Dickerson so much — he I can abide. He’s no Harwell, but that makes him the same as the other billions of people in this world, and that’s certainly no crime.
It’s, frankly, Jim Price.
Price does the fourth and fifth innings of play-by-play for the Tigers radio network, and they can make you hate baseball on the radio.
Where do I begin with how bad Price is?
Well, there’s the score, number one. As in, he rarely gives it. Score-giving is, to me, a cardinal rule of radio broadcasting. It’s the first thing people want to know, for crying out loud. Yet Price makes you wait brutally long — sometimes until a run is scored or when the inning ends.
A large part of calling baseball on the radio is the “painting of the picture”. Remember, your listeners know what a baseball diamond looks like. But they don’t know what’s happening on it until you set the scene. A batter swings and grounds the ball to second base — this may seem mundane and routine, but Price can butcher it, don’t worry. He particularly massacred a double play started by Neifi Perez.
First, he rarely tells you when the batter is swinging. He’ll be babbling and all of a sudden the ball is in play. This was true in the Perez double play.
I’m listening, not even knowing a pitch was thrown, when all of a sudden I hear, “Ground ball…oh, what a play by Perez! Over to Guillen….he’s out! They got him!”
HUH???
That was Jim Price calling a double play. Note that the above description only includes one of the two outs.
I’m sorry that I can’t do Price’s butchering more justice here, but I hope you get the idea. There are plenty more examples, believe me.
In trying to describe Price’s style, I think I can sum it up best this way: Jim Price calls a baseball game on the radio as if he’s an amateur newshound calling in a story as it’s happening.
“There’s a …ohh! Did you see that? Now he’s…oooohh!! Wow!”
I made that up, but it might be Jim Price calling a big Tigers hit, for all I know.
I usually don’t slam people here, but Price’s scattered playcalling irritates the hell out of me — mainly because I know it can be done soooo much better. And, to be honest, it bothers me because it decreases my enjoyment of the listening experience. When Dickerson took over for the sixth inning it was like giving a man lost in a desert a drink of water. I was SO very relieved.
Maybe I’m being too hard on the guy. What do YOU think?
This has nothing to do with sports, per se, but I just have to mention something — and some nifty kids.
Yesterday I was covering a career focus luncheon in Sterling Heights for one of my freelance gigs, Biz X Magazine. It was at Penna’s on Van Dyke. The focus, in this instance, was today’s sixth grader. And there were nearly 1,000 of them, seated at over 100 tables. I was at table #73, sitting with nine sixth graders from Oakbrook Elementary school in Sterling Heights.
The pleasure was all mine, believe me.
They were very courteous, and asked me several questions about writing as a career. They appeared fascinated when I told them I could get into games for free and sit in the press box. They wondered if I had any relationships with the players. They asked me what I would be doing if I wasn’t a writer. All of their queries were on point and their interest in my answers was sincere.
But best of all, they bore gifts. Their class project was to make up pretend resumes and biographies and business cards, projecting what they would be doing by age 28. And they handed their stuff to me, one by one, as I looked at the proposed vocations.
Pharmacist. Police officer. Air traffic controller. Veterinarian. Accountant. Surgeon.
Quite an array.
They even asked for my autograph, which I found delightfully adorable.
For the record, the kids are: Leonardo Krasnic; Cullen Gray; Lindsey Marie Vernier; Nikki Nowicki; Barick Mansoor; Ryan Wietchy; Jon Barr; Emily Duynslager; and Sarah Young.
I told them of our daughter, Nicole, and how she just turned 14. I’m a doting daddy, and naturally I think Nicole is just fabulous: well-behaved, pretty, smart, funny. But the parents of these children, I hope, think the same of their kids — because I found them to be terrific. And I promised I would mention them in today’s posting.
“I’ll never sell your autograph,” Leonardo told me.
And I’ll never get rid of the resumes and business cards I collected yesterday.
Somehow I think I got the better part of that deal.
When Jose Mesa debuted in the major leagues, the Tigers were a couple weeks away from providing us with one of the most thrilling weeks of baseball ever seen around these parts, a.k.a. the final week of the 1987 season.
Nearly 20 years later, Mesa — who’ll turn 41 later this month — returns from the disabled list to give the Tigers yet another quality arm in their suddenly shaky bullpen.
It was supposed to be like that from the very beginning of the season, but Mesa hurt his groin and made a very rare trip to the DL in mid-April. So his season, for all intents and purposes, begins now, with the Tigers pen having already experienced more rocky outings than for most of the entire 2006 season.
Mesa gives manager Jim Leyland a wonderful option: the veteran, late-inning guy who’s known the grind of starting, the pressure of closing, and everything else in between. There’s little that’s happened on the mound, if anything, that Mesa hasn’t experienced.
Mesa made a token start with Toledo earlier this week, a 25-pitch test to gauge the status of his groin. The bill of health was clean, and so he re-joins the team. Veteran leadership is even more prime now, with starter Kenny Rogers out until July. Rogers is with the team, but veteranship is also needed on the field. Mesa provides that, including a sometimes-menacing 6-foot-3 frame on the hill.
That the Tigers’ bullpen has been sometimes leaky should come as no surprise. It’s difficult to replicate what the relievers did last season. You almost had to count on some meltdowns. Todd Jones has had a couple. Joel Zumaya, too. Jason Grilli was rocked coming out of the gate. And Fernando Rodney has been a rollercoaster. And it’s only May 3rd.
So here comes Jose Mesa to lend a hand, some of his mind, and most importantly, some innings.
Call it Opening Day, Redux, for Mr. Mesa.
I keep hearing talk about how bad the Washington Nationals are this season. In fact, there’s a notion going around that they’re so putrid, they might challenge the 2003 Tigers and 1962 Mets for ineptitude. That’s appropriate, considering ‘03 Tigers alum Dmitri Young plays for the Nats, along with former Tiger Robert Fick.
As of today the Nationals are 7-15. It’s early, but that’s a 51-111 pace.
To have some fun, I decided to create a poll this season. Quite simply, “How many games will the Washington Nationals lose in 2007?” (to vote, see the red box in the sidebar)
I already cast mine: between 100-105.
Last season it looked like the Royals might threaten the ‘03 Tigers, but they “recovered” to lose 100. So to make things interesting, I’m going to cut the polling off by the end of May — when they’ll have played about 50 games or so, or 1/3 of the season. Then I’ll dust it off at the end of the season to see how close the results matched the Nats’ real record.
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1961 Cubs Update
I know this was just bugging the hell out of you.
“I wonder how Eno’s replay of the 1961 Cubs is going?”
Glad you asked.
Using my Strat-o-Matic cards, I’m replaying the 1961 Cubs, who went 64-90 in ‘61. (Actually, I’m playing an 84-game season — each team twelve times).
So far? It ain’t pretty. We’re talking ‘62 Mets/’03 Tigers/’07 Nationals here.
The Cubbies, MY Cubbies, are 2-9. They lost their first two to the Milwaukee Braves, won, then dropped seven in a row before beating the Giants, 11-2.
I might fire myself before all is said and done.
But hey, don’t blame me: Ernie Banks is hitting .150 and my starters can’t get out of the fourth inning half the time.
He’s battled a flu bug; maybe that’s the reason. He’s hit a few homers, so maybe it’ll all come together soon. And he bats ninth, so at least there’s no pressure, from that standpoint. Besides, he’s still playing a solid third base.
Gary Sheffield has gotten the most attention among all the Tigers who’ve gotten off to painfully slow starts at the plate, and with good reason. Actually, with tens of millions of good reasons — the green paper with presidents’ faces on them.
But the cold bats go beyond Sheffield. Every night the Tigers, it seems, are starting four guys with BA under .200. And the furthest away from .200 is third baseman Brandon Inge.
Inge is at .111, and there have been enough AB this season to make this a genuine, full-blown slump. What’s worse, other than the three homeruns, Inge is barely making good contact. He’s striking out a lot — though that’s not unusual. But he’s striking out A LOT. Twenty-four K’s already, in just 63 AB. Them are Rob Deer numbers.
When I spoke to Sheffield last week for a piece for Michigan In Play! Magazine, he talked with the quiet confidence of an 18-year veteran. I wondered aloud whether it was too early to panic about his snail-like beginning.
“I never panic in baseball,” he said. “I know what I can do.”
Inge is far younger than Sheffield, but he doesn’t strike me as a panicker, either. But I’ve been watching Inge after one failed at-bat after another, and there is certainly frustration, which I haven’t really seen from Sheff. And Inge’s body language after some of his strikeouts tell me that there might be some confusion in his batter’s mind.
All of which I’m sure isn’t news to manager Jim Leyland, batting coach Lloyd McClendon, or anyone else associated with the ballclub.
One of the reasons the Tigers were so successful in 2006 was because of the production they got from the bottom of the order — specifically Craig Monroe and Inge. But Monroe is slumping, too (.172 BA, 1 HR) — and so is #7 hitter Sean Casey (.188, 1 RBI in 69 AB).
But the worst of these offenders is Inge. He’s nowhere near getting himself out of this malaise, it appears. Not much has been spoken about him by Leyland — maybe because of the higher profile Sheffield’s slump.
Brandon Inge won’t be able to fly under the radar much longer. Nor will Monroe, nor will Casey. Sooner or later these guys have to start contributing to the cause. Amazing that the Tigers are 11-9 despite such horrific starts by so many key hitters.
The Tigers have hit the 1/8 mark in the season, and so many batting averages are still below people’s playing weight around here. Heck, Inge’s is below an anorexic actress’s weight.
He sat in front of his locker, nursing a Bud Light, and waxed casually about baseball, a game where you “win some you shouldn’t and lose some you probably deserved to win.”
If Jeremy Bonderman is discouraged about being winless after four quality starts in 2007, he’s doing a great job of hiding it. He is, however, disappointed — but for the team, not necessarily for himself.
Bonderman addressed us after yesterday’s tough, 4-3 loss to the Kansas City Royals in 10 innings at Comerica Park. Yours truly was there, working for Michigan In Play! Magazine.
“This is a funny game, man,” Bonderman said after going seven strong innings (86 pitches; three hits; one earned run; six strikeouts, no walks). “But their guy (Royals starter Gil Meche) pitched great, too.”
Bonderman was told that closer Todd Jones, who blew a two-run lead in the ninth, had said that he felt bad for ruining Bonderman’s off day.
“He didn’t ruin anything. I’ll be fine,” Bonderman said, chuckling. “Jonesy’s been great all year. He can’t be perfect. He’ll go out and shut them down for us the rest of the season.”
Bonderman expressed some dismay that the team is 1-3 in games in which he’s started, but that can hardly be blamed on him. In 28 innings this season, the Tigers’ new ace is 0-0, but with a 2.25 ERA.
Yesterday was the second straight pitcher’s duel that Bonderman has been involved in. Friday night in Toronto, he locked horns with the Blue Jays’ Roy Halladay, going nine innings and only allowing one run. The Jays won that one in the 10th off Fernando Rodney (0-3), who was the loser Wednesday as well. Yesterday Bondo went toe-to-toe with Meche, the Royals’ big free agent signee in the off-season.
I asked Bonderman if he tends to bear down more during such duels.
“You always bear down, but pitcher’s duels are fun, man. It’s fun to go out there against their big boys and get it on. Meche is a great pitcher and today he showed why he got all that money in the offseason.”
Bonderman got a lot of money, too, in his contract extension — and nobody can accuse him of stealing it. It’s amazing that he’s winless (although, justifiably, without a loss, too) after four starts that have been Cy Young-ish.
Naturally, Bonderman was asked if he wanted to go back out in the eighth inning, in which he was replaced by Joel Zumaya.
“Of course. I never want to get taken out of a game. But skip (manager Jim Leyland) said I was done, so I was done.”
He later admitted that he’s “0 for whatever” in trying to convince Leyland that he should be left in a ballgame.
Centerfielder Curtis Granderson said it’s up to the offense to pick up Bonderman.
“Got to get him a few more runs,” Granderson said, adding that the Tigers had the Royals where they wanted them, but let them slip off the hook.
Last season it was Nate Robertson who was the victim of a lack of run support. This year it’s Bonderman, proving an old baseball adage that one guy will feast, and another will famine.
The Tigers are 9-6, though, with an offense that continues to sputter. Yesterday the team started four regulars whose BA were each under .200.
“Exactly,” first baseman Sean Casey said when I said it should be encouraging that the Tigers are winning with a less-than-stellar offense. “Maybe there’ll be a time this season when we’re not pitching well but we’re swinging the bats good. Right now we’re winning with pitching and good defense.”
Casey was 0-for-4. He’s one of the under-.200 offenders. He had an opportunity to break out of it in the eighth inning, when he got ahead of Meche 3-0 and a runner on first. But after two strikes, Casey popped out to third base.
One of those days?
“You got that right,” Casey said. “You got that right.”
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SHEFFIELD TALKS TO M.I.P.
Click here to read portions of my pregame interview for M.I.P. magazine with designated hitter Gary Sheffield, in which he discusses coming to Detroit (he had uncertainty at first), his slow start, and the team’s chances in 2007.
New slugger comes to town — the big righthanded bat that the Tigers feel they’re missing. He has an impressive homerun ratio on his resume, and once smashed five homers and drove in 13 runs during a doubleheader.
He gets off to a terrible start with the Tigers, though, and is struggling to bat his weight — heck, even half his weight. People within the organization start to look at each other cross-eyed, for this isn’t the player that they thought they had acquired. By June he’s gone — cut and released — with an unsightly .147 BA and four measly humeruns in 156 AB.
That’s the cautionary tale of Nate Colbert, and in 1975 his was but one of many sad stories for the Tigers, who finished the season 57-102 and in last place for the first time in over 20 years.
The Tigers could maybe have seen Colbert’s nosedive coming, though. In his last year with the Padres in ‘74, Colbert batted a then career-low .207 and his homerun total was but 14 in 368 AB. But maybe it would be asking too much to say that anyone could have predicted such a drastic tumble in 1975. By June of ‘76, Nate Colbert was finished at age 30.
Gary Sheffield is no Nate Colbert, not even close. Sheffield is a Hall of Famer who will finish his career with over 500 HR. But he’s nonetheless in a Colbert-like funk to begin his maiden season with the Tigers. His BA is barely scraping .100, and he seems perhaps too eager to make a good first impression on his new teammates.
“I’ve always had to make an adjustment when I come to a new team,” Shef said the other day in reference to his attempt to become a full-time DH for the first time in his career. He then went on to say that he has no doubts that he’ll work his way out of this early-season malaise. And I don’t think there are many who will argue that.
In watching Sheffield’s at-bats, it’s obvious that he approaches the batter’s box with a ferocity that I don’t really remember seeing in Detroit by a Tiger. Maybe Cecil Fielder, but not really. In fact, Sheffield might be the best combination of free-swinger and demolisher that the Tigers have ever employed.
But it’s not happening for Shef right now. It was said by FSN’s Rod Allen last night after Sheffield blooped a single into left field in Toronto that something like that could be all it takes to get a hitter of Sheffield’s status untracked. Maybe, but I think the untracking is more likely to come from a brutal onslaught of homeruns and extra base hits — the slew of which is going to make opposing teams shudder.
It’ll happen. There’s nothing on Sheffield’s resume to suggest that it won’t. Just a matter of time.
No, Gary Sheffield is no Nate Colbert. Or maybe that should be written vice-versa. Regardless, the Tigers won’t be cutting their big new bat in mid-June. By that time, Sheffield should be at least a month into terrorizing opposing pitching again.
Besides, the Tigers are 6-3 without their big new bat heating up. So who needs him now, anyway?
Tell me, was golf really better off while Tiger Woods hibernated?In the late 1990s and early 2000s, when Tiger gobbled up majors like Pac-Man, folks squirmed and moaned that one man’s dominance was somehow damaging to the game. How much more fun it would be, they said, if others won once in awhile. So as Woods slumped in the last two-plus years, nobody, predictably, came close to matching his exploits. Nobody emerged, front and center. Nobody was, truthfully, the player to beat. Everyone was in the same boat, it seemed, without Tiger at the rudder. Well, you know what? Golf got a tad more boring, folks, in the meanwhile.
And so it went on April 12, 2005. That’s how the first post of “Out of Bounds” began, two years ago today.
Now, 651 posts later, here I am, celebrating two years as a contributor to the blogosphere. Well, maybe “contributor” is a hot button word. Perhaps “aider and abettor” might be more appropriate.
Anyhow, it’s time for the usual thanks: the readers, my fellow bloggers (and I will NOT start listing them for fear of leaving someone out, but you know who you are), and my wife — who encouraged me to start writing again back in 2003. Without the above mentioned, I’m not writing, and I’m not having any fun.
But I do want to single out one person. Kevin Antcliff, who two years ago today e-mailed me and told me of this cool thing called blogging, and that I should get into it. Minutes later, I had started “Out of Bounds,” and if you have anyone to blame for this, it’s Antcliff. He was my aider and abettor.
It’s kind of appropriate in a way that the two-year anniversary coincides with my new side gig at Michigan In Play! Magazine. For two years ago I was tentatively sticking my toes into the cyber waters, and today I’m pumping my exclusive interview for M.I.P. with Red Wings and Tigers owner Mike Ilitch. Not bad, I guess. You can see it on their website’s home page, scrolling down to the blogs section.
So, thanks again and keep on visiting — who else is gonna read this stuff?
I’m proud to announce two things: tomorrow is the two-year anniversary of Out of Bounds, and today marks the official start of my association with a wonderful new publication.
Michigan In Play! Magazine has hired yours truly to be a columnist, contributing writer, and mole about town. M.I.P. is available at over 375 locations, ranging from hotels to sporting goods stores to other retail outlets. You can find out where to find it (it’s FREE) by clicking here.
M.I.P. is a monthly magazine that will cover the four majors, plus niche sports like bowling, hunting, fishing, and even paintball.
You can check out my first piece for them, an exclusive interview with Tigers and Red Wings owner Mike Ilitch, in which he talks about a new building to replace Joe Louis Arena.
I’m thrilled to be a part of M.I.P. and I encourage you to pick one up; certainly you’ll find a location near you.
Folks who have read me in Motor City Sports Magazine, I appreciate you and I encourage you to follow me to M.I.P.!!
About 25 years ago or so, he made a subtle lobbying effort to be considered a candidate for commissioner of baseball. This after a much-publicized complaint that he was one of the few blacks employed as a baseball executive. And that after enduring what no hard-working American should have to at the workplace, in the midst of his pursuit of baseball’s all-time homerun record.
Now Henry Aaron is again showing us the resolve and, frankly, brass baseballs that make him one of the most underrated icons that this country has ever seen — at least since World War II.
Aaron publicly admitted that he plans to be nowhere in sight when Barry Bonds has a chance to break his all-time HR record of 755, which could very well happen this summer. Bonds is 22 away.
“I’d probably fly to West Palm Beach to play golf,” Aaron was quoted as saying in Terence Moore’s column the other day in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. “Again, it has nothing to do with anybody, other than I had enough of it. I don’t want to be around that sort of thing anymore. I just want to be at peace with myself.”
Certainly Bonds’s run is re-opening old wounds for Aaron, who went through his own personal hell as he chased Babe Ruth’s 714 back in 1973-74. But that was the result of the disgusting, lowest form of citizenry — the racist boobs who would resort to even death threats and kidnapping his daughter if he went through with his assault.
This time, the backlash has nothing to do with Bonds’s skin color and everything to do with the magic creams and elixirs and pills that he probably applied and inserted into his body over the years, turning him from baseball’s version of Bill Bixby to Lou Ferrigno. It’s a record-breaking that even today’s mealy commissioner, Bud Selig, seems completely unable to handle or address.
Not so with Aaron.
“I don’t want to answer questions. It’s going to be a no-win situation for me anyway. If I go, people are going to say, ‘Well, he went because of this.’ If I don’t go, they’ll say whatever. I’ll just let them make their own mind up.”
And this: “I’m 72 years old, and I’m not hopping on a plane and flying all the way to San Francisco for anybody.”
Aaron doesn’t want to see Bonds repeat this moment from 1974
So there you have it. The current homerun champ, 33 years into his reign, has spoken and there’s no doubt where he stands. We can’t come close to saying either about Selig.
I’m sorry, but this is huge. Baseball’s HR record might be the sexiest, most alluring of all the sports records, bar none. And to hear the current champ say he wants no part of the celebration — however muted — and will even go to lengths to avoid it, speaks volumes.
For his part, Bonds took the high road in reaction to Aaron’s comments.
“He has every right to do what he wants to do. I respect that,” Bonds said. “There’s no reason for me to be disappointed. If he has other plans, other things to do, I respect that. He’s his own man. He can do what he wants to do. I respect that. No hard feelings.”
But I would be shocked if those words weren’t trying to mask a certain hurt that Bonds must feel over Aaron’s stance. Whatever you feel about Barry Bonds, Aaron’s refusal to be present when Bonds breaks his record is a tough blow for the Giants outfielder. It has to be.
Prior to this week, we were waiting to hear about Bonds’s imminent ascent to the homerun throne from two key individuals: Aaron and Selig.
Predictably, the latter is the one who still remains silent.
Hard to believe, but it’s been 20 years now. Twenty years since the Tigers pulled off a Phoenix-like comeback from the dead. Twenty years since they treated us to maybe the most exciting week of baseball this town has ever experienced.
The 1987 Tigers were a ragtag group, to be truthful. They weren’t very highly regarded by the so-called experts. They were coming off a good but not great 1986 campaign. And they had lost catcher Lance Parrish to free agency, to the Phillies. With Mike Heath hurt, someone named Orlando Mercado was the Opening Day catcher. Things weren’t looking great for the local boys.
An 11-19 start cemented what most folks believed: that the ‘87 Tigers would be also-rans in the AL East.
But the team acquired veteran hitter Bill Madlock, languishing on the Dodgers’ bench, in early June. Mad Dog had been a batting champion, and his short, compact swing still had some spray left in it.
With Madlock infusing the offense and the pitching settling in, the Tigers began their gradual rise. They simply won with incredible consistency.
The Toronto Blue Jays were the team to beat in ‘87. They did their best to hold off the charging Tigers. The season looked like it would come down to a showdown in Toronto during the next-to-last weekend of the season. It was a four-game set, and the Tigers hit town 1/2 game behind Toronto. They lost the first three games of the series, prompting Kirk Gibson to declare, “Maybe we’re setting the biggest bear trap in history.” Tough talk, considering the Tigers were 3 1/2 games behind with eight games to play.
On that Sunday, the Tigers won a gutsy extra-inning contest, needing a run in the 9th to tie it.
They were 2 1/2 games behind with a week to play.
Incredibly, the Blue Jays wouldn’t win another game. They finished their season 0-7 — inlcuding a three-game sweep in Detroit that clinched the division for the Tigers. It was a wonderful, wild final week.
For 19 seasons, the last Tigers’ bright spot was the image of Frank Tanana finishing his 1-0 win by fielding Garth Iorg’s comebacker and underhanding the ball to Darrell Evans at first base.
The Tigers imploded in the ALCS, getting blasted out by the Twins in five games. But manager Sparky Anderson took it in stride, realizing his team had given him all it had. He said in his book, They Call Me Sparky, that he was never more proud of any team he managed than that 1987 group.
The lesson? Don’t let a slow start by the Tigers, should it happen, dampen your spirits. Twenty years ago, a far less talented bunch than the 2007 Tigers was able to rebound from an 11-19 getaway to win its division.
Not the best way to do it, but it’s how you finish, right?
The last time a Detroit sports team employed a smiling assassin, he wore #11 and made his living on the hardwood.
Isiah Thomas, the cherubic point guard, took great joy in twisting the knife in his opponents’ backs even as he was grinning from ear-to-ear. And he smiled all the way to two World Championships and within seconds of a third. The other team rarely smiled, though, when Isiah got into one of his zones.
There’s another happy-go-lucky athlete toiling in town who will just as quickly steal your lunch as he will chomp on his ever-present gum.
Curtis Granderson has a smile that could light up Woodward Avenue if there was ever a massive power outage. He is rising in stature now — functioning as a baseball commentator for Sirius Radio Network, and blogging for mlb.com. He traveled overseas last winter, teaching baseball to youngsters and spreading good cheer.
But there won’t be too many pitchers smiling, I submit, when Grandy steps into the batter’s box this summer. He has worked hard to exhibit patience and a better eye at the plate, trying to cut down on those unsightly 174 strikeouts for a leadoff hitter, which he had in 2006.
Early indications are that it’s working. He only fanned seven times in spring training. And if he becomes more of a contact hitter, then opposing teams are going to be even more miserable handling the Tigers’ lineup.
Carlos Guillen is still, in my mind and that of others, the team’s MVP, if you have to pick one guy for that honor. Placido Polanco is right up there, too. And you can toss Granderson in there, because if he improves as anticipated, the Tigers will have a very dangerous leadoff hitter.
Against righthanders, anyway. The lefty-swinging Granderson is slated to be the Tigers’ leadoff hitter against righties, and will slip down the order against lefties — when Pudge Rodriguez is expected to bat leadoff.
Granderson showed some more of that potential today, golfing a low changeup over the right-centerfield wall for a grand slam. It wasn’t the easiest pitch to hit out — especially on a cold day like today — but Curtis did it, and that’s what he can do: offer power at the top of the order, which means the Tigers have power at the top, in the middle, and at the bottom. Did I leave anything out?
It’ll be fun to watch Granderson mature as a ballplayer, and something tells me this is going to be a breakout year for him. I think .300/25/80 is possible. Last season, Granderson went .260/19/68.
But the most important number — the one that will officially tell us whether he’s turning the corner — is that awful 174. That many strikeouts from a leadoff guy — especially one who doesn’t bunt or steal bases, as Granderson doesn’t do enough yet — is completely unacceptable. And he knows it. Granderson, I can tell you, is a student of the game. He respects it. So when the strikeout number rose to Rob Deer-like levels last summer, Granderson knew he’d have to go to work to stunt that growth.
So if the 174 can be cut drastically — like maybe to just a tad over 100 for starters — then the Tigers will have one of the game’s best leadoff guys. As if that lineup needed to get anymore formidable.
Grandy can go right on smiling. The more he does, the less likely the other team’s guys are following suit.
Assassin!
Just wanted to let you all know about a new addition to the blogroll: my friend and colleague Dave Ruthenberg’s sometimes biting social commentary, over at Fanning the Flames. Today Ruthie tackles the case of the female motorist who used a freeway as a shooting range.
Check him out!
One of the joys of blogging is finding out that there are actually people not within the metro Detroit area who are checking you out. What sad, sad people those must be!
Just kidding.
This is semi-confidential to a person who has been a regular visitor here whose location is the Seattle, WA area — according to my site meter. He or she visits every day, and sometimes more than twice a day.
Whoever you are, I’m dying to find out more about you.
If you’d prefer to remain anonymous, I understand. If not, drop me a line: GregorySEno@aol.com.
Thanks!
Everyone else may now open their eyes.
Jim Bouton had it right.
Today is either Opening Day, or Opening day — depending on how you feel about it.
Bouton, the former big league pitcher and author of the groundbreaking book, “Ball Four,” described baseball’s first day thusly in his book. He also ended it by saying that, as a ballplayer, you spend your life gripping a baseball, and it turns out it was the other way around the whole time.
Today is an unofficial holiday in Detroit — maybe it IS official, come to think of it. Work attendance is going to take a hit today. But do schoolkids still carry tarnsistor radios with them, and listen to the game surreptitiously? Doubtful, but then again they have BlackBerries and other devices with which to monitor the match’s progress.
In my school daze — I mean days — our teachers would have a TV rolled in by the geeky A/V dude, and he or she would let us watch a few innings. This was circa the early 1970s. But I also remember doing the transistor radio thing outside during afternoon recess. In 1972, when the Tigers were in the ALCS, the TV privilege returned. I remember hustling home to watch the final innings of the decisive Game 5 — a heartbreaking 2-1 loss.
But back to Opening Day/day.
Few cities, if any, I believe, do it better than Detroit — though I’ve never experienced another city on Opening Day/day. I just can’t imagine any city’s denizens celebrating it the way we do here. It’s still not QUITE the same as it was during the Tiger Stadium days, but it’s more than just about the ballpark, of course. It’s an environment. An underlying feeling of fellowship. The few times when we all feel like we’re in this thing together.
Proof of this is that you don’t even need a ticket to the game to feel the energy. I’ve never done so, but one year I might just go downtown, sans ticket or media credential, and just hang out — walking around and keeping my eyes and ears open. Yes, I just might do that someday.
Today I’ll be in front of the tube, watching it on FSD. It can be special at home, too. Plus, free parking.
It didn’t take long for the baseball gods to hint that 2007 will be no walk in the park for the defending American League champion Tigers.
Last season, the Tigers sailed thru the season with hardly any major injuries to key players. Lefthanded starter Mike Maroth and second baseman Placido Polanco were the only regulars who missed significant time.
Now comes news that lefthanded starter Kenny Rogers, who gave us a postseason to remember last fall, has had successful surgery on his left shoulder to remove a blood clot and fix some arteries.
He’ll be out until at least July, according to team president and GM Dave Dombrowski.
Righthander Chad Durbin becomes the Tigers’ #5 starter.
This is Rogers’s first visit to the DL since 2001, and last season he was most durable. Last season, most of the Tigers were. Last season, things mostly went right.
Last season.
It shouldn’t surprise many folks around here that the Tigers could be just about as good in 2007 as they were in 2006, yet not make the playoffs. It also shouldn’t surprise them that the yellow brick road might have some potholes in it — that didn’t exist … last season.
Rogers’s setback might — might — be the first indicator that 2007 and 2006 are one year apart according to the calendar, but light years apart in baseball time.
Then again, maybe this is it for the Tigers, when it comes to major injuries. And Rogers will be back — in time for the season’s second half.
The question remains, though.
Will that be soon enough?
I know baseball season is growing near, because I’m getting the tabletop board game itch again.
As some of you might know, I am a tabletop sports junkie. No video games here. Uh-uh. Gotta be the dice and the cards. APBA, Strat-o-Matic, Dynasty League, Replay. I have them all, and more. While interviewing Jeff Daniels last fall, I found out the actor and I shared the same passion. I’m sure there are other closet game players out there. If you’re one, or think you might be a candidate, check out www.tabletop-sports.com.
Anyhow, I’m starting to break out the games now that the weather is getting warmer. My hockey and basketball games are about to take a backseat. Last night I played the second game of my latest project: replaying the 1961 Chicago Cubs season (well, half of it anyway) courtesy Strat-o-Matic. The Cubbies went 64-90 that season. For some reason I get fascinated with replaying bad teams. And, after last night’s wild 9-7 loss to the Milwaukee Braves (Hank Aaron homered), my North Siders are 0-2.
No electricity required.
I also have the 2003 Red Sox on hold. I’m replaying their ENTIRE season with Dynasty League (the best baseball game out there), and left off with their schedule in early May. I’ll pick them up on May 8th — so I can replay the rest of that season “real time”, thru October. So far the Red Sox are 18-16.
It doesn’t stop there. I have the 1974 Twins on hold in APBA, along with a miniature, 36-game 1959 American League season with SOM. I’m sick, I tell you.
But there’s just nothing like “rolling them bones” when you’re a 43-year-old who wouldn’t know a GameCube from a flash cube.
Tonight I’ll give my Cubbies their third crack at Aaron’s Braves. I smell an 0-3 start. These are the Cubbies, after all — and a BAD Cubbies team, to boot.
By the way, those early-1960s Cubs teams tried a miserable experiment called the “College of Coaches.” Instead of one manager, the higher-ups thought it would be swell if nine — nine – different men tried their hand at it, rotating throughout the year. When they weren’t serving as manager, they simply became another coach. The results were predictably disastrous.
So add me to the 1961 faculty.
I was talking to fellow writer Dave Ruthenberg the other day. The subject was Dave’s foray into writing about things other than — gasp! — sports. I wondered whether I should spread my wings and tackle other subjects.
So what else is there?
Sex, of course. Drugs. Rock and roll. Politics. Social commentary.
But here’s the thing: you have all that in sports already!!
Now we even have a sports murder mystery on our hands.
Cricket coach Bob Woolmer, 58, was found dead 11 days ago in Jamaica, shortly after his Pakistan squad was surprisingly eliminated from World Cup competition. Within a couple of days, the Jamaican police termed Woolmer’s death as “suspicious.” And this week, the cause appears to be strangulation. Surveillance camera images are being scoured, looking for any signs of a possible suspect.
But the story doesn’t stop there at its insidiousness.
Now reports are coming that suggest Woolmer was silenced to prevent him from revealing stories of match-throwing.
Why, Dave Ruthenberg, write about things other than sports when that world treats you to everything that can be found in a grocery store tabloid or on a NY Times bestseller rack?
But seriously, I would like to try my hand at other forms of writing. I have a few screenplay ideas bouncing around in my head. Maybe someday they’ll find their way onto a word processing document. We’ll see.
Meanwhile, sports will rule the day, at least on this blog.
And I’ll just continue to let all the other subjects poke their head into my sports closet, where I can pick and choose their news worthiness.
The Wide World of Sports.
ABC was right.
The lineage is impressive, and runs thru generations. In fact, it goes back to the 19th century, when the Detroit baseball club toiled in the National League.
Charlie Bennett was the catcher back then, for the old Detroit Wolverines, and so much was he admired, the franchise named its baseball grounds after him: Bennett Park.
There was Black Mike, Mickey Cochrane, player-manager of the powerhouse teams from the 1930s. Hall of Fame.
When the Tigers contended and made a World Series in the early-1940s, Birdie Tebbetts was the backstop. He wasn’t spectacular but he was solid and ended up being a fine manager after his playing days.
The catching pedigree resumed in the 1960s and has continued mostly unencumbered since.
It resumed with Bill Freehan, who gave way to Lance Parrish, who gave way to capable Mike Heath. Brad Ausmus, a defensive wizard, came and went a couple times in the 1990s. Then a dry spell, before Ivan “Pudge” Rodriguez signed in 2004.
Rodriguez (top) and Freehan: the tradition continues
So it’ll be interesting to see who the Tigers follow Rodriguez with behind the plate. Pudge is 35, and though he’s in marvelous shape, things can fall apart quickly for catchers that age and above.
There isn’t a hotshot prospect, really, wearing a catcher’s mitt in the Tigers’ system. Hence, it’s likely the Tigers’ next backstop is currently with another organization. Backup Vance Wilson is terrific in that role, but he’s not an everyday player. And he’s no spring chicken, either.
The old baseball adage has been true when it comes to the Tigers. Every championship-contending team they’ve fielded, just about, has been strong at catcher.
Rodriguez, perhaps, is the top man the Tigers have employed at the position, ever. Certainly an argument could be made as such. But whether you agree with that or not, it can’t be debated that Pudge is in the top two or three.
Every team has its strengths in franchise history. And its weaknesses. The Yankees have excelled at catcher, too. The Mets have struggled mightily at third base.
I wonder when talk will start to be serious about Rodriguez’s successor as Tigers catcher. He’s one of the few position players the team has whose future is not likely to last too much longer.
The new catcher, it appears, isn’t anywhere in the Tigers’ organization currently. Don’t say Brandon Inge. Or Chris Shelton. Their catching days are over with. Pudge Rodriguez figures to have three more years, at best, as everyday catcher. After that?
I wonder what age Freehan’s grandkids are getting to be.
By now you’ve probably heard of St. Louis Cardinals manager Tony LaRussa’s DUI misdemeanor in Florida, in which he was found slumped at the wheel, asleep, at a traffic light — at least through two cycles before a motorist reported him. Maybe you chuckled at the absurdity of the visual. I confess I snickered and rolled my eyes.
If LaRussa, who reportedly registered a 0.093 in a field sobriety test at the time, was too inebriated to stay awake at a traffic light to which he drove, then how fit was he to be behind a wheel in the first place?
It’s frightening, really, to think of what could have happened in this instance — what could have transpired if LaRussa stayed awake, after all. You’ve seen and heard enough drunken driving horror stories for me to have to spell it out to you.
It’ll be interesting to see how the Cardinals and MLB handle this situation. Will they simply let the legal system do its thing, or will they feel compelled to do something separate from that?
LaRussa’s mugshot
My feeling is that there should be some penance paid to the Cardinals and MLB, perhaps in the form of a suspension, if LaRussa is found guilty of these charges. And, frankly, I don’t think there’s any question that he acted improperly, at the very least. Not to pile on the Cardinals’ manager, but if baseball did nothing after a finding of guilt and culpability, then I think that’s wrong. I’m not talking anything unreasonable here. But I think a suspension of at least three regular season games isn’t too harsh.
I don’t know enough about Tony LaRussa to know if the behavior that led to this incident earlier this week is part of a pattern, or is isolated. I pray that it’s the latter. But regardless, baseball — and his employing team — can’t just be satisfied with whatever punishment the legal system deems fair.
Again, just think of how bad this could have turned out, had LaRussa not drifted off to an alcohol-induced slumber.
This time, being asleep at the wheel was probably a blessing. Not so, 99% of the rest of the time.
Neifi Perez needs a do-over. He needs a clean slate in the worst way, and then maybe everyone can go on with their lives.
OK, maybe a tad dramatic, but Perez, aiming to be the Tigers’ main backup middle infielder, isn’t on the best of terms with Tigers’ fans at the moment. After being acquired in late August from the Cubs, Perez quickly fell into disfavor, victim of a feeble batting average and average defense. It didn’t help that he joined the team when it was in the throes of the 19-31 finish that robbed them of the Central division title. In fact, the slide almost coincided with Perez’s arrival, so he became a symbol of the team’s struggles.
Then, during the Tigers’ winter caravan, manager Jim Leyland, criticized for having a fascination with Perez last year, stated that the blame should be put on him for bringing Perez to Detroit. Leyland then stated the obvious, which was that Perez didn’t perform well; basically, he wasn’t what the manager had bargained for.
All that didn’t lessen the derisiveness that the Tigers public heaped upon Perez. He was too expensive, and not much of a help to the cause, in their eyes.
Now, in Florida, Perez seems to be making a bid to get out of the doghouse. He is exhibiting patience at the plate, and had a single after a terrific at bat in the ninth inning of yesterday’s loss to the Pirates. He will most likely make the team, and thus will get his chance at the aforementioned clean slate. And if anyone needs it, it’s Perez. There aren’t too many goats on a defending league champion team, but if there’s one on the Tigers, it certainly is Neifi Perez.
It’s amazing, really, that Perez fell out of favor in such a relatively short period of time. But some of the explanation can be derived from the at bats and playing time he took away from Omar Infante, who enjoys moderate adoration from Tigers fans, and with good reason.
But it’s a new season, and Opening Day has a way of washing away some bad feelings held over from the previous campaign. When Neifi Perez lines up on the third baseline at Comerica Park on Opening Day in his creamy white Tigers uniform, I hope that everyone can forget 2006 and allow him to begin 2007 fresh.
Isn’t that what a new baseball season is for?
The Tigers were toward the end of another spring training, the countdown to the regular season done in days now, instead of weeks. After a second place finish the season before, the same cast of characters, mostly, was being counted on to take the record and finish up one more notch.
Then a bombshell, of sorts.
It was late March, 1984, and the Tigers made a trade that interrupted the laziness and warmth of the Florida sun.
Gone to Philadelphia were outfielder Glenn Wilson and catcher/first baseman Johnny Wockenfuss. Coming to Detroit would be first baseman Dave Bergman, known as an outstanding fielder and capable hitter, and a relief pitcher named Willie Hernandez, who labored in relative anonymity with the Phillies and, before that, the Cubs.
Nobody knew it at the time, but GM Bill Lajoie had just locked up the pennant and the World Series with that deal.
Hernandez wasn’t even considered the key acquisition; it was first baseman Bergman
Wilson was a decent outfielder with a little pop in his bat who had a strong upside. But he fell out of favor with manager Sparky Anderson, for whatever reason, and once that happened with Sparky, the move was irreversible. Wockenfuss had been a faithful Tigers veteran for ten seasons, a popular dude in Detroit.
Ironically, it was the slick-fielding Bergman who was considered the key acquisition at the time. The Tigers had signed free agent Darrell Evans, but he was slated to play mostly third base. Bergman would shore up the Tigers’ defense at first base and maybe hit .270 or so as well.
As for Hernandez, he was to provide some bullpen depth — a lefthanded foil to Senor Smoke, Aurelio Lopez.
Without Hernandez, who knows where the Tigers would have been in ‘84. And Bergman did what he was expected to do, including his memorable at bat against Toronto’s Roy Lee Jackson on a Monday night.
Wilson went on to some good, solid years in Philadelphia before finishing with Pittsburgh in 1993. Wockenfuss played two seasons with the Phillies before retiring.
Hernandez would end up being booed out of Detroit by 1989, but for one season, he was untouchable, and won both the Cy Young and MVP Awards in 1984.
Sometimes the trades that wake up spring training can also reverberate through an entire season.
Bowie Kuhn, at times, was a commissioner of baseball who was bigger than the game itself. And one who took the responsibility of being the game’s keeper extremely seriously, probably too much so in certain instances. But he was relevant, which is more than you can say about others who came before him and who succeeded him.
Kuhn, who died yesterday at age 80, presided over baseball through what may have been its most important time — at least its most evolving. He was commissioner from 1969 to 1984.
World Series games played at night. A switch to divisions, creating LCSs. The designated hitter. Free agency. All this happened when Kuhn was baseball’s commissioner, and all were big moments in the game’s history.
Kuhn was both vilified and hailed, especially when he made decisions based on, in his words, “the best interests of baseball.” Maybe the most famous of these occurred whenever Kuhn would go toe-to-toe with Oakland A’s owner Charlie O. Finley. Kind of like Pete Rozelle’s tussles with Raiders managing partner Al Davis. When Finley tried to hold a mideason fire sale in 1976, attempting to jettison players like Joe Rudi, Vida Blue, and Ken Holtzman to the Yankees and Red Sox, Kuhn stepped in, blocking the transactions. Not on his watch would he allow an owner to sell his players off like it was a huge clearance event.
But Kuhn was also baseball’s proprietor during the lengthy strike of 1981, which created the much-derided “first half” and “second half” divisional champs and ushered in an era of recurring labor problems. Some say the ‘81 strike greased the skids for his replacement, which happened in 1984 when Olympic executive Peter Ueberroth took over.
Baseball enjoyed an attendance boon in the 1970s, and much of it was because of the elements Kuhn helped to bring to the game, like the DH and free agency. Like them or not, those two introductions left an indelible mark.
But the bottom line is this: Bowie Kuhn was relevant. He was immersed in the game. And he wasn’t always very popular as a result. But you knew who he was, and you talked about his decisions.
Kuhn often didn’t care what others thought of his ideas and his vision for baseball. He only cared about keeping as much integrity and credibility in the game as possible. Some criticized him for being, in their eyes, a self-appointed caretaker at the expense of progress or the louder majority’s desires. But nobody could accuse him of not caring.
He was one of sports’ better commissioners, really.
He had the most auspicious of major league debuts, the kind that is storybook, even if the book isn’t as compelling as you’d like it to be.
Gene Lamont hit a homerun in his very first at bat in the big leagues, on September 2, 1970. It turned out to be the Tigers’ lone run in a 10-1 loss to the Red Sox at Fenway Park.
Lamont has come full circle, now in his second season as the Tigers’ third base coach. He’s manager Jim Leyland’s right hand man so to speak, a former big league manager himself who knows the game as well as anyone.
Lamont’s playing career, unfortunately, failed to live up to his first at bat. A catcher, Lamont spread 159 big league AB among five seasons as a Tiger, hitting .233 with three homeruns.
But isn’t it so often the poor big leaguer who makes the best brain in the dugout?
Lamont had some success as a major league manager, leading the White Sox to the 1993 and 1994 divisional titles. With the Pirates, Lamont’s teams never finished above .500, but he didn’t have the talent he had in Chicago, either. The man he followed in Pittsburgh? None other than Jim Leyland, who first met Lamont when the former was a young minor league manager and Lamont was a catching prospect.
Being a third base coach isn’t for anyone who’s seeking praise and pats on the back. Often, you only get mentioned when something goes wrong, like a runner being gunned down at the plate. But Lamont, I’m telling you, is one of the game’s best, mainly because you don’t see Tigers runners making many mistakes as they round third, or second.
Believe me, there’s more to Lamont’s job than this.
Lamont has no eyes on Leyland’s job that I’m aware of, but the skipper told a funny story last April about a blown tire he experienced on an Ohio highway.
“I called the team to let them know what happened,” Leyland told us reporters gathered around his desk during an informal pregame press conference. “Lamont said, ‘He’s not OK, is he?’”
It broke up the room.
Lamont hit a homerun in his first at bat in the bigs, and he’s still hitting them for the Tigers as a competent third base coach and de facto manager.
Denny McLain’s book is mistitled.
His latest autobiography, I Told You I Wasn’t Perfect, is out, and this isn’t a book review, for I haven’t read it. Nor do I plan on it. I’m getting enough snippets from the newspapers to know where Denny is going with his latest rewriting of history.
It’s mistitled because if there was ever a perfectly named memoir for McLain — at least one that was told in the first person — it would be I Told You It Wasn’t My Fault. Such a named publication could be placed on a bookstore’s nonfiction shelf with at least a small measure of credibility.
McLain throws the usual suspects under the bus, like fellow starting pitcher Mickey Lolich (“Lolich was miserable in the middle of the ‘68 season because I was going so well and he was pitching so badly,” McLain writes, according to published reviews. “There’s nothing worse than somebody wallowing in his own misery, and Mickey was a miserable guy in 1968.”), but he also unleashes some venom toward Al Kaline, albeit in an unfactual manner.
He chides Kaline for missing 40 games in 1968 after jamming his bat into a bat rack in anger, then accuses the media of covering it up by reporting that he broke his arm after being hit by a pitch thrown by the A’s’ Lew Krausse. The truth, as usual, eludes McLain. Kaline’s bat rack incident happened in 1967; the broken arm was factual, and indeed occurred in 1968.
Also in the book, McLain “exposes” the supposed alcohol-drinking excesses of manager Mayo Smith.
“Mayo drank so much that it usually took him three or four innings to sober up and get his head into the game.”
Whether Smith drank too much, I don’t know. But even if he did, it must not have affected his ability to manage; the Tigers won 103 games in ‘68, and you don’t win that many with a drunk for a skipper.
I’ve already spent too much time on McLain’s book, cowritten by broadcaster Eli Zaret. Because in it, he fails to own up to anything of any real significance. Jerry Green, semi-retired and writing for the Detroit News online every Sunday, offers up a nice preview of the book for those interested, here. Green does give a nod, however, to the poignancy when McLain talks about some of his personal tragedies, including the death of his 26-year-old daughter. So Denny does have feelings; that much I suspected.
It’s a conscience that I’m still trying to find.
This spring, the Los Angeles Dodgers are training in Vero Beach, Fla. Nothing new there; they’ve done so for some sixty years. And they’ll do it again next year. Business as usual. But in 2009, the Dodgers will train in Glendale, Az. — a move being made for a number of reasons.
That will leave Lakeland, Fla. as the dean of spring training sites. The Tigers started training there off and on in the 1930’s before settling on it permanently in 1946.
The Dodgers cited being closer to their fan base, a sparkling new facility, and other factors in moving from Vero Beach to Glendale. But it won’t, and shouldn’t, happen without some moist eyes. Dodger Town in Vero Beach is hallowed ground. It’s where Roy Campanella gave catching advice from a wheelchair, and where Sandy Koufax signed autographs after practice. And a zillion other memories.
The Tigers have memories, too, in Lakeland. It’s where an 18-year-old kid named Al Kaline first put on the Old English D, never to play a day in the minor leagues. It’s where manager Charlie Dressen had his annual chili parties, and where he suffered a heart attack the evening of the 1966 shindig. It’s where Joe Coleman got beaned on the pitcher’s mound, and where Billy Martin quit briefly as Tigers manager, complaining of meddling by GM Jim Campbell. It’s also where Norm Cash used to make fans smile by wearing sunglasses with battery-operated windshield wipers on them. And on and on.
The Tigers, thankfully, have no plans to leave Lakeland high and dry, as the Dodgers will do to Vero Beach in two years. Some folks might not think where a baseball team trains in March is all that important or consequential. And, truthfully, it doesn’t mean a hill of beans to a team’s chances once the real games start in April. But the Dodgers’ fleeing Dodger Town in Vero Beach should be marked with some sadness.
It’s one more thing that breaks today’s game away from the simpler times. And that can never be good, can it?
The way I see it, Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds have two things in common in their respective pursuits to be the game’s all-time homerun king: both men are black, and both have received death threats regarding said chase.
But on second glance, there isn’t all that much in common with the death threat thing. So you may as well just say it: both were/are black men chasing the game’s penultimate record. And that’s it as far as common threads.
Aaron endured such disgraceful behavior by his fellow citizens as to be absolutely repugnant. This was 1973-74, and as Hammerin’ Hank closed in on Babe Ruth, when the record looked to be inevitably his, there were those miscreants who harassed him with hate mail, catcalls, and other crap that suddenly drew solid comparisons to Jackie Robinson’s foray into the major leagues in 1947.
No black man (few used that term, of course) is going to break that white man’s record without at least suffering for it!, was the prevailing “wisdom.” Others went further, of course, and offered to end Aaron’s pursuit permanently.
Recently, Bonds, who’s a couple of dozen homers shy of breaking Aaron’s record — a feat that will be done under a shroud of shame — revealed that he’s received death threats because of his closing in on Aaron.
Ahh, but those threats aren’t because of the color of his skin — presumably no, anyway. Rather, the anger that is turning to hate that is turning to such threats has everything to do with the presupposition that Bonds has attained this level by not playing fair.
No bulked up hulk is going to break that fine man Aaron’s record without at least suffering for it!, is the new mantra.
Irony reigns and is dripping.
I wonder, if anyone else happens along to threaten Bonds’ record, whether that person will be vilified, presuming he’s clean as a whistle. Black or white. Or Latin American. In other words, is it the record that gets people’s juices flowing, or the person chasing it? When Aaron busted Ruth’s mark, the Babe hadn’t played for nearly 40 years. Now, Bonds is on the verge, some 31 years after Aaron finished his career as a Brewer. And who knows how many more years will pass before someone is in position to be the next homerun king?
Will that person suffer thru death threats and hatred?
The beef with Aaron by the miscreants in 1974 was his skin hue. Today, the beef with Bonds is with his magic creams and elixirs.
See? Not all that much in common, after all.
It used to be the throwaway spot in the batting order. A place where the team’s worst hitting position player resided. Only batting ninth because it was impossible to bat him tenth.
Brandon Inge isn’t the first #9 hitter to have a significant impact on his team’s offensive production. But he, I believe, is the premier ninth hitter of his time, which is right now.
In 2006, Inge had 542 at bats. In them, he managed 27 homeruns and 83 RBI. You’d take that from plenty of #4, #5, or #6 hitters. But Inge accumulated the vast majority of these numbers hitting ninth in an order that was most dangerous, it seemed, the further down you traveled it. No team in baseball got more production from the 7/8/9 spots in the order than the Tigers got last season. Not even close. This is a lower third that includes the powerful and clutch Craig Monroe, don’t forget. And often, the smiling, competent-swinging Sean Casey.
But it’s Inge who’s the topic du jour. He’s revolutionizing the #9 spot, I submit. It will be interesting to see how many other major league teams follow the Tigers’ lead and place a power and RBI guy who might normally hit in the middle of the order down at the flat bottom. Of course, not many lineups feature bats as impressive as the Tigers do, one thru nine. But still, Inge’s unprecedented production at #9 will surely cause other teams to rethink their paradigm.
He does all this offensive stuff, while at the same time carving himself a place as one of the game’s finest third basemen — a position he learned on the job. He’ll be 30 this May, and entering the prime of his career.
Brandon Inge, I am telling you now, has a great chance to be the face of this Tigers organization for years and years. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he ends up being a lifelong Tiger — the 15 to 20 year variety. It’s not even too much to suggest, frankly, that his #15 may never be worn by another Tiger again.
Who else, do you think, has a better chance of being the next Tigers player to be so immortalized after his playing days are done?
Unlike the old time #9 hitter, who you placed there in the hopes that you could hide him, Inge hits #9 because nobody else does what he does from that spot in the batting order.
The Tigers as trend-setters?
Other MLB teams could do a lot worse than to try it on. But they don’t have Brandon Inge, so anyone else they try will be a knockoff. We have the original here.
All of our recent World Champions — and by recent I mean starting with the 1984 Tigers — tried the same tack, and all failed miserably doing it.
It was called coaching on the cheap.
The prevailing wisdom, with the Tigers, Red Wings, and Pistons, was that an assistant, or a prime time wannabe, would be a suitable choice to be the coach, or the manager. Mostly, they had one and only one thing going for them: convenience.
The Pistons, when they were still slapstick in the 1960s, constantly promoted assistants to take their turn with the silver whistle and clipboard. They had names like Donnis Butcher and Paul Seymour and Red Rocha. And each would do their thing for a year or so, and then vanished into the NBA night, never to be heard from again. The trend continued thru the 1970s, though it got a little better, with Coach of the Year Ray Scott interrupting the madness for a few years.
The Red Wings were experts at getting coaching on the cheap. When the team was constantly stumbling through the NHL schedule in the ’70s and early-1980s, they turned to assistants or minor leaguers, always with disastrous results. Teddy Garvin, Doug Barkley, and Wayne Maxner were among those who blew in and out of town, with already unimpressive resumes weakened by their time here.
The Tigers, after the departure of Sparky Anderson in 1995, got cheap, mostly. Buddy Bell, Larry Parrish, and Luis Pujols were either convenient or unwanted elsewhere. Phil Garner was duped into thinking the team was going to spend some money. Alan Trammell was convenient, and a reminder of better times.
But times didn’t get better for the Pistons until they hired Chuck Daly, and paid him enough money to get him to stay. World titles and annual appearance in the NBA’s Final Four became commonplace before long. Then after some down years in the late 1990s, the Pistons eventually hired Larry Brown to nudge them back to the top again. The Red Wings scuffled along, hoping to overachieve every year, until snagging Scotty Bowman and his Hall of Fame background. Stanley Cups soon followed. The Tigers made a splash in 1979 when they hired Anderson, and were champions within five years. Then after their cheapness stage, they landed Jim Leyland last year.
None of these teams found any success until they quit hiring the unknown soldiers and started going after higher profile guys with rich pedigrees.
But there is one team conspicuous from its absence from this group.
The Lions haven’t, truthfully, ever gotten away from hiring coaching on the cheap. And I don’t mean cheap in terms of strictly dollars and cents. I mean cheap in terms of poverty of pedigree.
Oh, there were the just plain cheap ones, money-wise (Tommy Hudspeth and Rick Forzano come to mind). And there were convenient ones (assistants Wayne Fontes and Gary Moeller). And there were those who were neither, but also not qualified (Darryl Rogers).
The Pistons have their Chuck Daly and Larry Brown. The Red Wings have their Scotty Bowman. The Tigers have their Sparky Anderson and Jim Leyland.
The Lions have none of that, harkening back to the late 1950s, early 1960s.
Don’t talk to me about Steve Mariucci, whose background and style were both ill-fits with the team. And don’t talk to me about Bobby Ross and his Super Bowl appearance with the Chargers. The list of coaches who’ve taken their teams to Super Bowls — and lost — isn’t all that impressive.
Rod Marinelli wouldn’t, on first glance, appear to be the Lions’ Daly or Bowman or Leyland. His team went 3-13 in his first season. He was a career assistant, and never a coordinator — supposedly a requirement to be a capable head coach. He might be another example of coaching on the cheap — again, not in terms of dollars.
Whether Marinelli succeeds or not, the fact remains: the Lions have never made the splash at the coaching position that other NFL teams have made. Never have they brought in a bona fide, high profile, rich-with-winning guy who is capable of turning a franchise around.
They’ve let a few of those go, though, to other teams.
Don Shula was a bright young assistant, working with the Lions’ defensive backs, in the early part of the 1960s. But by the time their head coaching job was open, Shula was starting to make a Hall of Fame name for himself with the Baltimore Colts. Charles “Chuck” Knox cut his football coaching teeth as a Lions assistant in the 1970s, but was shunned by the team after Joe Schmidt resigned in 1973. Knox then went on to great success as leader of first the Rams, then the Seahawks.
Did you know Bill Belichick started as a Lions assistant? Or Jerry Glanville? Or Marty Schottenheimer?
It’s true. As Casey Stengel once said, “You can look it up.”
Marinelli could be our Knox, or Shula. Maybe he’s the assistant that his former team, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, will rue letting leave.
Maybe.
Andrew Miller is tall. He’s got more pitching raw skill in his pinky than many major league pitchers have in their entire cortisone-injected shoulders. His potential is endless, and scary — for the rest of the American League. Oh yeah, and he’s lefthanded.
There will be considerable focus on Miller as this spring training unfolds. Number one, there aren’t too many spots on the Tigers’ 25-man roster up for grabs, so the scribes and bloggers have to have something to wring their hands about. The reason for the focus is this: should Andrew Miller be on the plane with the Tigers when the team breaks camp and heads to chilly Michigan? Or should he be returned to Toledo, where he can start and be assured of innings?
It’s the classic baseball question that is asked in February and March. Should big league team keep “the kid”, or leave him behind for more seasoning?
Miller, the highly-touted first-round draft pick out of the University of North Carolina, debuted with the Tigers down the stretch last year, but was left off the postseason roster. But still, he got into a few games in September, which probably didn’t do him any harm at all.
I tend to err on the side of “let the kid play, and play a lot” in these situations. And I see no reason to divert from that in Miller’s case. In Detroit, he’s most likely to be nothing more than a lefty situational guy who pitches twice or three times a week, at best. Or he may be regulated to the baseball equivalent of “garbage time”, a.k.a. long relief.
Send Mr. Miller to Toledo, I say, and put him in the starting rotation. He’s destined to be a starter anyway; may as well get him used to pitching every fifth day.
Ahh, but when to bring him to the big club, ultimately? There don’t appear to be any spots in the rotation readily available. The Tigers are cursed with the good fortune of having five dependable starters — assuming Mike Maroth is healthy. And aside from Kenny Rogers, the starters are still young and, we hope, not going anywhere soon.
Answer: no rush, for the reasons indicated in the previous paragraph. There’s nothing that says Miller has to be a Tiger by “x” date. In fact, that’s where the team has gone wrong in the past, mainly because there wasn’t much talent at the big league level, so prospects were rushed to the majors.
Just let him develop, and if he’s in Detroit for a September call-up, fine. If he’s in the rotation sometime in 2008, that’s fine, too. You can’t, after all, keep him as a minor leaguer forever. He’s too good.
But here’s hoping Jim Leyland exercises his usually good judgement and leaves Andrew Miller behind when it’s time to pack up the balls and bats and gloves and fly north.
There are almost two full months left until the NFL Draft, which means about 60 more days of mocks and conjecture and theories and smokescreens and … I don’t think I can take it. Seriously.
It seems worse this year than any other, the pre-Draft hype. For the amount of coverage it’s being afforded, you’d think it was happening tomorrow. Or right now.
Back in the early 1980s, when ESPN decided to provide blow-by-blow coverage of the Draft, the network was scoffed at.
“They said it would be as exciting as opening a telephone book and reading it,” longtime anchor Chris Berman once said in a documentary about the history of sports on television.
Now, in a fit of irony, the network has fueled a rage that makes me long for some telephone book reading.
I just can’t stomach anymore Draft talk, here in late February. Almost makes me want to switch over to some more Anna Nicole Smith coverage.
The posturing and “press conferences” at the combines in Indianapolis would best be done, I believe, about a week or so before the actual Draft. A little of gamesmanship thru the media is OK by me, but not when the actual event is two months out. Then again, I’m all for one week between the conference championships and the Super Bowl, so you know where I’m coming from here.
What’s the use of so much coverage? Granted, this is a sort of dead time in sports, with March Madness not here yet, and the NBA and NHL playoffs still weeks away. But the daily updates on which quarterback leapfrogged the other, or whether there’s in-fighting amongst the Lions braintrust (THERE’s an oxymoron for you) about who to select, or if Joe Thomas suffered a hangnail today — it’s starting to get on my nerves.
OK, then, Eno, don’t listen to it. Don’t read it. And what are you doing right now?? You’re WRITING about it!
I’d love to not listen to it, and not read about it, and not write about it anymore, until it’s actually upon us, but … how do you suggest I do that? I mean, other than stay in bed with the sheets pulled over me?
NFL Draft coverage is everywhere right now. I think I saw Bill O’Reilly and Lou Dobbs talking about it the other day. Maybe not. But you get the drift.
Enough. I’m all Drafted out.
So how do I get through these next sixty days without stabbing knitting needles into my eyeballs? Without running a cheese grater over my tongue? Without … turning to more Anna Nicole Smith coverage?
Help me!
They wore mustaches – some of the handlebar variety. Their uniforms were even outlandish: garish combinations of Kelly Green, white, and Fort Knox Gold. I’m not making those hues up; that’s their official description, according to the team’s owner, who was just as colorful as the threads.
Oh, and they battled. Fought. Hard. Some real knockdown, drag outs. And that was with each other.
The Oakland Athletics of the 1970s, one could say, didn’t appear to have any business doing what they did, which was win three straight world championships of baseball. How could they have done it, when they didn’t have that supposed necessary ingredient?
Chemistry.
It’s perhaps the most overused word in sports, and that’s saying something, when you’re talking about an entity never known for its suppression of the largesse.
I challenge you to go an entire week without hearing the word in reference to our athletic heroes and the teams on which they play.
It came up the other day, when Chicago Bulls GM John Paxson was talking about why he didn’t pull off a trade, after the NBA dealing deadline came and went Thursday.
“I was concerned about chemistry,” Paxson said.
At the time of his words, the Bulls were entrenched in third place in their division, the Pistons’ division. They were scuffling along, a few games over .500. Only the delusional consider them title contenders. Yet Paxson was worried about ruining team harmony.
Phooey.
One spring, the mantra around Tigers’ training camp in Lakeland, Fl. was how chummy everyone was with one another.
“Everybody here gets along so well,” utility man Shane Halter gushed to the scribes somewhere around the grapefruit trees. “And that’s so important. The chemistry is really good here.”
The pH-balanced Tigers then went out and lost about a hundred games that season. An “A” in chemistry, an “F” in execution, mainly due to another failing grade in the most important ingredient of them all: talent.
Charlie O. Finley’s Oakland A’s won those three World Series in 1972, 1973, and 1974 not because of their top marks in chemistry. They won because they overwhelmed their opponents in the talent department. End of discussion.
Reggie Jackson. Joe Rudi. Sal Bando. Catfish Hunter. Rollie Fingers. And that’s just for starters. Those A’s teams were loaded, so no wonder they hoisted three straight trophies. And no wonder that when they fled Finley’s eccentric ways via the new thing called free agency, the A’s went promptly into the porcelain Standard.
It was once said of the great Yankees teams of the 1950s and ‘60s: “When the Yankees go out to dinner together, they sit at 25 different tables.”
Light on chemistry, heavy on winning. Talent, again, trumped all.
The 1970s A’s were the last back-to-back-to-back World Series winners until the Yankees of 1998, ’99, and 2000. And those recent Yankees teams weren’t particularly noted for joining hands and humming folk tunes. But guess what? They had the best baseball players on the planet.
The funny thing is, I’m not even sure what chemistry is – when it comes to sports. And I’m almost certain that most of the people in sports who use the word aren’t really sure what it means, either. But they just gotta have it.
Tigers manager Jim Leyland, early in spring training this year, talked about the ubiquitous term. And, being an old school guy, he pooh-poohed it.
“I’m not a chemistry guy,” he said. Then he went on to discuss why good ballplayers are what turns him on.
So what IS chemistry?
If it was the players being chummy and all, then Leo Durocher would have been wrong.
“Nice guys finish last,” Leo the Lip said. Well, almost.
Leo was actually talking about a team in the 1950s that hadn’t been faring too well in the yearly standings. “They’re nice guys. But they finish last. Nice guys. Finish last.”
Maybe it’s more likely that “chemistry” is actually code for a bunch of talented guys who happen to play well together. But there are those who would have you believe that what goes on off the field, and in the locker rooms, somehow has terrific effect on what happens during the playing of the games.
Again, phooey.
Another Oakland team, the Raiders football club, was, for years, a band of renegades and ne’er do wells. Many were outcasts from other NFL teams. They were judged to be miscreants and locker room “cancers.” Well, the former was probably true, anyway.
Yet all “da Raiders” did was win, win some more, and win just a little more. They captured Super Bowl titles in 1977, 1981, and 1984. Their owner was like the A’s’ Finley. Al Davis, with his “Just win, baby” approach and “Commitment to Excellence” on team stationery, didn’t care, frankly, what kind of a person a man was. Could he play football?
Today, the Raiders aren’t winners. Far from it. And the only possible miscreant they employ is the receiver Randy Moss. So the argument could be that they need more snot noses on their team.
Chemistry. The word is so often used, and its powers are thought of so highly, that some general managers and accumulators of personnel, like the Bulls’ Paxson, become practically paralyzed with fear of disturbing it.
That’s OK. Perhaps the immobility of John Paxson was a help to the Pistons’ mission. No moves for the Bulls. Thus, it would seem, no improvement, either.
But at least the Bulls have harmony. A bunch of nice guys, apparently.
Cue Leo the Lip.
The formula worked wonderfully for 112 games last season, but somebody misplaced the recipe, and the Tigers stumbled through the American League in the last 50.
76-36. Better than a 2:1 ratio of wins to losses. And largely due to the team’s knack for pulling ballgames out of the fire, ridiculously so, many times vis a vis the “walk off” hit — and usually the homerun variety.
But the magic wore off, at least temporarily, and the Tigers ended the year with that mind-boggling 19-31 finish.
It’s simple, really. The teams that win the dangerous games, the contests that hang in the balance until the final moments, the teams that come out on top in the majority of these tilts, are the ones who end up doing what the Tigers will be on April 4: accepting their AL championship rings.
But who’s to say if those games will go the Tigers’ way in 2007? You need talent, for sure, to take care of business in the later innings, and the experience of winning. The Tigers have both of those ingredients, but the recipe disappeared so quickly, so abruptly, after August 7 last summer that it was amazing that the team got their act together in time for the playoffs.
The recipe disappeared because their little second baseman, Placido Polanco, got hurt in Boston, and his absence had an unexpected concussion on the rest of the team. It’s Polanco, it says here, who makes the offense go, go, go. In the World Series, Polanco was hitless. Shutout. Collared. And the Tigers’ offense sloshed around in the mud in St. Louis as a result.
The 1968 Tigers were baseball’s version of “The Perils of Pauline.” Over 40 times did they win in the seventh inning or later. A good portion of those were in their final at-bat. They had the magic formula. But not as much in 1969, and they finished a distant second.
The 2005 White Sox prided themselves on winning the close, one-run ballgames. All the time, it seemed, did they win such contests. They rode that formula all the way to a world’s championship. But last season, their penchant for that waned, and they finished third in the division.
It’s easier said than done, to go out and simply win the close ones. But it’s what the teams who hoist pennants and wear rings are able to do, time and again.
But the Tigers have Gary Sheffield, so there’s another bat for the cause.
Formula returned?
It was like my Kennedy assassination.
I remember where I was, who I was with, and what was happening around me when Dennis Johnson laid a basketball into the hoop at Boston Garden, after Larry Bird’s steal, sealing Game 5 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals for the Celtics over the Pistons.
My friend Dan Silva and I were at a bar on Wayne Road, south of Warren, in Westland. It was one of those Irish joints. The game was on the big screen. We were in a room, away from the main floor, of maybe 50 people.
The final moments of that game are well-documented. Pistons clinging to a one-point lead. Series tied at two games each. Larry Bird thumping the basketball, biding his time, waiting for the moment to attack the basket. And everyone in the place, and all of us watching on TV, knowing that that’s the way it’s going to be.
Bird made 0ne last look up at the clock, then did his thing. And for a millisecond his path to the basket was open. But then Dennis Rodman, the Worm that he was, came from nowhere and swatted away Bird’s floating shot with a vengeance. There was a scramble. The ball went out of bounds. From our vantage point, it looked like it was off a Celtic player.
The refs agreed. Deeeetroit basketballllll!
The ball had been knocked off the body of Boston’s Jerry Sichting. Only a few seconds remained. The crowd in the bar started high-fiving, hugging, dancing, hooting and hollering. They figured the Pistons were now leaders in this series, 3 games to 2. And with Game 6 in the unusual yet friendly confines of one of the corners of the Pontiac Silverdome.
But I wasn’t a high-fiver. I hugged no one. I certainly didn’t dance, and I didn’t hoot. But I did holler. Because these were the Celtics, and this was Boston Garden, and I’d seen some pretty strange things happen there to teams in road jerseys.
The thing that I hollered was this: “IT’S NOT OVER! IT’S NOT OVER!,” literally trying to quell the madding crowd with my arms akimbo, like a quarterback trying to quiet the 12th man at the line of scrimmage. I stood in the middle, trying to be heard. Trying to encourage cooler heads, until the final few ticks ran off the clock.
Then it was the bar crowd’s turn to holler. As I pleaded for sanity, there was an awful sound, kind of like 50 people being slugged in the gut at the same time.
I looked at the big screen. And there was Johnson, laying the ball in. I hadn’t even seen Bird’s steal, until the television replay showed it to me, in all its big screen horror.
One second remained, and a desperation heave by the Pistons finished the game. And, essentially, the series, even though the Pistons showed remarkable resolve to win Game 6 and darn near win Game 7.
I was inconsolable after the play. For the rest of the evening, and for the ride home, I spoke not one word. It was so bad that even my friend Silva, who was like a pallbearer himself after such things, was trying to cheer me up. But I would have none of it. I literally said nothing.
GM Jack McCloskey once said, before the Pistons would win two championships themselves, “On my death bed I’ll probably say, ‘We shouldn’t have made that pass.’”
Dennis Johnson is gone now, dead suddenly of an apparent heart attack at age 52. He’s the first of the protagonists in that ‘87 conference final to leave us. And doubtless none of the remaining ones will ever forget their role, however insignificant, in that play.
I’m telling you, it was bad enough having to watch it.
Jim Leyland is displaying an authority and level of control that hasn’t been seen by a man piloting the Tigers since a white haired, petite man named Sparky roamed the dugout from 1979 to 1995.
The latest example is Leyland’s rapid and blunt response to former Tiger Dmitri Young’s assertion that the team didn’t “support” him enough last season as he went through one personal crisis after another. The Tigers released Young in September, robbing him of his opportunity to play in the postseason.
Ahh, but there’s the rub. I just fell into a trap that Young, in a much more personal way, has also fallen into. For it’s not that the Tigers robbed Dmitri Young. He did that just swell by himself, to himself.
“For Dmitri to say the Tigers didn’t support him is totally out of line,” Leyland told reporters in Lakeland, reading aloud to them Young’s quoted concerns before launching into his diatribe.
The rest of Leyland’s words, I’ll leave out, because by now you’ve probably read them a dozen times. But the swiftness with which he responded, combined with his conviction, are part of why Jim Leyland cuts a path through the Tigers that is the widest since Sparky Anderson’s during the ’80s and half of the ’90s.
Player A and player B get into an argument over the type of music to be played in the clubhouse after a game — a win. It gets loud and distracting (the argument, not the music). Out steps Sparky, and says, according to the story, but one word.
“Enough!”
Then he retreated back into his office.
The story is probably not apocryphal. I heard it over 20 years ago, with Sparky at his zenith in the Motor City. The source was credible — one of the beat writers at the time.
To me, that story has captured, in a most succinct fashion, the authority and tightness of ship that Anderson displayed while Tigers manager. And looking at his successors, no one else comes close to that command.
Buddy Bell didn’t have it, and neither did his replacement, Larry Parrish. Phil Garner might have been that guy, but he didn’t last long enough. Luis Pujols? HA! And good guy Alan Trammell, bless his heart, didn’t cut that path either.
But Jimmy Leyland does, and I’m convinced that he’ll remain manager here for as long as he chooses. Then again, I once had trouble with the idea of Tram being fired, early in his managerial career. But the Packers fired Bart Starr as coach, so there you have it.
Leyland’s tit after Young’s tat, along with making sure everyone knew that it was his decision to release Young and nobody else’s (whether true or not), is yet another example of why there shouldn’t be any worries when it comes to wondering whether the Tigers will suffer from sort of post-2006 hangover.
The skipper has a firm hand on the wheel, and not for a long time have we been able to say that about any Tigers manager.
Over ten years, in fact.
Jim Leyland is displaying an authority and level of control that hasn’t been seen by a man piloting the Tigers since a white haired, petite man named Sparky roamed the dugout from 1979 to 1995.
The latest example is Leyland’s rapid and blunt response to former Tiger Dmitri Young’s assertion that the team didn’t “support” him enough last season as he went through one personal crisis after another. The Tigers released Young in September, robbing him of his opportunity to play in the postseason.
Ahh, but there’s the rub. I just fell into a trap that Young, in a much more personal way, has also fallen into. For it’s not that the Tigers robbed Dmitri Young. He did that just swell by himself, to himself.
“For Dmitri to say the Tigers didn’t support him is totally out of line,” Leyland told reporters in Lakeland, reading aloud to them Young’s quoted concerns before launching into his diatribe.
The rest of Leyland’s words, I’ll leave out, because by now you’ve probably read them a dozen times. But the swiftness with which he responded, combined with his conviction, are part of why Jim Leyland cuts a path through the Tigers that is the widest since Sparky Anderson’s during the ’80s and half of the ’90s.
Player A and player B get into an argument over the type of music to be played in the clubhouse after a game — a win. It gets loud and distracting (the argument, not the music). Out steps Sparky, and says, according to the story, but one word.
“Enough!”
Then he retreated back into his office.
The story is probably not apocryphal. I heard it over 20 years ago, with Sparky at his zenith in the Motor City. The source was credible — one of the beat writers at the time.
To me, that story has captured, in a most succinct fashion, the authority and tightness of ship that Anderson displayed while Tigers manager. And looking at his successors, no one else comes close to that command.
Buddy Bell didn’t have it, and neither did his replacement, Larry Parrish. Phil Garner might have been that guy, but he didn’t last long enough. Luis Pujols? HA! And good guy Alan Trammell, bless his heart, didn’t cut that path either.
But Jimmy Leyland does, and I’m convinced that he’ll remain manager here for as long as he chooses. Then again, I once had trouble with the idea of Tram being fired, early in his managerial career. But the Packers fired Bart Starr as coach, so there you have it.
Leyland’s tit after Young’s tat, along with making sure everyone knew that it was his decision to release Young and nobody else’s (whether true or not), is yet another example of why there shouldn’t be any worries when it comes to wondering whether the Tigers will suffer from sort of post-2006 hangover.
The skipper has a firm hand on the wheel, and not for a long time have we been able to say that about any Tigers manager.
Over ten years, in fact.
It’s not the weather, as some would have you believe. It’s not the city. It’s nothing personal that way. It’s the winning, stupid.
When the Pistons were a sorry basketball team, in the interval of time between the Bad Boys and the Right Way Boys, their inability to attract quality talent, whether thru free agency or trade, was blamed on the above factors. Mainly the cold weather. There were traces of racism in those beliefs, said with a wink sometimes, but they were sort of brushed aside, conveniently.
But funny, when the Pistons became championship contenders again, suddenly the weather was as much of a factor in attracting good basketball players as Neifi Perez was to the Tigers’ pennant run last September.
It wasn’t the cold weather, which the African-American basketball player supposedly universally detests, not at all. It was the winning — the chances for a ring.
The Tigers are now a point of destination for some of the higher profile players in the game today. Two big free agent signees of recent years — Pudge Rodriguez and Kenny Rogers — have both gone on record the last few days. Their words were similar: I want to finish my career in Detroit.
Rodriguez echoed Rogers yesterday, a couple days after the lefthander told the questioner that his desire to finish it up in Detroit was “self-evident.” Well, now it is, for sure.
And, last I checked, despite Al Gore’s warnings of global warming, the mean temperature in Detroit has stayed about the same since those two veterans joined the Tigers since 2004. So it’s not the weather that’s been keeping players away, it’s the opportunity to win and be successful consistently. The Tigers have that now, and so no wonder Pudge and Kenny want to retire here.
Gary Sheffield, the new Big Bat in town, was enamored with the fans’ reaction and warmth during the team’s bus caravan last month. And the temps were far from balmy when he professed his beliefs. Shef knows that this is a baseball hotbed when the team is going good, and what he saw was unbridled affection for a team that is the defending American League champion. Nothing was said by him about how cold it was outside that day.
Winning provides its own warmth and pleasant climate, year round.
A top six forward.
The words are becoming ingrained into our psyche now, just like “lefthanded bat” when it came to the Tigers late last summer. The Tigers just had to have a lefthanded bat, don’t you know. So they traded for Sean Casey at the deadline.
Now Mike Ilitch’s other team has an urgent need, apparently. And the GM won’t rest until he satisfies that need.
A top six forward.
Red Wings GM Kenny Holland has $5 million of salary cap and plenty of ideas. Trouble is, he’s not the only one shopping, so the vendors in the marketplace are placing premium prices on their goods.
The top six forward, it is presumed, will have toughness, scoring ability, and veteranship. Of course that’s a need, if you’re going to put it that way. Who wouldn’t want to add such a player?
Funny, but those traits that the Red Wings so badly feel in need of in a potential new player just happen to describe one person to a “T”.
Brendan Shanahan, though recovering now from a horrifying collision over the weekend, is exactly what the Red Wings crave, if you go by the skill set that’s being outlined for the new player.
Someone like…HIM
But Shanahan fled for New York over the summer, a free agent who felt that this was the time to let a new regime lead the Red Wings. His decision came shortly after Steve Yzerman retired.
So it’s Shanahan’s self-exodus that has put the Red Wings in need of a “top six forward.” But it’s also why they have $5 million to spend on such an addition. Cause and effect.
There’s no telling where the Wings would be today with Brendan Shanahan in their lineup. Maybe they couldn’t improve much on their record, which is a surprisingly gaudy 38-16-6. But as far as this day forward, when the stretch run unofficially begins and teams begin thinking about the playoffs, a player like Shanahan would look mighty good in red and white.
Shanny’s not an option, obviously. Some other power forward, probably one well past 30 years of age, also, will have to be the Red Wings’ new “top six forward.”
You always thought Shanahan’s departure would come home to roost. And now here we are.
I’d hate to see Ken Holland’s cell phone bill.
I have to thank Tim Hardaway. Before he and his hateful mouth came along this week, I didn’t realize how much hate I had stewing in my blood.
Hardaway, the former NBA player, is the second one of his ilk to come out of the closet in recent days. The first, John Amaechi, admitted to being gay. Hardaway admitted he hated the John Amaechis of the world. Tit for tat, sort of.
But then I realized … you know, I hate, too. But not gays. And not even the people who hate gays. My hate isn’t quite as dramatic or headline-grabbing. But it’s there.
To wit …
I hate it when you turn a game on the radio and the announcer refuses to give the score, instead saying cryptic things that describe everything BUT the score.
I hate it when a good standup comedian abruptly ends his act with, “You’ve been great, goodnight!,” leaving you thirsting for more laughs.
I hate when the puck goes out of play in the middle of some great end-to-end hockey action, necessitating a bothersome faceoff.
I hate when people don’t use their turn signals. It’s telling me, “You don’t need to know what I’m doing. Just stay out of my way until I reveal my intentions.”
I hate when a pitcher won’t throw the damn ball, causing the batter to step out of the box. Then I hate it when the pitcher takes that opportunity to step off the mound and rub up the baseball.
Hello! There’s a game to be played!
I hate when I’ve packed a mouth-watering, hearty lunch … and realized I’ve left it on the kitchen counter when I’m halfway to the office.
I hate when a defensive lineman on my football team jumps offsides on a third-and-four.
I hate that everything is packaged nowadays like it’s intended to survive a nuclear holocaust.
I hate when a basketball player misses a dunk. I mean, that’s like eating spaghetti and missing the sauce.
I hate it when the guy in front of me at the ATM is using the machine to apply for a mortgage. Probably the same dufus I get behind at the drive-thru who’s ordering food for the entire GM Tech Center day shift.
I hate when a football announcer on television says a player is tackled on, say, the 33-yard line, when it’s clearly the 34. I’m big on field position accuracy.
I hate when you spend precious time punching in an account number during an automated message to _____ company, and when a human being actually comes on the phone, the first question they ask you is, “What’s your account number?”
I hate an inning-ending double play, or a rally-killing popup.
I hate biting into a hot pepper that’s not hot.
I hate being five games out of first place with four to play.
I hate turning on the radio when one of my all-time greatest hits is in its final ten seconds of airplay.
I hate the uniforms of today’s teams. Since when did we start the trend of brown mustard as a base color? It’s the Gulden Age, I tell you.
I hate the overuse of the term “on the same page,” and this new one, “SHOOT me an email.” And I hate that I have used them myself.
I hate when a quarterback calls time out because he “doesn’t like what he sees.” Maybe I hate that because we can’t do that in real life. Though it’d be nice, I must admit.
I hate spandex and shorts and tank tops on any member of either gender who has as much business wearing them as Matt Millen has with a high draft pick.
I hate $20 for parking near Comerica Park. And I hate that the folks who are charging that won’t take any responsibility for your car while it’s under their noses.
I hate the fact that kids don’t play baseball anymore, and if they do, it’s with a video game controller in their tiny hands.
I hate the idea of “blocking” tight ends and “pass receiving” tight ends. And I hate that it took 30 years for Charlie Sanders, who could do both splendidly, to get into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
I hate trying to spread rock hard butter on tear away bread.
I hate umpires who won’t call strikes.
I hate music-free, commercial jams on the radio.
I hate press conferences for new head football coaches, because they’re like x-rated movies: you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Or so I’ve been told.
I hate the politics in Warren, where I live. I’m convinced that Council President Jim Fouts would engage mayor Mark Steenbergh in a debate over the color of the sky. And white rice.
I hate that the NHL regular season means absolutely nothing come playoff time. So it’s 82 games for … what, exactly?
I hate that you can’t get paper bags at the grocery store anymore. You mean I have to actually bundle my newspapers now?
I hate the overkill of men proposing marriage to their girlfriends in front of tens of thousands of people at a sporting event. Like she could actually say no without people throwing beer on her.
I hate the fact that certain baseball players simply “don’t bunt,” when sometimes a mere base hit to center field, scoring a runner from second, is all that’s needed to win a game.
I hate “spring forward.”
I hate that there are no jump balls in college basketball. We can’t teach the refs to toss a ball three feet in the air, straightly?
I hate a good column that ends abruptly.
Don’t you?
The big, bruising defenseman that the Red Wings just HAD to have was still available as the trade deadline approached. He toiled for the dregs of the league, the Pittsburgh Penguins, and would be a free agent at the end of the season. The prototypical rent-a-player.
He was the nasty, physical presence that the bleating critics said the Red Wings needed, or else Lord Stanley’s Cup would go to another team. He was a MUST have, despite his impending free agency. The final piece.
But then, on March 19, 2002, Darius Kasparaitis was traded … to the Colorado Avalanche!
No!!
NOOO!!
Red Wings fans cursed the luck. Not getting Kasparaitis and his 5′11″, 215-pound frame was bad enough; but for him to go to the hated Avs? If this was Montreal, they’d have screamed “sacre bleu!”
“#$!&,” the fans screamed. “The #$@! Avs just traded for the Stanley Cup!”
A little over two months later, the Red Wings skated against the Avalanche in Game 7 of the Conference Final, and as the Joe Louis Arena crowd roared and laughed, the Red Wings beat the Avs, 7-0. Five games later, the Red Wings were Cup champions.
Darius Kasparaitis and his Cup-bound Avalanche watched the Finals on TV, it’s presumed. Or maybe listened to them on the golf courses.
Peter Forsberg is another of those “missing pieces” guys. He can, when healthy, score, assist, and still skate like the wind. He’s a wizard with the puck and has immeasurable playoff experience. The Red Wings, it was widely speculated, were frontrunners for his services. Another rent-a-player, though. Forsberg can be an unrestricted free agent this summer.
But Forsberg and his nifty resume won’t be coming to Detroit. The Nashville Predators were willing to pay the steep price, sending several players and some draft picks to the Philadelphia Flyers yesterday.
Yes, the Nashville Predators, occupants of first place in the Central Division, just ahead of the Red Wings.
Doubtless some in Detroit are screaming that the Predators have the missing piece that is still missing from the Red Wings roster. They don’t want to be consoled by the fact that there are still other missing pieces out there: Billy Guerin, Keith Tkachuck, Todd Bertuzzi. And probably others. All they know is, Forsberg was “the man,” and now he’s going to be wearing the ugly gold and brown of the Preds.
Curses.
But the Avalanche traded for Darius Kasparaitis in 2002, robbing the rival Red Wings of that missing piece, supposedly. Yet the Red Wings won the Cup without that piece, although they did trade for Jiri Slegr — kind of a Kasparaitis Lite.
As for Kasparaitis, he became a free agent on schedule, and signed a fat contract with the New York Rangers.
Rent-a-player.
There are other fish in the NHL sea. Wings GM Kenny Holland will probably find one on his hook before the deadline arrives on the 27th. Maybe it’ll be Forsberg Lite.
We can only hope.
In the Pistons’ chemistry lab, all is well. It never was that out of whack to begin with.
So says Tayshaun Prince, who told me that he was taken out of context when it was written that he had called into question the team’s chemistry last month.
“I was just saying that our focus wasn’t where it needed to be,” Prince said into a telephone, for next month’s interview for MCS Magazine. “We weren’t focused like we were last year, or in the playoffs when we went to the Finals.”
But then the team signed Chris Webber, and whatever concerns Prince had vanished almost as soon as Webber joined the club.
“He’s such a good passer … he gives us easier scoring opportunities. And before he got here, our opportunities weren’t that easy. Now, we go to our third and fourth options more.”
And just like that, the winning returned. End of “chemistry” issues.
But when the conversation turned to the Pistons’ flameout in last year’s playoffs, Prince acknowledged that the burdensome regular season, when the team flirted with 70 wins, took its toll.
“We were playing 41, 42 minutes (a game),” he said of the regular season, “and when you’ve been to two Finals and looking forward to going to a third, playing that much could definitely hamper you.”
Was it a fair critique, I asked, to say that the Cleveland Cavaliers, in Round Two, made coaching adjustments midway thru their series with the Pistons, which weren’t countered properly by Flip Saunders?
“Well, as far as adjustments, we made them, but when you have a great player like LeBron James, he can make adjustments back. And we were slow to respond. Before you knew it, we were going seven games.”
So, is it on the coaches, or the players? Prince didn’t throw Flip under the bus.
“I always say that in a playoff series, the players have a better understanding than the coaches as far as what needs to be done on the court,” he said. “The coaches can watch film and everything, but the players should know what to do.”
With the All-Star game being played in Las Vegas Sunday, I put Prince on the spot.
Play oddsmaker, I said, and give me the odds of another Pistons championship.
“Five to one,” he said after some hemming and hawwing.
“That’s not very good,” I said.
“Well, we’re the underdogs. We didn’t win it last year.”
True.
The interview, in its entirety — including Prince’s version of The Block on Reggie Miller in the 2004 conference finals — will be published in the March issue of MCS Magazine.
Pitchers and catchers report.
I’ll just let those words sink in for a moment.
It’s happening, tomorrow, the 15th, in Lakeland.
Believe it or not, it’s been nearly four months since Brandon Inge struck out, closing out the 2006 World Series. And even though the pitchers will be throwing to an empty batter’s box for a week, and thus meaning that Inge’s strikeout will be the last one by a Tigers player for seven more days, it’s baseball indeed.
It’s enough to thaw your frigid February bones, I tell you.
Some Tigers are already down there, and have been for a couple weeks: Justin Verlander. Joel Zumaya. Vance Wilson. And others. Eagerness abounds for a team that rode an improbable run to the World Series, then saw it all implode against the Cardinals in five shaky games. Maybe the desire to start a new season is greater for the championship runner up.
“Wait till next year!”
It was the rallying cry of da Bums, the old Brooklyn Dodgers and their faithful. They were frequent runners up, and always to their rivals across the East River, the Yankees. I wonder if their players were the first ones down to Vero Beach, FL every February.
This year, the Tigers begin their 71st spring training in Lakeland, a city they’ve used as their regular season prep since 1946. Before that, there were other towns tried, but Lakeland won out. Joker Marchant Stadium, in fact, is one of the finer spring training ballparks in Florida or Arizona.
Three years ago, Tigers fans were eager to see how their new catcher, Pudge Rodriguez — fresh off a World Series win with Florida — would look in a creamy white uniform with the Old English D on the left breast. He was a champion, but no less eager to start spring training — new team and all.
This year, the eagerness isn’t because of the novelty of a superstar player joining a 119-loss team. It’s for the high expectations of a ballclub that has set a new bar for success in this town. A much higher bar, higher than any year since 1985.
That team was good, too. And eager. But it won 85 games and finished in the middle of the pack in the old East Division.
Ancient history.
When Gregory Kelser played basketball for Michigan State University, it was a time when MSU and the University of Michigan were regular competitors for the Big Ten title. It was the late-1970s, and these were the Spartans of Magic Johnson, Kelser, and Jud Heathcote — going up against the Wolverines of Rickey Green, Phil Hubbard, and Bill Frieder. And other supporting players.
Almost 30 years later, Kelser — now educating us about basketball in grand fashion as one of the game’s best TV analysts — can still recall every U-M/MSU meeting that occurred while he attended school.
“Each year we had a very, very frustrating loss to the Wolverines,” Kelser says in this month’s issue of Motor City Sports Magazine. “But the last time we played them at (MSU’s) Jenison Fieldhouse, we blew them out by like 30 points. We were on our way to a national championship, so that win mitigated all the psychological damage those losses did to me personally.”
Tonight, the Wolves and the Spartans get it on for the first time this season in East Lansing, and even though neither is in contention for first place in the conference, and the Spartans have dominated the series in recent years, it’s still, in one Michigan alum’s eyes, the school’s biggest rivalry.
“It was the best rivalry we had,” says former Michigan center Tim McCormick, who also turned into a fine TV analyst. “The crowd was very intense and passionate, and the players all knew each other very well from summer ball and high school, and it was very competitive.”
Kelser also points out that the schools are now, for better or worse, more evenly matched now than in recent years. The bad news for Michigan fans is, the reason for that isn’t so much that the Wolverines have improved all that much, but that the Spartans have dropped back to the pack. A pack of also-rans that once again includes Tommy Amaker’s group.
When was the last time, for example, you saw a Tom Izzo team score 38 points, as they did in a loss last week? The Spartans were hurt drastically by graduation, and it’s all guard Drew Neitzel can do to keep his team in ballgames by himself. It smacks of the dreaded “rebuilding” word, but the folks in Ann Arbor have been “rebuilding” for nearly a decade. Since Izzo took over the Spartan program in 1995, MSU has played in 31 NCAA tourney games, including a national championship in 2000. In the same time frame, Michigan has played in four tournament games.
“Not being the favorite is not something I want to get accustomed to,” Izzo said before the season. “I hope this happens only every eight or nine years, but that’s where we are right now.”
As for Amaker, the vultures are out. His ouster is being called for, in his sixth season. The doomsayers don’t seem to care that a new coach would mean some more of that lovely rebuilding.
“Michigan-Michigan State is always a special game,” Amaker told MCS by e-mail recently. “We have a lot of respect for them and the rivalry itself.”
They should. They hardly ever beat MSU anymore.
It started, as usual, with a technical foul. Slapped with it, the basketball player did what pissed off basketball players tend to do: waving the arms in dismissal of the referee, scowling, and saying some not nice words. The crowd roared in approval – of the player. Then they, too, joined in with the not nice words.
It continued to the next possession, when the pissed off player called for the ball, angrily, in the low post. His method of doing so was picked up by the Fox Sports Detroit microphones. Rip Hamilton was bouncing the ball in the corner, and Rasheed Wallace wanted it. Very badly.
“Give me the ball!,” Rasheed yelled, only he stuck a word before “ball” that was one of those not nice ones.
Hamilton floated the ball to Wallace, who was working against a Toronto rookie, and Rasheed was madder than a hornet. He took a couple of dribbles, backed into the kid, made a move, and hooked the ball into the basket. And got fouled.
That’s when the real show started. More scowls and arm pumping. Wallace was, it seemed, more animated then, after success, than he was moments earlier, after disappointment.
To the foul line he went, jabbering the whole way. It was unclear if his vitriol was directed to the referees or the Raptor player(s).
Several minutes later, standing along the lane waiting for a Pistons free throw, Wallace started jawing with the young Chris Bosh – who was the victim of much of Rasheed’s schooling, and the maligned defender against Wallace’s 28 points. The discussion seemed to be quite the scolding one.
Later in the fourth quarter, the game still in doubt, Wallace took a pass beyond the three-point line and buried the shot, sticking a dagger into the Raptors’ five-game winning streak. Toronto called time out.
“Don’t mess with me!,” Rasheed screamed toward the Toronto bench. Only he didn’t say “mess” – unless he really mispronounced it badly.
Even after the game, after another win was safely in the books, Wallace had to be led away from the officials. The FSD cameras caught him, in plain view, constantly looking over his shoulder and saying some more not nice words, on his way to the locker room in his crooked path way. Teammates patted him on the back as if to say, “It’s OK, man. We WON.”
Rasheed Wallace plays basketball with a sound and a fury that I’ve never seen before. He’s at his best when his emotions spew from him, like a human volcano. He is genuinely not as good of a performer when he’s trying to suppress himself. Every time he does that, his coach recognizes the silliness of even trying, and takes off the shackles. Instantly, his play improves. Wallace without anger and emotion is like Kool-Aid without the sugar, in a dichotomy sort of way.
Three years ago, at the trading deadline, Pistons President Joe Dumars swindled Wallace from the Atlanta Hawks, who had him for just one game. Sheed entered his first press conference as a Piston wearing a Kansas City Chiefs football jersey. And he’s been accumulating yellow penalty flags and blitzing his opponents ever since.
***********************************
Rasheed Wallace is, whether you choose to believe it or not, the barometer of the Pistons.
***********************************
“We’ve tried to get him to keep his emotions in check, but he’s not as effective that way,” Pistons coach Flip Saunders explained it a couple of weeks ago, after Wallace had racked up some more technical fouls, edging closer to the cap before suspensions start taking effect. “Sheed needs to play with emotion.”
Last week, Wallace felt the volcano about to erupt. Instead of incurring another technical, he marched directly to the Pistons bench, specifically to Saunders, as if he was the human version of a Monopoly token: do not pass GO, do not collect $200 – or another “T.”
“Get me out,” Wallace told his coach. He felt a technical coming on, and wanted to avoid it.
Saunders got him out. Antonio McDyess replaced him.
Moments later, in the motherscratcher of all ironies, McDyess was nailed with two technical fouls and was ejected from the game. His replacement? Rasheed Wallace!
Well, at least he had tried to avoid trouble.
I’m asked it often: Which Pistons player is most valuable to the team? It’s a question that is supposed to elicit pained thinking and consternation. How can you pick just one player, folks would say, from a team that prides itself on being one with no “stars”?
Easy. I’ll do it for you right now. Rasheed Wallace is, whether you choose to believe it or not, the barometer of the Pistons. This conclusion is so simple in its method, you’re gonna smile when you read what it is.
The Pistons usually lose, especially in the playoffs, when Rasheed Wallace has a poor game. And they usually win, especially in the playoffs, when Rasheed Wallace has a good game. And isn’t that the true meaning of the word “valuable”?
Back in the Bad Boys days, I came to the same conclusion about another big man, but in a funny way: without any hypothesis.
Bill Laimbeer played over 500 consecutive NBA games, at one point in his career. It was impossible to gauge his importance to the Pistons, conventional wisdom said, because the team had never actually experienced him out of the lineup. Which is precisely why I said the Pistons could afford to lose Laimbeer the least. The very thought of the team not getting what Laimbeer was providing – relentless rebounding, outside shooting, grittiness, attitude – always made me shudder.
This version of the Pistons has the beanpole shooter and whirling dervish, Richard Hamilton, who’s leading the team in scoring. It has Chauncey Billups, aka Mr. Big Shot. It has the quiet assassin, Tayshaun Prince. And now it even has big man passer extraordinaire, Chris Webber. That’s all very nice. But if Rasheed Wallace isn’t Rasheed Wallace – if he is diluted and polished and vanilla, then he isn’t Rasheed Wallace. And if he isn’t Rasheed Wallace, then he isn’t the Pistons’ MVP.
Give him the #%!# ball!
John Amaechi’s admission that he’s gay is laughable if you think that this is some sort of real revelation.
Amaechi, the former NBAer who has come out of the closet to promote his new book, apparently wants us to believe that the idea of a homosexual athlete is shocking in some way.
HA!
Now, what I’m about to say has no hard facts to support it, and is therefore strictly a hunch — but a strong one. Homosexuals have been players on professional (and college, and even high school) sports teams for eons — probably since the dawn of sports.
Charles Barkley, last night on TNT, casually said that he’s played with known gay players. And, Barkley said, it didn’t matter to him what a dude’s sexual preference was, as long as they guy could play. I wasn’t able to glean whether Barkley made the comment based on fact/someone’s admission, or if he believes the odds are so strong that he has played with a gay player, that it might as well be fact. Regardless, his point was consistent: it just doesn’t matter.
Former Redskins receiver Jerry Smith and baseball player Billy Bean are just two from other sports that have felt it incumbent upon themselves to reveal their sexual orientation. Why, I’m not sure. But it would be incredibly myopic to think that these men are isolated cases. But the bottom line is the same: as long as others were either unaware or not made uncomfortable by this trait, then whose business is it, really?
The real story, I believe, is if someone were to come out with credible evidence that an openly gay player made unwelcome advances on a teammate, even after being told not to do it. And even that’s an incident between those two people — but it would be more newsworthy. I think it would be, anyway.
Amaechi was certainly not a star in the league (he averaged about 6 PPG in five seasons), and maybe that’s yet another reason to merit this story as being mostly a non-story. But again, if a teammate of Amaechi’s unearthed stories of physical touching and groping that was the equivalent of sexual harrassment, then that’s a whole new can of worms, regardless if he was a star or not.
Just about every heterosexual man, no matter the workplace/school/circle of friends, has encountered gay men in these venues without his knowledge. This is because someone’s sexual orientation is nobody else’s business, as long as it’s kept to themselves and not done to intimidate or make coworkers uncomfy. Like the heterosexual harrassers have taken to doing time and again.
John Amaechi, ex-NBA player, is gay?
And the significance of this is …?
It used to be given more than cursory time on the network, but now it’s reduced to some chatter once a week, usually Wednesday or Thursday.
The NHL, back in the day, had a significant presence on ESPN. Games were broadcast weekly, sometimes doubleheaders. Then the ratings went into the tank, and interest waned. Before the lockout of 2004-05.
So now, we’re given barely a snapshot of the league, through the eyes of Barry Melrose, on ESPN News. Once a week.
And it was Melrose, last night, who engaged in his annual gushing over the Red Wings.
After showing some highlights of the team’s 4-2 win over Phoenix, Melrose couldn’t contain himself.
“The Detroit Red Wings — where have we seen this before?,” Melrose said, a grin spreading across his face. “Playing great hockey in February, March, and April, and into the playoffs.”
Umm … doing OK, Barry — until the playoffs part.
The Red Wings haven’t advanced beyond the second round of the playoffs since their last Stanley Cup, in 2002. They were swept in the first round in 2003 by Anaheim, drummed out in Round Two in 2004 by Calgary, and bounced in Round One last year by Edmonton. In other words, one series win in the last three postseasons.
And where HAVE we seen that before?
In the 1990’s, before the Cups, when playoff disappointment ran rampant at Joe Louis Arena. Series losses to inferior opponents. Heartbreaking defeats, with captain Steve Yzerman always left to explain to the vultures what went wrong, in hushed tones in front of his locker.
The current Red Wings are in danger of recalling those days, if they don’t make a serious run this spring. Barry Melrose is right — we have seen this before: sizzling play in the regular season, but it was a precursor to a flameout in the playoffs, and always by hungrier, more desperate teams. And inferior ones, to boot.
I said before the season that it was fine by me if the Red Wings kind of lie in the weeds this season, piddling along in a strong Western Conference, perhaps with a #4 or #5 seed. None of this Presidents’ Trophy, Cup or Else pressure. Maybe they could, for a change, ruin a higher seed’s season.
Still OK by me, if they can pull it off.
But the team seems to be slipping back into its old ways — churning out the wins, wearing teams down, climbing higher and higher in the league standings. Damn them.
But it’s all good, if the Red Wings finally play like they’re capable of in April and May — if they can get to May. Their last two postseasons have ended in that month’s first week. And the one before that ended in April.
Once again, the team looks, on paper, to be a serious contender. Goaltending seems strong. There’s forward depth, and a little speed. The defensemen are old, but experienced and injected with some youth now. The coaching appears solid.
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
The Red Wings are indeed, as Melrose says, up to their old tricks in the dead of winter. But it’s when things thaw out that they’ve had their problems.
I guess we’ll see, won’t we? And Barry Melrose can tell everyone all about it, weekly.
I hate for this blog to be a source for baseball obituaries (see the Art Fowler post beneath this), but I would be remiss not to mention the passing of lefthander Steve Barber, who died yesterday at the age of 67.
Barber holds significance in Detroit, because it was against the Tigers in 1967 that, while pitching for the Orioles, he tossed a no-hitter. And lost.
Well, nearly a no-hitter. Barber was staked to a 1-0 lead after eight innings on April 30, 1967 in Baltimore. What happened next was the stuff of pitcher’s nightmares.
According to retrosheet.org, Norm Cash led off the ninth with a walk, the eighth issued by Barber. Dick Tracewski ran for Cash. Ray Oyler, one of the worst hitters in modern baseball history, also walked. Pitcher Earl Wilson bunted the runners over, and after Willie Horton (batting for Dick McAuliffe) popped out, Barber was one out away from his no-no.
But with Mickey Stanley at the plate, Barber uncorked a wild pitch, scoring Tracewski with the tying run, and sending pinch-runner Jake Wood to third. Incredibly, Orioles manager Hank Bauer left Barber and his nine walks in the ballgame. But after walking Stanley (Barber’s 10th base on balls), Barber was finally removed, for Stu Miller, whose claim to fame was being blown off the pitcher’s mound during an All-Star game in San Francisco’s windy Candlestick Park.
Miller induced a ground ball from Don Wert, but shortstop Mark Belanger made an error on it, allowing Wood to score with the go-ahead run. When the dust had settled, the Tigers went into the bottom of the ninth with a 2-1 lead — and no hits.
Fred Gladding worked a perfect ninth, and preserved the wild, unusual win.
The line score read thusly:
Detroit: 2 runs, 0 hits, 1 error, 11 LOB (all those walks that didn’t score earlier)
Baltimore: 1 run, 2 hits, 2 errors, 4 LOB
Barber’s outing didn’t rival that of Pittsburgh’s Harvey Haddix, who pitched 12 perfect innings in 1959 yet lost in the 13th inning to the Braves, but when you pitch 8.2 innings of hitless ball, you should win, right? Obviously Barber’s wildness contributed greatly, along with Bauer’s tardiness in removing him.
The ‘67 Tigers’ luck would run out, though, during the season’s final weekend, when they lost a heartbreaking pennant chase to the Red Sox. The season ended with McAuliffe, who had not hit into a double play all year, grounding into one.
But on 4/30/67, the Tigers managed to beat the Orioles without so much as a single base hit.
RIP, Steve Barber.
Charlie Sanders would never say it, but that’s what bloggers are for, right? He would never say that the reason his entry into the Pro Football Hall of Fame has been delayed lo these many years is largely because of the teams for which he played. He would never say it, but he would be right if he ever did.
Sanders, finally elected last Saturday (he’ll be inducted in August), goes in some 30 years after he played his last game. His stats never got any better in that time frame, but neither did the image of the franchise for which he toiled.
The Lions’ lack of decent heritage in any decade that happened after the 1950’s has gotten some of their other great players, too. I’m still waiting for the Alex Karras enshrinement, for example. And Lem Barney, inducted in 1992, entered the Hall 15 years after he played (nine years after being eligible for the first time). Doubtless that these delays had more than a little to do with the Lions’ mediocrity. Karras, Barney, and Sanders each played in one playoff game: the 5-0 loss to the Cowboys in 1970. Most of their teams were .500 or below. And Hall voters like to vote the champions in first — even if the non-champions were better performers.
Barry Sanders was elected in his first year of eligibility because he was, well, Barry Sanders. His feats were too large to ignore, despite a 1-5 record in the playoffs as a Lion.
The reason I say Charlie Sanders would never squawk about his team is because he’s a Lion, through and through. He has immense respect for the Ford family, and that’s terrific. But had Sanders, one of a handful of tight ends in the Hall, played for the Steelers or the Cowboys or the Raiders, he’d have been inducted back in 1984 — his first year of eligibility. No question.
Now that Sanders is rightfully where he belongs, it’s time to think about other Lions players who might fall victim to their team’s ineptitude, when it comes to Hall of Fame consideration.
Wait. I’m still thinking.
There’s Lomas Brown. He played a solid left tackle for over 15 seasons. Chris Spielman, who might have been the best middle linebacker in Detroit since Joe Schmidt and Mike Lucci, might be worth a look. The Hall has never been kicker-friendly, but wouldn’t Jason Hanson be a worthwhile candidate? Herman Moore? Maybe not a long enough stretch of brilliance.
That’s about it, folks. Slim pickings, considering we’re talking some 40 years of Ford family ownership.
So enjoy the enshrinment of Charlie Sanders this summer in Canton. It’s likely to be the last such honor bestowed on any Lion in a hideous amount of time. Let’s put it this way: Charlie Sanders had to wait 23 years for Hall entry. But that wait may pale in comparison with how much time will elapse between his enshrinment and that of the next Detroit Lion.
Sad, but true, I fear.
Irony rained down on Super Bowl XLI like the, well, rain that rained down on Super Bowl XLI.
Let me get this straight. The NFL is reluctant to award Super Bowls to northern cities, presumably because of the weather perils. Yet the game itself is played in a dome whenever it’s north, and where the temperature is perfect, and there are no wind factors. So it was that last year’s tilt, here in Detroit, was played in perfect conditions, climate-controlly speaking.
But the league is in love with Miami, which hosted its ninth Big Game yesterday. And where the weather is always warm and sunny.
Right!
XLI resembled, at times, rugby, or Australian rules football. Five fumbles, I believe, in the first quarter. A steady downpour.
It’s sad that, after two months of training camp, four preseason games, sixteen regular season games and three weekends of playoffs, that the championship of professional football should have been decided in a rainstorm, when it’s clearly avoidable.
Huh?
That’s right. Of course nobody could have predicted such rain as that which soaked Miami yesterday, but that’s my point exactly: you can’t predict it. True, South Beach has had friendly weather, for the most part, during their Super games. And I can see where a warm weather city like Miami would get Super Bowl consideration, over and over again. But, as we saw while the Bears and Colts sloshed around, playing for Vince Lombardi’s Trophy, it can, and does, rain in south Florida from time to time, in February. On Super Bowl Sunday. Mother Nature was never much of a sports fan, I don’t think.
So why not place the rotation into the hands of cities that have weather-proof facilities?
First, let me say, I’d be espousing this, even if we didn’t have a dome in Detroit. It just makes sense. The folks who paid umpteen dollars for their game tickets were mostly miserable last night, either watching the action from TVs in the concourse, or otherwise getting soaked. So why not ensure that the game, at least, will be treated to lovely weather conditions?
The NFL is afraid of this, because such a plan would take some cities out of the rotation — specifically the ones that would appear to be tourist attractions. But isn’t the game the attraction? Last I checked, a bar is a bar — no matter whether it’s in Detroit, or Miami, or Pasadena. A party is a party. And we put on one helluva shindig last year, if you want to know.
I know football prides itself on being an outdoor game, with the elements an accepted part of the equation. NFL Films has endeared itself to the sport’s fans with their ethereal, dramatic homage to games like the 1967 championship, played in Green Bay in minus 15 degree weather. Frankly, I don’t think the legends of Dick Butkus and Jim Brown play out well in sterile domes, but I’d be willing to forsake that in order to see a representative product of the game in its biggest moment.
There wasn’t anything, truthfully, dramatic or captivating in watching the Bears and Colts drop passes, fumble snaps, or slipping and sliding around the turf. It didn’t evoke memories of Butkus or Brown after all. It was just … rotten football, played in horrible conditions.
The NFL’s biggest game deserves better than what Mom Nature can unpredictably deliver.
Don Shula’s logic is so perfect, just like his team was, that it’s an exercise in futility to argue against it, really.
“Until someone else goes through an entire schedule without losing a game,” Shula was saying on NFL Network the other night, his voice trailing off. No need for him to finish the sentence – I know where he was going with it. And he’s right.
There have been XL Super Bowl winners. There have been the Packers of Lombardi and Hornung and Starr. The Steelers of Noll and Bradshaw and Swann. The Cowboys of Landry and Staubach and then those of Johnson and Aikman and Smith. There have been the 49ers of Walsh and Montana, and Siefert and Young. The Broncos of Shanahan and Elway. The Redskins of Gibbs and company.
Terrific teams, all of them. Not only were they Super Bowl winners, they very often destroyed their outclassed opponents in the process. A fine argument could be made, in most cases, that each of them was the best team to play in a football game that had a roman numeral in its title.
“I’m biased, of course, but I kinda like what we did,” Shula said from Miami earlier this week, being interviewed by the eclectic mix of Rich Eisen, Marshall Faulk, and Steve Mariucci.
I kinda like it too, Don.
Shula was talking, of course, about the 1972 Dolphins. 17-0. No, that’s not a football score, that was their record. Nothing in the right hand column. A perfect 14-0 regular season, then a three-game sweep in the postseason.
Perfect.
(btw, the kid on the right is Shula’s son David, who would become an NFL coach himself)
It’s not without some sourness that I swallow the fact that Shula’s ’72 Dolphins are the best Super Bowl team ever, because they haven’t handled success with the same class that is carried around by their head coach.
You know the history, most likely. An NFL team dares to go undefeated for a considerable length of time during any given season, and the comparisons to the 1972 Dolphins pop up, like acne before the prom. And former Dolphins are interviewed, and they snarl and harrumph at the undefeated team.
“We’re the best,” former Dolphin says. “You’ll see.”
Then undefeated team loses the inevitable game, and in an orchestrated move, the former Dolphins gather for a champagne party, toasting their continued supremacy.
It’s not, frankly, the best example of “how to be a good winner” that you’ll ever see. Yet Shula’s old players celebrate it shamelessly. No humility. No sportsmanship.
It’s unseemly, really. For when players close in on career records of their still-alive brethren, you’ll see nothing as remotely arrogant as what the 1972 Dolphins engage in. I’m not a big Joe DiMaggio fan, for various reasons, but I don’t think Joe D. popped champagne and stood on the mountain top proclaiming his brilliance, whenever a player’s long hitting streak was snapped. Yet this is exactly what those Dolphins do.
Oh well.
But the logic of their coach is irrefutable. How can you place anyone ahead of a perfect team?
The score of Super Bowl VII was 14-7, Dolphins over the Washington Redskins. But it wasn’t really that close. Kicker Garo Yepremian’s slapstick pass after a blocked field goal was returned for a touchdown by Michigan’s own Mike Bass. And Garo took some abuse for it, yes he did. From his teammates, who looked at him cross-eyed for putting the inferior Redskins within a touchdown of threatening their perfection.
The irony of the Dolphins’ post-1972 insolence is that, when they were on top of the football world, their defense was nicknamed “No Name.” The message was clear: even a group of players who aren’t led by big-name superstars can band together and get the job done. To perfection.
But the No Name Defense helped form the No Class Team. But, then again, it’s No Matter, because I’m waving the white flag: the ’72 Dolphins do indeed trump all.
In 1985, the only Chicago Bears team other than this year’s version to reach the Super Bowl got off to one of those starts that threatened perfection. They were 12-0 when they visited, of all teams, Miami, on a Monday night. The Dolphins were 8-4, led by the young QB stud Dan Marino. They had appeared in the previous year’s Super Bowl themselves, so they weren’t chopped liver. But they weren’t favored.
Marino shredded the Bears’ vaunted defense, and the Dolphins won, 38-24. Frequently, the ABC Monday Night Football cameras captured images of the ’72 squad on the sidelines, wearing jerseys and as fervent as any shapely cheerleader but far more dumpy, cheering openly for the Bears’ defeat.
The pride for accomplishing something that no one else has, I’m fine with. Good for them. But the Renfield laugh that accompanies every loss that ends a team’s perfect season since then? My face contorts the same way it does when I take a shot of NyQuil.
Regardless, I am here to tell you that when you watch the XLIst Super Bowl, you’ll be seeing two fine teams indeed. The Bears with their studly defense and their maligned quarterback, and the Colts with their studly quarterback and maligned defense. Each deserves to be playing for the NFL championship, for sure.
But if you’re wondering where the winner will reside on the list of Super winners in history, you can debate all you want. Place them anywhere you want. Except on the top.
Because until someone goes through an entire schedule undefeated …
(Note: if the groundhog saw his shadow this morning, it means six more weeks of Super Bowl hype.)
The University of Michigan is, first and foremost, a football school. Always has been, always will be. Which is a shame for those who have toiled for the basketball, softball, and hockey programs — all of which have seen their share of glory, too. But nothing can top football at Michigan.
The supremacy of football at U-M also means stability at the coaching position, which isn’t the case at other universities where the pigskin is revered. Since 1969, the Wolverines have had three head football coaches. Which is how many the Michigan basketball program has had — since 1996.
Tommy Amaker, if you’ve been paying attention to anything printed in india ink in the newspapers, or overheard on the radio waves, or — gasp! — glowing on your CRT courtesy of the Internet, should have some pretty warm buns this morning. You know, sitting on the hot seat and all. No stability in that coaching job; not even close.
There was a time when that wasn’t the case. Michigan, in the 70’s and most of the 80’s and 90’s, had success, and coaching stability in Crisler Arena. Johnny Orr, Bill Frieder, and Steve Fischer were all in Ann Arbor for more than a cup of cappucino. There were some frequent trips to the NCAA tourney, and an NIT championship. The program sent players to the NBA with some regularity.
They were what Michigan State is now, basically.
But for whatever reason, after Fischer left amid a cloud of scandal in 1997, the words “Michigan basketball” have been almost an oxymoron. Brian Ellerbe came and went, and when he left, I believe there were still a bunch of people on campus who asked, “Who was that, again?”
Now we have Amaker, a Duke man, in his sixth season of mostly mediocre, comme ci, comme ca basketball. The NCAA tourney has been unchartered territory for the Wolverines. Pre-Big Ten records have been artificially bloated. The talent, experts say, has actually been decent. The recruiting is holding its own, for the most part. But not so much, the man in the turtleneck and blazer on the sidelines. The Duke man, Amaker.
It seems highly unlikely, the way things are going, that Amaker will be invited back for a seventh season coaching these Wolverine basketball players. Only a terrific second half of the Big Ten schedule, and some noise in the NCAA tournament, it says here, will be enough to save his job. Neither have precedence recently, so there you have it.
The other night, the Wolverines blew one to Iowa, at home. To a Hawkeye squad which hadn’t won a road game all season. Until they visited Crisler. A 20-1 Iowa run wiped out a double-digit Michigan lead. And, as usual, Amaker was left to face the media wretches who wanted to know, “Hey, what happened?”
Yes, there was a time when it was unfathomable that a Michigan basketball team could allow dregs like Iowa score a game-turning, 20-1 run on their own floor. Unfathomable until about, oh, ten years ago, when first Ellerbe, and now Amaker, have scratched their heads in folding chairs on the Michigan bench.
No success, no stability at coach. A new trend now, in Ann Arbor, when it comes to mens basketball. A trend that could spell the end of the Amaker Era, and the dawning of a new one, and from a Michigan man, to boot.
If I was AD Bill Martin, I might give Phil Hubbard a call.
Hubbard, a Michigan center from the late 70’s, has been working tirelessly in the NBA as an assistant coach. Just a thought, but I’d be willing to bet that Hubbard would listen to a Michigan overture to be their next head basketball coach. Provided they’ll need a new coach.
Odds are, though, that they will.
The players trudged off the basketball court, and one by one they were greeted by the team’s GM, tears in his eyes, as he embraced each one and gave a heartfelt pounding on the back. Except, the game was still going on, and in order to make it to Jack McCloskey, the Pistons had to walk past the bench of their vanquishers, the Chicago Bulls.
It was Game 4 of the 1991 Conference Finals, and the Bulls, the new kings of the court, were in the process of putting the finishing touches on a sweep, staging a complete and thorough overthrow of the basketball government. Going home would be the Pistons, two-time defending NBA champs. But they wouldn’t be going without one last middle finger, so to speak.
They left, one by one — Isiah Thomas, Bill Laimbeer, Vinnie Johnson, a few others — and without so much as a glance in the Bulls’ direction. The video images of Michael Jordan looking at his defeated opponents — the team he had tried and failed to beat in the playoffs three straight springs — with a look of incredulousness and bemusement, are priceless.
The Pistons, the Bad Boy Pistons, were painted, of course, as classless goons after the blatant snub of the victorious Bulls.
Last fall, over the telephone, I asked McCloskey — retired and living in Georgia — what he said to the players as they walked off the court that Memorial Day, 1991.
“I just thanked them, and told them how special they were,” McCloskey said, conveniently disregarding the planned and indignant walk-off. But then, he hadn’t planned it — the players did. Thomas was the suspected orchestrator.
The ‘91 Pistons were in their fifth straight conference final. They had won three of them, and were about to lose their second in that time frame. Their capitulation to the Bulls was blamed, mostly, on simply running out of gas after years of basketball played into June. The series prior to the Bulls in 1991, the Pistons survived a classic six-game semifinal with the Celtics, the last of those two teams’ great playoff battles.
The Pistons, modern version, have appeared in four straight conference finals. Their record stands at 2-2 in such series. Many believe, despite their recent pratfalls, that the Pistons should be there again, playing for conference supremacy, for a fifth straight year. It will be another test of endurance, playing basketball until late May, at least, and a year after fatigue was blamed for the conference finals loss to Miami.
This year’s Pistons, optimists will tell you, aren’t in the same boat, truly, as the 1991 team. They are slightly younger, and have a new player, Chris Webber, to inject some energy and confidence into their portfolio. And they have the chip on their shoulder of losing to the Heat last year. Optimists will tell you.
The pessimists, the ones with WDFN andWXYT on their cell phone’s speed dial, will tell you that the “window” is closing , and fast, and that this is the last hurrah. Chauncey Billups might flee as a free agent. The Wizards are better. The Cavaliers, even, are better. And watch out for the Bulls. Pessimists will tell you.
The truth? Somewhere in between, as always. There’s still time for the Pistons to jell and shake off these midwinter blahs. Still time to make a late run, and go into the playoffs with momentum, that ancient word. And also time to slip further back.
See? Somewhere in between.
Art Fowler has passed away, and so has the last tangential connection to Billy Martin.
Fowler, 84 when he died, was Martin’s pitching coach everywhere he managed, which explains why the resume mirrors his boss’s stops: Minnesota, Detroit, Texas, Oakland, New York.
Martin, who died on Christmas night in 1989, took Fowler along at every managerial stop, and not just for his skills at teaching the nuances of breaking balls and sliders. The manager needed someone to share a beverage with after the game, and Fowler was more than happy to fulfill that role. Art Fowler wasn’t just Billy Martin’s pitching coach; he was his drinking buddy.
Fowler in his playing days
There are still connections to Martin, but they have notoriety beyond Billy: George Steinbrenner, Whitey Ford, and Reggie Jackson, to name three, have lives and careers that are bigger than their respective laughs, tears, and blowups with the fiery #1.
But Art Fowler is gone, joining Mickey Mantle as another Martin crony that’s passed. And joining Martin himself, of course.
But Fowler was no clown dressed up as a pitching coach. His staffs were usually pretty solid, and typically they improved after Fowler arrived. Often they faltered after he left, perhaps an even bigger tribute to his abilities. Fowler’s staff in Detroit, in 1972, was supposed to be the weak link of a team that had the potential to contend. But it was the pitchers that carried the Tigers that season, while the hitters struggled. And the team won the AL East that year.
Fowler was a major league pitcher himself, and was a member of the 1959 Dodgers world championship ballclub. Also on that team was someone named Roger Craig, who turned out to be a pretty good pitching coach in his own right.
Art Fowler isn’t on this earth anymore, but you can bet he’s already hoisted a drink or two by the time you’re reading this, with his old buddy and boss Billy Martin.
Just not sure if that’s occurring above us, or below.
No Jimmy Kimmel at the Gem Theatre. No hordes of people in the Campus Martius area, enjoying ice skating and basic fellowship, rarely seen downtown. No “dress to the nines” parties sprinkled throughout metro Detroit. No live sports shows setting up their cameras and lights in area venues.
We’re in the dead of winter here, and there is no warmth of a Super Bowl to help with the thaw. Not this year. Maybe not ever again. Certainly not anytime soon.
I don’t know what it’s like in other big cities, this Super Week, but in the city where all the pomp and circumstance occurred last year, I feel a twinge of sadness.
It hit me, oddly, while watching the NFL Network the other night. The trio of Rich Eisen, Marshall Faulk, and Steve Mariucci were chatting up former head coach (and should-be president of the Lions) Don Shula. Makes sense. Shula. Miami. Trot out all the guests local to the host city. It was the same tact used last year, when various Detroit sports icons found their way on various sets.
But as I watched the NFL Network guys talk to Shula, with the conspicuous palm trees in the background, it hit home with me: we’re not hosting the Super Bowl this year, are we?
No. Very much no.
The city is experiencing the usual bitter cold, stark winter that blows into town every year — the Tigers still a month away from spring training games, the Red Wings and Pistons still three months away from playoffs. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay inside and watch … Super Bowl hype.
The same feeling as last year, really, but knowing that the hype you were watching was a 20-minute car ride away made it more compelling, somehow. And you might have brought along your ice skates, too, for good measure.
I guess I’m a little forlorn. Call it a Super Hangover. Post-hype syndrome. Whatever. But this Super Bowl has the feel of some other city taking what should be ours — even though we’ve only played host twice in 41 years.
I wonder why that is.
I was watching the Michigan State Spartans tussle with the Ohio State University Saturday night in basketball, and much of the talk seemed to return to the Buckeyes’ freshman center, Greg Oden.
It didn’t hurt that Oden had scored the Buckeyes’ first seven points, and it didn’t hurt when OSU began to pull away and thump the Spartans in the first half. Oden is a young beast that has begun to dominate his conference, the suspect Big Ten, and his team is ranked in the top five in the nation, despite playing in an inferior grouping of basketball schools.
Midway through the first half, ESPN went to a montage of collegiate big men from back in the day. Suddenly the screen was filled with slo-motion footage of college behemoths blocking shots, dunking, and otherwise terrorizing opponents.
Patrick Ewing. Hakeem Olajuwon. Shaquille O’Neal. These three were the behemoths shown in the ESPN montage. And, after the clips, a graphic, comparing the statistics of freshman Oden with those of the three Hall of Famers who appeared in slo-motion beauty, during their freshman seasons.
“And you can add Ralph Sampson in there, too,” analyst Dickie Vitale tossed in. “He had a sensational freshman season, as well.”
So there you have it. Oden is, after 20 games or so, already in the same class as Ewing, Olajuwon, and O’Neal. And you can add Sampson in there, too.
Some have already taken to call this year’s NBA Draft the “Greg Oden lottery.” The implication is clear: Greg Oden is too good, too overpowering, to wittle away his basketball playing time at a tiny college like Ohio State. He needs to be in the NBA – and soon!
Doubtless, Oden will be labeled with the cursed “can’t miss” tag. A shoo-in for NBA greatness. Why not, if he’s already as good as a trio of Hall of Famers? And Sampson, too. Bet the farm, Marge, because Greg Oden is coming into the NBA to dominate.
Can’t miss. Or can he?
I remember hearing about a kid with a funny name – Gretzky, I think it was – who, at age 14, was being touted as an NHLer, and not just any NHLer. A Great One. The hype about the youngster from Brantford, Ontario preceded him by a country mile. I sniffed. I mean, he was 14, for goodness sakes.
He lived up to the hype a little bit, though.
But I also remember hearing about a kid with a very normal name – Bobby Carpenter – in 1980, and he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. He was a hockey player from the east coast of the United States, and the words above his photo on the SI cover went something like this: And NHL scouts say that he’s the greatest U.S.-born hockey prospect that they’ve seen. Ever.
Bobby Carpenter made it to the NHL, alright, and was a serviceable player. But he wasn’t anywhere near great as a pro. He was no Wayne Gretzky, in other words, who by then was celebrating leaving his teen years by being the greatest hockey player in the world.
We love to anoint in this country. And we’re eager to lift the youngens onto pedestals, teetering them alongside the proven greats. Then we frown and deride them when they topple over, like Humpty Dumpty. Been doing it for years.
We’ve done it here, too, in Detroit.
We wanted to believe – Lord, did we want to believe – that a stud QB out of the University of Houston named Andre Ware, who’d broken a bajillion passing records in college, was going to turn us on with feats of chucking. And he did – of upchucking.
Ware was “can’t miss,” once. It was 1990, and the Lions were in Year Two of their Run ‘n Shoot offense – in which the quarterback has one running back and a boatload of receivers running around the field, trying to confuse the defense. And since the running back was named Barry Sanders, head coach Wayne Fontes figured he was off to a good start. He had the Run part down, in other words. It was the “’n Shoot” part that fouled things up.
Andre Ware, a “perfect” fit in the Lions’ system, since he ran a variation of it in college, held out of training camp until very late. And when he finally bothered to show up, he quickly proved that he couldn’t ‘n Shoot very good as a pro. Because you can’t ‘n Shoot if you can’t ‘n Throw it anywhere near a receiver.
Pistons GM Joe Dumars convinced us, in 2003, that we should all thank our lucky stars that the NBA’s lottery ping pong balls tumbled the Pistons’ way, enabling him to select – cue drumroll, please – Darko Milicic with the #2 overall pick.
Darko was “can’t miss” because Joe D told us so, and whatever Dumars says, the town usually believes. Myself included, truth be told.
Just wait until you see this kid Darko, Dumars told us through the newspapers and radio. He’s raw and unproven now, but he’s the real deal.
He’s “can’t miss.”
Sitting unchosen by the Pistons, after the can’t miss kid Darko, was Dwyane Wade – a bona fide “can’t miss” kid. But the Pistons did miss him, alright – they missed him by one selection. The Miami Heat, next up in the 2003 draft, snatched Wade up like jacks.
Today, Darko Milicic still struggles to find his game – as a member of the Orlando Magic. He has said publicly that his 2+ seasons in Detroit were mostly awful. But even though he plays a lot more in Orlando, he’s still nowhere near worth the #2 overall selection, unless the choosing was taking place on a playground during recess.
Oh, there’ve been more, of course. The can’t misses who somehow managed to, anyway. Of course, they haven’t all been bad. If you select enough can’t misses, you’re bound to hit.
I don’t know if Greg Oden will say so long to Ohio State after just one season, or not. But I do know this: whenever he decides to turn pro, he’s going to be an elite draft pick.
A kid as good as Ewing, Olajuwon, and O’Neal after just 20 collegiate games can only be one thing. Unless it turns out that he isn’t.
In the late 1970’s, the NBA Finals were shown on CBS … on tape delay. Believe it. This was the league’s place, before Larry Bird and Magic Johnson joined — conveniently located on each of the two coasts, and even more conveniently with two of the NBA’s most storied franchises. How the Lakers and Celtics snagged the picks to select those two players would be wonderful stories, indeed.
Anyhow, with those two players as star power, and with their teams facing each other almost every year in the Finals, the league was resuscitated.
The NHL, a case could be made, is at least as bad off as the NBA was, pre-Bird and Magic. Their finals aren’t shown on tape delay, but what’s worse — tape delay on CBS, or live on … Versus?
Gary Bettman’s league, too large and in too many cities that don’t give a puck about hockey, is in trouble. Big trouble. When ESPN tells you thanks, but no thanks — and because they feel they could do better by showing poker and volleyball — and when you’re paying NBC for air time, and when arenas are becoming more and more occupied by empty seats, and when you have an unbalanced schedule that keeps the young superstars out of big money cities (like Detroit) … well, you’re not exactly the darling of pro team sports. You’re not the NBA, in other words, post-Bird and Magic.
The NHL was lulled into a false sense of security in the 1990’s, when upstarts like the Florida Panthers and San Jose Sharks scored playoff upsets (the Panthers made it all the way to the Finals, in 1996), and attendance in those cities, and others, benefitted from the novelty factor. So Bettman got greedy, and placed franchises in Atlanta and Phoenix (via Winnipeg), and more recently, Nashville and Columbus. Cities whose denizens are probably prone to asking how the pucks get inflated.
The Pittsburgh Penguins, unable to be saved by the famous owner Mario Lemieux, might not be much longer for the Steel City. They need a new arena, badly, but the city is unwilling to spring for one. So in the age old threat, the team might go somewhere else — to some city who WILL afford them a shiny new hockey building. Kansas City has been mentioned (tried and failed in the mid-1970’s).
Ice hockey is, whether we choose to admit it or not in Detroit, a niche sport. It’s best sold to cold weather climates, and in places where there aren’t too many distractions. And how many of those cities are there, anymore? The NHL, under Bettman, enjoyed for a while expansion with impunity. The league enjoyed spreading the joy of big league ice hockey all over the continental United States. Bettman played Johnny Appleseed, and it worked for a bit. But to use another fable as an example, Gary Bettman’s NHL is like this: he’s the pied piper of Hamlin, only when he stops playing long enough to see how many people are following him, the only thing he runs into is his own shadow.
A fading shadow.
Talking to Mark Fidrych, you’re immediately beamed into cozy New England territory. You halfway want to look around you for cranberry bushes and lobster.
Fidrych, 52, was on the other end of the phone, regaling me with stories about that magical 1976 season, for an upcoming piece in Motor City Sports Magazine, and the Massachusetts lilt was prevalent, as always. But despite the accent, Fidrych considers himself a Detroiter at heart.
“Oh, for sure,” he said when I put the question to him. “I only spent six years there (in Detroit), but it’s like a second home to me. The people have always been real nice.”
What would you say, I asked, to the fans in Motown today?
“Thanks for sticking with me when I was up. Thanks for sticking with me when I was down. And thanks for sticking with me now.”
That’s all very nice, but I still think the thanks are owed by us, and not the other way around.
Fidrych created a spike in the interest in Tigers baseball at a time when we were smack in between two championship eras — that of the ‘68 heroes and the 1984 squad. He was a convenient side show when the rest of them weren’t much to look at.
Still, the Tigers sent three starters to the ‘76 All-Star game in Philadelphia: Fidrych, and outfielders Rusty Staub and Ron LeFlore.
Fidrych pitched in perhaps the most celebrated regular season game in team history, in terms of retrospect, when he faced the mighty Yankees on June 28, 1976. His record was 7-1, and by the time the night was over with, he was a national mini-icon. He shut down the Yanks on seven hits in a complete game, 5-1 victory.
When we spoke the other day, he recalled a conversation he had with teammate Tom Veryzer on the way to the ballpark the afternoon of that Yankees game.
“Tommy says to me, ‘Well, Monday Night Baseball, kid. This is gonna be beamed into your hometown. Mine, too.’”
Upon arriving at the park, Fidrych was struck by the “tons of people” milling about.
“I went to warm up, and there were so many people, I was like, ‘Wow.’ But then I just told myself that it’s baseball, like any other game. Let’s go out and get ‘em. And that’s what we did.”
Fidrych didn’t make his first start that season until May 15. Yet, he ended up with an amazing 24 complete games.
“They told me, when I made the team, that I would observe for awhile and then when they needed a fifth starter, I’d get a shot,” he said. Except that observe was “obsuv” and starter was “stahtah.”
The following spring, Fidrych hurt his knee shagging flyballs. (“I came down hard and heard a pop and then felt something ’slushy’ down there,” he says). Staub, who had warned him of such shenanigans, told him to go see the trainer.
“That’s when they told me I had popped some cartilage,” Fidrych said. The knee injury caused a slight change in his delivery, which led to shoulder problems that would ultimately end his career by 1980.
I asked him if he ever gets tired of talking about that incredible season.
“No, you never get tired of it,” he says. “That’s what the people in Michigan want to talk about. They tell me about this game or that game they saw that year. And then, you know, you just get into conversations.”
Thirty-one years later, those conversations are still going strong.
I thought Drew Sharp was supposed to be more on the ball than this.
How can he only just now, at the end of January, suggest something that was found in this space back in mid-November?
Sharp, in today’s Freep, bangs the drum for the notion of the Red Wings going after Peter Forsberg, who’s a diamond stick pin on the worn out, raggedy suit that is the Philadelphia Flyers.
Glad you joined me, finally, Drew — and the water’s fine.
Wayyy back on November 15, I banged this out for you faithful readers.
So now it seems that Sharp is finally coming around, and for the reasons that I suggested, some sixty or so days ago.
I’m not ragging on Sharp, though I’ve been known to do that on other occasions. I’m not even making fun of him. If anything, I thought it was amusing that he’s making this suggestion only now, even though the Flyers have been bad since, well, opening night.
Perhaps it’s because the NHL trading deadline is about a month away, and the talk is sure to heat up about who GM Ken Holland might go after. Perhaps it’s because we reached the All-Star break.
Regardless, it’s good to see Mr. Sharp joining the cause to pry Forsberg loose from the Flyers and put him into a Red Wings sweater.
But let it be known that the cause began here. Anyone want to challenge me on that?
Talking to Mark Fidrych, you’re immediately beamed into cozy New England territory. You halfway want to look around you for cranberry bushes and lobster.
Fidrych, 52, was on the other end of the phone, regaling me with stories about that magical 1976 season, for an upcoming piece in Motor City Sports Magazine, and the Massachusetts lilt was prevalent, as always. But despite the accent, Fidrych considers himself a Detroiter at heart.
“Oh, for sure,” he said when I put the question to him. “I only spent six years there (in Detroit), but it’s like a second home to me. The people have always been real nice.”
What would you say, I asked, to the fans in Motown today?
“Thanks for sticking with me when I was up. Thanks for sticking with me when I was down. And thanks for sticking with me now.”
That’s all very nice, but I still think the thanks are owed by us, and not the other way around.
Fidrych created a spike in the interest in Tigers baseball at a time when we were smack in between two championship eras — that of the ‘68 heroes and the 1984 squad. He was a convenient side show when the rest of them weren’t much to look at.
Still, the Tigers sent three starters to the ‘76 All-Star game in Philadelphia: Fidrych, and outfielders Rusty Staub and Ron LeFlore.
Fidrych pitched in perhaps the most celebrated regular season game in team history, in terms of retrospect, when he faced the mighty Yankees on June 28, 1976. His record was 7-1, and by the time the night was over with, he was a national mini-icon. He shut down the Yanks on seven hits in a complete game, 5-1 victory.
When we spoke the other day, he recalled a conversation he had with teammate Tom Veryzer on the way to the ballpark the afternoon of that Yankees game.
“Tommy says to me, ‘Well, Monday Night Baseball, kid. This is gonna be beamed into your hometown. Mine, too.’”
Upon arriving at the park, Fidrych was struck by the “tons of people” milling about.
“I went to warm up, and there were so many people, I was like, ‘Wow.’ But then I just told myself that it’s baseball, like any other game. Let’s go out and get ‘em. And that’s what we did.”
Fidrych didn’t make his first start that season until May 15. Yet, he ended up with an amazing 24 complete games.
“They told me, when I made the team, that I would observe for awhile and then when they needed a fifth starter, I’d get a shot,” he said. Except that observe was “obsuv” and starter was “stahtah.”
The following spring, Fidrych hurt his knee shagging flyballs. (“I came down hard and heard a pop and then felt something ’slushy’ down there,” he says). Staub, who had warned him of such shenanigans, told him to go see the trainer.
“That’s when they told me I had popped some cartilage,” Fidrych said. The knee injury caused a slight change in his delivery, which led to shoulder problems that would ultimately end his career by 1980.
I asked him if he ever gets tired of talking about that incredible season.
“No, you never get tired of it,” he says. “That’s what the people in Michigan want to talk about. They tell me about this game or that game they saw that year. And then, you know, you just get into conversations.”
Thirty-one years later, those conversations are still going strong.
I was watching the cute little Versus Network broadcast the Red Wings game last week, when they subdued Montreal, and Keith Jones, another of the jock-turned-talking heads on TV, raved after the game about defenseman Nick Lidstrom.
“Look at Nick Lidstrom,” Jones pointed out as the screen was showing us nifty effects that flashed Lidstrom’s image amongs the others in the freeze frame. “Watch him make this play perfectly, effortlessly.”
The screen then showed another play, and again Lidstrom was highlighted via the fancy shmancy, flashing locator.
“Here’s Lidstrom again. Watch how he breaks up the play and works the puck up ice, in one motion,” Jones gushed.
Then another play, this one showing us Lidstrom’s penchant for joining a rush.
Then it dawned on me. We’re so used to seeing Nicklas Lidstrom do his thing, do it “effortlessly,” as Jones correctly pointed out, that his greatness is accepted casually, and almost with some sort of entitlement.
Lidstrom’s greatness lies in the fact that we don’t even appreciate how great it is. How often have you seen Nick Lidstrom cough up a puck in his own zone? In his career.
He plays such perfect defense, so fundamentally sound, that he could very well be this city’s second Mechanical Man. That’s what they called second baseman Charlie Gehringer back in the day, because his infield play was so perfect as to be robotic.
Lidstrom doesn’t have Steve Yzerman greatness — the kind that thrilled and chilled and oohed and ahhed. He doesn’t have Gordie Howe greatness — the kind that was filled with legendary stories and a wink at the rule book.
But he has Nick Lidstrom greatness, which is a greatness category unto its own. I’ll spot you the five best defensemen you’ve seen in NHL history — and even those you haven’t seen — and I’ll take Lidstrom over any of them.
An annual event, almost: Lidstrom gets the Norris Trophy
Sorry, Orr, Harvey, and Pronovost. Move down a notch, Bourque, Pronger, and Coffey. Lidstrom is the standard bearer for those who patrol the blueline. How can he not be, when he is, at once, the best offensive and defensive defenseman on the ice, at any given moment? How can he not be, when kids are told to watch how he defends in his own zone, and also how he mans the power play? How can he not be, when he is able to deny great players scoring chances, without so much as laying a glove on them?
“I don’t know how he does it,” Red Wings coach Mike Babcock was quoted as saying a week or so ago. “He just goes and goes. He just plays perfectly, every night. It’s weird.”
Tonight, Lidstrom will take the ice as a starter in the All-Star game, his ninth. Typical of the great hockey player, he deflects the praise.
“It’s always fun to play with all the great players in the league,” he said the other day. Umm, and vice versa too, you can bet.
Nick Lidstrom is a perfect defenseman in an imperfect league, playing an imperfect game with perfection. The Mechanical Man, Part Deux.
And we shouldn’t need Keith Jones, bless his heart, to tell us that. But the fans in other cities should know, so Jonesy has my approval.
I had pancakes. That much I remember. And more. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more of that day came back to my recollection.
It’s the curse of the sports fan. To not be able to recall when you took your last shower, or what day the meatloaf was for dinner, yet to somehow manage to rattle off, forthwith, the order of scoring in the Lions’ 1980 season opener (a 41-20 win over the Rams; 0-6; 3-6; 10-6; 10-13; 10-20; 17-20; 20-20; 27-20; 34-20; 41-20. Trust me, it’s right).
Same thing with January 21, 1973. Thirty-four years ago. My first Red Wings game in person, in the old red barn known as Olympia, at 5920 Grand River (at McGraw). It was a Sunday, just like this year’s January 21st.
There were so many oddities about that day; I suppose that’s what’s helping to oil my wayback machine. To start with, they dropped the puck at the unusual hour of 12 noon. It was the NBC Game of the Week. And in the booth that day, working the network broadcast as an analyst with play-by-play man Tim Ryan, was former Red Wings great Ted Lindsay.
Because of the noon start, my folks stopped for breakfast at Big Boy. Not sure which one, but I’d lay a bet that it was somewhere on Michigan Avenue, because this was before I-96, and that was the way my dad usually drove into Detroit from our Livonia home.
So there were pancakes, for sure, along with the anticipation of seeing the players who I’d only known as small, red-uniformed figures moving around our television screen. But they’d be larger, much larger, and in their home whites. The home games from Olympia weren’t televised locally back then – just the road contests. I wolfed down my breakfast, wishing my parents would do the same so we could get there, already!
There was the escalator ride. I remember that. Olympia had this ridiculously steep, narrow escalator that must have risen toward the heavens at an angle of at least seventy degrees. I think if you rode the escalator at Olympia and leaned back even a smidge, you just might fall backward and topple everyone behind you like dominoes. And it was about three feet wide, it seemed. It was like taking a playground slide in reverse.
The day only got more odd, and more memorable.
My folks bought me a game program, and I was thumbing through it, milling about before we took our seats, when I spotted him. He was unmistakable – a pudgy, button face, but also with one arm missing, the result of a WWII injury. Budd Lynch, at the time the Red Wings’ radio and TV man, sharing those duties with Bruce Martyn. And only the best hockey broadcast team EVER, thank you very much.
I alerted my dad that Lynch was nearby. Either he or my mother approached him and asked if he’d sign my program (defenseman Larry Johnston on the cover; I remember that, too). I stood there, dumbfounded, dangling the thin book before him. It was evident he’d need help due to his disability, so I remember my mother snatching the program from my nine-year-old hands and placing it on a nearby bistro table so Lynch could sign it easier.
And there was that rich, baritone voice. I don’t recall what he said, but I remember how it sounded: why, just like on TV. Funny how that works. So he signs it and he’s gone. All these memories, and we’re not even to game time yet.
We took our seats, which seem to have been somewhere in the upper bowl, but not bad, kinda around center ice. The Red Wings started a goalie named Andy Brown, who was one of the last netminders in the NHL to play without a face mask. The opponents were the Minnesota North Stars.
I remember my dad kept telling me – on the way to the game and in our seats – that after pregame warm-ups, and just before the ice was cleared for the Zamboni machine, the players were going to skate around the perimeter of their end really fast. So I watched for that. He was right.
The game started, and Brown was awful. He gave up three goals in the opening minutes, and the boobirds were out. But they were replaced by cheers when coach Johnny Wilson lifted Brown for Roy Edwards, who I wanted to see play anyway. Edwards was one of my favorites.
The Red Wings chipped away at the deficit, and got to within 4-3, though I don’t remember any of their goals, strangely. In fact, most of my memories from that afternoon have nothing to do with the game itself. I remember Brown letting in a soft goal just before being replaced, and I remember the final moments.
The Red Wings pulled their goalie, and the puck squirted into the neutral zone. One of the North Stars players fired it toward the Detroit net, and I can still see, to this day, one of the Red Wings diving head first to stop it. But he was too late, and the puck found the open net. Game over. 5-3 North Stars.
The memories weren’t finished. On the way out of the stadium, in the concourse, there was a commotion. Some sort of a fight. The kind with flailing fists, the whole shot. A woman was consoling a child, saying something about getting “Uncle so-and-so out of there.” I figure the game ended around 2:30 p.m., on a Sunday. But obviously not too early to have consumed a few pops, which I’m sure led to the fracas.
My folks had bought me a commemorative Gordie Howe magazine from a couple years prior that they were still selling at Olympia. And I remember flipping through it as we edged into traffic, trying to find Michigan Avenue.
Oh, and Ted Lindsay and Johnny Wilson? Still around, and co-panelists with me for a hockey Roundtable in the November 2006 issue of MCS Magazine. Budd Lynch? Still the public address announcer for Red Wings games at Joe Louis Arena. The team won’t let him retire. Andy Brown? Not sure, but I shudder. To play goalie without a mask?
I’m pretty sure the pancakes were good, too. They had to be. They were seasoned with bursts of anticipation, which always makes food taste better. Especially for the fourth grade tummy.
The years roll off the tongue, when it comes to talking about Tigers baseball.
1968. Thrilling, come-from-behind victories. A hero every night. McLain and his 31 victories. A stunning comeback from a 1-3 hole in the World Series.
1972. Good pitch, no hit bunch who captured an improbable AL East flag on the season’s final weekend, beating Boston in Detroit. A heartbreaking, 3-2 series loss to the A’s in the ALCS.
1984. 35-5. Wire-to-wire lead. Willie Hernandez’s unconscious season. Gibby’s blast off Gossage to cap a 7-1 postseason. World champs again!
1987. An 11-19 start doesn’t portend what is perhaps the most thrilling final week of baseball we’ll ever see. A 3-1/2 game deficit with eight days to go. Then the Blue Jays go in the tank, and the Tigers win the division on the final day, behind Frank Tanana’s crooked, creaky arm that manages a 1-0 win over Toronto. Then, a flameout in the ALCS — probably because the team was emotionally spent.
These years are treasured by baseball fans in Detroit. And you can certainly now add 2006 to that list. But how does the following sound? The ‘69 Tigers. The Tigers of ‘73. The ‘85 Bengals. Those Tigers of 1988.
Not so magical.
The Tigers, 2007 version, have a chance to do something that hasn’t been done since, well, 1935. And that is to win consecutive American League pennants. It’s also the last time the Tigers qualified for the postseason in two straight seasons.
The winter caravan winds down today — that bus full of Tigers players, coaches, and media interlopers — and the reception at every stop for the two separate buses has been, as expected, quite audacious. The fans are still inebriated from last season’s success, and they’re treating their baseball heroes like … heroes.
It wasn’t always that way, of course. Even last year, despite the hiring of Jim Leyland as manager, skepticism reigned. Hope may have peeked out, like the groundhog on February 2nd, but instead of seeing his shadow and thus predicting more cold, dark winter, there was the feeling of a thaw perhaps happening.
“We won’t cheat you,” Leyland told one of the crowds yesterday. “We’ll put on a show when you spend your hard earned money.”
That, too, is different talk.
But this time the skipper has something with which to back up his words. He has a fine, talented team — a nice blend of youth and experience. Heck, even the youth is experienced. And playoff-tested. He has all those young pitchers, plus the veteran Kenny Rogers. He has a brand new big bat — the sometimes enigmatic Gary Sheffield. And he has more players coming, courtesy the suddenly prosperous farm system.
He has all these things, and more. The tools are in place for another playoff run.
But they were in place in 1969, when the Tigers returned just about everyone, including the ostentatious McLain, and finished 19 games behind the Orioles.
The Tigers of ‘73, another year older and with no young help on the way, kept things interesting until mid-August, when manager Billy Martin did his usual implosion and got the ziggy. The team limped home in third place.
The 1985 bunch, like their predecessors sixteen years earlier, pretty much returned the main cast of characters from the previous year’s championship roster. But there was no magic, and the Tigers finished a distant 15 games behind the Blue Jays.
The 1988 Tigers, sans Kirk Gibson, who fled to Los Angeles, were actually part of a multi-team race that nobody seemed to want. But a late season swoon hurt them, and they finished a game behind the Red Sox.
So not since the 1934-35 Tigers has a Detroit baseball team done the back-to-back postseason shimmy.
It should be pointed out that the ‘34 team lost the World Series, too. To the Cardinals, too.
The 1935 team beat the Cubs in the World Series.
Will history repeat, some 72 years later?
Well, the Cubs were active this offseason …
The years roll off the tongue, when it comes to talking about Tigers baseball.
1968. Thrilling, come-from-behind victories. A hero every night. McLain and his 31 victories. A stunning comeback from a 1-3 hole in the World Series.
1972. Good pitch, no hit bunch who captured an improbable AL East flag on the season’s final weekend, beating Boston in Detroit. A heartbreaking, 3-2 series loss to the A’s in the ALCS.
1984. 35-5. Wire-to-wire lead. Willie Hernandez’s unconscious season. Gibby’s blast off Gossage to cap a 7-1 postseason. World champs again!
1987. An 11-19 start doesn’t portend what is perhaps the most thrilling final week of baseball we’ll ever see. A 3-1/2 game deficit with eight days to go. Then the Blue Jays go in the tank, and the Tigers win the division on the final day, behind Frank Tanana’s crooked, creaky arm that manages a 1-0 win over Toronto. Then, a flameout in the ALCS — probably because the team was emotionally spent.
These years are treasured by baseball fans in Detroit. And you can certainly now add 2006 to that list.
But how does the following sound? The ‘69 Tigers. The Tigers of ‘73. The ‘85 Bengals. Those Tigers of 1988.
Not so magical.
The Tigers, 2007 version, have a chance to do something that hasn’t been done since, well, 1935. And that is to win consecutive American League pennants. It’s also the last time the Tigers qualified for the postseason in two straight seasons.
The winter caravan winds down today — that bus full of Tigers players, coaches, and media interlopers — and the reception at every stop for the two separate buses has been, as expected, quite audacious. The fans are still inebriated from last season’s success, and they’re treating their baseball heroes like … heroes.
It wasn’t always that way, of course. Even last year, despite the hiring of Jim Leyland as manager, skepticism reigned. Hope may have peeked out, like the groundhog on February 2nd, but instead of seeing his shadow and thus predicting more cold, dark winter, there was the feeling of a thaw perhaps happening.
“We won’t cheat you,” Leyland told one of the crowds yesterday. “We’ll put on a show when you spend your hard earned money.”
That, too, is different talk.
But this time the skipper has something with which to back up his words. He has a fine, talented team — a nice blend of youth and experience. Heck, even the youth is experienced. And playoff-tested. He has all those young pitchers, plus the veteran Kenny Rogers. He has a brand new big bat — the sometimes enigmatic Gary Sheffield. And he has more players coming, courtesy the suddenly prosperous farm system.
He has all these things, and more. The tools are in place for another playoff run.
But they were in place in 1969, when the Tigers returned just about everyone, including the ostentatious McLain, and finished 19 games behind the Orioles.
The Tigers of ‘73, another year older and with no young help on the way, kept things interesting until mid-August, when manager Billy Martin did his usual implosion and got the ziggy. The team limped home in third place.
The 1985 bunch, like their predecessors sixteen years earlier, pretty much returned the main cast of characters from the previous year’s championship roster. But there was no magic, and the Tigers finished a distant 15 games behind the Blue Jays.
The 1988 Tigers, sans Kirk Gibson, who fled to Los Angeles, were actually part of a multi-team race that nobody seemed to want. But a late season swoon hurt them, and they finished a game behind the Red Sox.
So not since the 1934-35 Tigers has a Detroit baseball team done the back-to-back postseason shimmy.
It should be pointed out that the ‘34 team lost the World Series, too. To the Cardinals, too.
The 1935 team beat the Cubs in the World Series.
Will history repeat, some 72 years later?
Well, the Cubs were active this offseason …
Terry Sawchuk, perhaps the greatest goaltender in NHL history, was actually, believe it or not, somewhat of a journeyman. Besides the Red Wings, Sawchuk played for Toronto, Los Angeles, and the New York Rangers. He did three different stints in Detroit.
Dominik Hasek is on stint #3 with the Red Wings, tying the famed Sawchuk and little Jimmy Rutherford for most different appearances on a Detroit roster by a goaltender. It can also be said that Hasek, lately, has been a journeyman, but in a different way. A retirement and a lockout separated him from the Red Wings, and in the middle of all that there was some time as an Ottawa Senator.
Some chuckled when Red Wings GM Ken Holland signed Hasek, who’ll turn 42 before the end of this month, to a contract last summer. It was after the team’s courtship of Eddie Belfour fell through.
And thank goodness for that.
Hasek is in postseason form; is he peaking too early?
Hasek, who just recorded his sixth shutout of the season Monday night against Montreal, is playing at a level that is playoff-ready. Until a hiccup against San Jose recently, his GAA was well under 2.00. Even now, it still leads the league at just a tad over that mark. He was a blatant All-Star snub.
The Wings, when they signed him, gave Hasek an incentive-laden contract. The salary was obscenely low, and the team protected itself, mindful of The Dominator’s funny groin, which has gone “pop” at the most inopportune of times in the past.
Now Hasek plays at the highest level, and the Red Wings have the best bargain in the league tending goal for them.
The night the Red Wings retired Steve Yzerman’s #19, I spent some time in the alumni suite. I asked Steve Duchesne, who won a Cup with Hasek in 2002 in Detroit as a defenseman, what he thought of Hasek’s play.
“Is he playing as well,” I asked, as when you guys won the Cup in 2002?”
Duchesne looked at the action on the ice below and paused for a moment.
“He could be,” he finally said, before adding, “but he tends to break down.”
The label, once applied, is almost impossible to remove. Sort of like a tattoo. And Dom Hasek wears the label/tattoo of “injury-prone”, like it or not, as sure as the back of a t-shirt.
The groin went pop in 2003, when Hasek came back to the Red Wings after a one year’s retirement. He was finished, around the new year. It went pop again last winter, after the Olympics. It finished his Senators career on a sour note.
So when the Red Wings inked Hasek after failing to sign the far less worthy Belfour, the groin jokesters were out in full force. They’ve been quieted now, but probably only temporarily. They won’t truly be silenced until Hasek makes it through a full NHL schedule, plus playoffs.
For what it’s worth, Hasek told the Versus Network after Monday’s win that he feels great, and that the care he took for his body in the summertime is paying off.
“I know I can play at the highest level if I stay healthy,” Hasek said.
Cue the jokes about the word “if.”
But stop with the groin cracks — at least for the moment.
Homerun hitters don’t take the bus. They’re Rolls Royce guys. Big-time RBI dudes aren’t the Greyhound type.
Gary Sheffield, though, is on the bus, and that’s the right place for him at this time, I do declare.
Sheffield, the Tigers’ prized offseason acquisition and homerun hitter/RBI dude, is with several of his new teammates as the club’s annual winter caravan makes its way across the state. He’s on the bus, just like everyone else, as he gets his first taste of meet-and-greet as a Tiger.
It’s nice to see Shef on the bus, because while most Tigers fans were joyous upon the news of his arrival back in November, the same ones, and the usual naysayers, tensed and held their breath a bit, too. This is because Sheffield has a reputation that precedes him as one who might start out warm and fuzzy, but who will inevitably turn bad, like cheese left out at room temperature. And often in Sheffield’s case, the Cheese has stood alone. Often because it’s smelled up the joint.
The annual caravan is a several-day tour in which Tigers players, coaches, newspaper reporters and other interlopers galavant across Michigan in big buses. In the past, it’s been mostly like Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show, with various Tigers managers playing the part of the show’s snake oil salesman. Hopeless drivel. Even last year it took on that feel, with new Tigers manager Jim Leyland on board as the snake oil salesman. Although, Leyland’s snake oil pitch was far more subtle and far more free of blarney.
This year, the Tigers don’t have to engage in Brother Love’s Show. They have the histrionics of the 2o06 season to recall, and can use it as the best sales pitch since the bread slicer. No blarney needed. No snake oil to hawk. Just good, fundamental baseball to pump, and a brand new Rolls Royce guy to show off.
And the Rolls Royce guy will sit in the bus. Right up front, probably, but in the bus nonetheless. A good start to a new year, I’d say.
When Chuck Daly coached the Pistons, he likened the job to managing twelve different corporations. He understood that there was a time to push, a time to pull back, and a time to simply let the players police themselves. It didn’t hurt that he had several deputies on the roster, like Isiah Thomas and Bill Laimbeer, to enforce the Pistons man law.
Flip Saunders, perhaps, doesn’t have the same deft hand as Chuck Daly did. But then again, not too many did when Daddy Rich was in his heyday. Certainly never in Detroit, and certainly not since Joe Dumars began hiring coaches and firing them, right on schedule, every two years.
Chemistry is the word, and it is perhaps the most overused, ultimately meaningless group of vowels and consonants in the entire lexicon of sport. And it has popped up in Pistons Land. Tayshaun Prince was the user of it last week.
The chemistry, Prince — the usually quiet-as-a-mouse Piston — said, is unbalanced. Can’t put his finger on it, but maybe not enough of this, or perhaps too much of that. Maybe not enough respect for the coach, and his system. Maybe too much complacency, again. Something.
Others disagreed with Prince’s assessment, uttered before two ridiculous losses to the Charlotte Bobcats and Atlanta Hawks, which join several other ridiculous losses this season. Lindsey Hunter, the most veteran Piston in terms of years of service, shrugged off the analysis of Prince as much ado about nothing. Cynics would say that even disagreements about whether there are chemistry issues to begin with is, by itself, a sign of discord.
Rip Hamilton has been awfully cranky, on the floor. But it makes one wonder if there is an edge off the floor, as well. Meanwhile, though, Hamilton scores relentlessly, through wins and losses. He is beginning to rack up technical fouls at a rate usually reserved for …
Rasheed Wallace, who has begun to complain sublimely about “things”.
“Just life, man. Life and basketball. Life is bigger than basketball. But just things that I’d rather not talk about,” Wallace said last week, talking to the reporters who asked him, basically, “Wassup?” It was after Sheed admitted to not being a happy camper.
Chauncey Billups, as you know, can leave the team this summer — vanish into the night — via free agency. But Denver, a supposed Billups destination, is probably out of the mix now that they’ve acquired Allen Iverson. Still, whenever a prized player can leave, it’s cause for concern. Read: Ben Wallace.
Nazr Mohammed is a square peg in a round hole, and is clearly confused and frustrated. Flip Murray wonders whether Detroit was a smart choice, and, frankly, vice versa. Others have appeared mystified by their ever-changing roles.
A month or so ago, I wrote in this space that Saunders must have that secure feeling, because he employs two former NBA head coaches on his staff: Terry Porter and Dave Cowens. And that may still be true. But navigating an NBA team through the waters of a sometimes meaningless 82-game regular season takes a special type of captain. But, as Daly so astutely realized, you need capable crewmen to keep everyone in line.
There are question marks, in 16-point font, about whether the Pistons have the cohesiveness that’s necessary to win big in the playoffs. There still seems to be, among my fellow media members, the feeling that Flip Saunders will be another in the ever-growing list of short-timers who’ve served as Pistons coach under Dumars’ watch, joining George Irvine, Rick Carlisle, and Larry Brown. The signs seem to point that way, I admit. Early playoff failure this spring might be the last straw.
Now the Pistons are set to bring Chris Webber into the mix, and maybe that’ll be some sort of salve. But minutes will be reduced for key players, like perhaps Wallace, or Mohammed, or Antonio McDyess. And reducing players’ minutes has never been a recipe for NBA harmony.
Saunders, it says here, has exactly 47 more regular season games, and however many playoff contests the Pistons participate in, to make a case for returning as coach in 2007-08. He works for a man who has a fetish for canning coaches on schedule, don’t you know.
Even the alchemist that was Chuck Daly was rumored to be run out of town, before the championship years. Certain players wore scowls on their pusses, and the ever-important chemistry was in danger. One of the sour pusses was worn by Kelly Tripucka, and he was traded, for Adrian Dantley, no less. Proof that you just might do anything to get rid of the unhappy basketball camper.
Joe Dumars hasn’t been one, though, to get rid of players to save his coach. So there you have it: 47 games, plus playoffs. Flip Saunders, whether you choose to believe it or not, is on the clock.
Think about this for a moment: The last time the Pittsburgh Steelers had to go searching for a new head coach, the Internet wasn’t around. The time before that, man hadn’t been on the moon.
It’s true.
The Steelers today are on a coaching hunt, and you’ll forgive them if they’ve hired a consulting firm to reacquaint them with the process. Like, for example, forget looking for resumes with watermarks, or telephone numbers that actually ring inside someone’s home. And not to be alarmed if there is no employment history dated before 1992.
It’s an unusual position the Steelers are in – for them – to be searching for a new head football coach, but there is that necessity now that Bill Cowher has stepped down after 15 years on the job (1992-2006). Before Cowher, someone named Chuck Noll prowled the Steelers sidelines – and for 23 years (1969-1991). That’s two coaches in 38 years, folks. The Supreme Court has more turnover. Much more, in fact.
Two in 38: Noll (top) and Cowher are the only Steelers
head coaches since 1969
Cowher is a Pittsburgh kid, through and through, and his jut jaw would make Scotty Bowman envious. Noll, to give you an idea, played football in the 1940’s, and he was just two coaches ago.
In Detroit, we boast of consistency at the placekicker position: the Lions have employed but two there for more than one game (Eddie Murray, 1980-1991; Jason Hanson, 1992-present).
Terrific. That and a dime will get you a cup of coffee, but that and millions of dollars has reaped nothing more than a single playoff victory. And none since Hanson’s arrival.
Both the Steelers and the Lions are family-run businesses, and both in blue-collar towns. The Rooneys have controlled the Steelers since their inception in the NFL back in the 1930’s, and Bill Ford Sr. wrangled sole ownership away from the consortium of over 100 shareholders back in 1964. Yet the Steelers are a model NFL franchise, while the Lions are a cautionary tale.
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So the Rooney family has a Super Bowl ring for each finger and their thumb, while Bill Ford Sr. and Jr. have never come close to even a pinky ring. Mostly, the only finger associated with their franchise has been the middle one.
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But hold on. The Steelers weren’t always winners under the Rooney name. In fact, for a very long time, they were very bad. The dregs of the league. Laughing stocks. Perennial losers. All that, they were.
But then Art Rooney stumbled upon Noll, an old messenger guard for Paul Brown in Cleveland. He hired Noll in early 1969, months before Neil Armstrong took his small step and giant leap on that big piece of cheese in space. Noll won his first game in 1969 – against the Lions, natch – and proceeded to lose the next thirteen. That landed a top draft pick, which Noll used to select QB Terry Bradshaw from Louisiana Tech, in 1970.
Yet Bradshaw, a Hall of Famer, was awful when he entered the NFL. In his rookie year, he threw 24 interceptions in 216 attempts – a pick for every nine passes. The fans in Pittsburgh called him names and hung him in effigy. People even thought he was too dumb to be a useful NFL quarterback. Sort of what they said about him when he entered broadcasting, though I’ve never considered that business populated by Rhodes Scholars.
The point is, the Steelers struggled to find their mojo. Big time. So when they hoisted the Vince Lombardi Trophy as Super Bowl winners for the first time, after the 1974 season, over 40 years of failure and being a league joke vanished. And, to be sure that it never returned, Chuck Noll’s teams went out and won three more in the next five seasons. They’re otherwise known as the Team of the ‘70’s.
The Lions are the Team of the 70’s, too. As in, 72 losses in their last six seasons. As in, the last decade in which their head coach compiled an overall winning record. But I digress.
The Rooneys didn’t get their act together until they hired Chuck Noll, who’d never been a head football coach. He won four Super Bowls. Then the torch was passed to Cowher, who’d never been a head football coach. He went to two Super Bowls, and won one. Along the way there were many divisional titles and playoff victories.
So the Rooney family has a Super Bowl ring for each finger and their thumb, while Bill Ford Sr. and Jr. have never come close to even a pinky ring. Mostly, the only finger associated with their franchise has been the middle one.
The Lions have Rod Marinelli as their coach, who’d never been a head football coach. But if that’s all you needed to have in common with Noll and Cowher to succeed, we’d see statues of Tommy Hudspeth and Marty Mornhinweg outside Ford Field. So obviously it takes more than that. But it’s worth stating that you can find a diamond in the rough, and it can lead you to studded rings.
The Rooneys didn’t find their football god until they’d owned the team for nearly 40 years. The Ford ownership passed the 40-year mark a couple of seasons ago. So there’s still hope.
There has been some scuttlebutt, probably started by a bottom feeder like a blogger or sports columnist (or magazine editor), that Bill Cowher is merely taking a year off, to reenergize himself, before plunging back into the shark-infested waters of NFL head coach. The scuttlebutt goes on to say that the Lions might be one of the teams interested in him when he decides to take that plunge. And that there might be mutual interest.
Hey, if you’re going to jump back in with the sharks, may as well do it in the most densely populated body of shark water of them all.
Another way to use the word “dense” when referring to the Lions.
Derrick Coleman tried it with the Pistons, but he was too old, too decrepit, too out of shape to make it work. The Tigers took a flyer on Alex Johnson, but he was too old, too decrepit, and too crazy to make it work. The Red Wings and Jimmy Carson tried to make a go of it, but the pressure was too much and Carson flamed out, falling far below expectations. Wearing Alex Delvecchio’s #10 didn’t help. The Lions brought DB Todd Lyght home, but he was another of those too old, too decrepit guys.
Now the Pistons appear to be on the verge of wedding Chris Webber in another of those “let’s bring the hometown kid home” things.
The above dudes, all (at least metro) Detroit-born and bred, eventually meandered their way back to Motown, presumably seduced by the idea of slipping on the pro jersey of the team they grew up watching. With the exception of Carson, though, they were all long in the tooth, and didn’t have much left in the tank.
Webber, at age 33, is in danger of being one of those players low on fuel. Yet he says he feels great after some surgeries on his legs, and why wouldn’t he say that, when he’s trying to attract suitors?
The Detroit Country Day product is an unrestricted free agent, and rumors are hot that he will land in Auburn Hills, becoming a Piston some 13 years after entering the league from the University of Michigan.
It may be harsh to say, but you can make a case that Webber is, at this stage, nothing more than a talented journeyman. But a journeyman nonetheless. Golden State, Washington, Sacramento, and Philadelphia have employed him. Now one more team will be added to the Employment History portion of his resume.
As soon as I heard the news that the 76′ers had bought out Webber’s contract, I said without hesitation, “I bet he becomes a Piston.”
This is the type of move that Pistons President Joe Dumars revels in — the signing of a popular player who won’t cost the team an arm and a leg. The risk of disturbing team chemistry, those ancient and overused words. But a possible upside that is too intriguing to pass up, especially at what will almost sure to be bargain basement pricing, in NBA terms.
Webber says his wish list includes Detroit, Miami, Dallas, and the Lakers. The usual suspects. Wouldn’t that be the wish list of 80% of the players who don’t play for those teams? But the deep throats in the league say he is leaning toward Detroit. His hometown. Another player past his prime who would like to experience the aura of playing for the team he watched on TV as a child.
Oh, I should mention that this scenario actually played out for the good, back in the day. The Tigers acquired pitcher Frank Tanana in 1985, bringing the Catholic Central grad home. And Tanana, despite being over 30 years of age, helped the Tigers win the AL East in 1987.
But there have been far more busts than jackpots, when the hometown kid returns as the vagabond pro.
The NBA, probably more so than any of the other three major team sports, is a tonic-filled league.
Feeling down, Bunky? Losing a few games? Take some Philly. Maybe a teaspoon of Atlanta. I heard some Charlotte mixed in with your orange juice could work wonders.
It’s a league of dregs, really. No real middle class. The Haves and the Have Nots.
The Pistons were a little wobbly going into Philadelphia last night, losers of four of their past five games. They’re playing without starting point guard Chauncey Billups. Tayshaun Prince was quoted as saying team chemistry was off kilter. Others denied it, but there you are.
And Rasheed Wallace was late for practice.
Coach Flip Saunders held Sheed out of the starting lineup against the Have Not Sixers, presumably as some sort of disciplinary measure for being late Monday.
Coming off the bench, Wallace played about 30 minutes, scoring eight points and snaring six rebounds.
“I’m straight,” Wallace said afterward. “I might even ask him (Saunders) to do it tomorrow. Maybe that’s one of the things that we need, just try something different.”
Right.
Even Saunders admitted in his postgame comments that he liked the way the team played with Wallace coming off the bench. Jason Maxiell started.
The Wallace “benching” is a non-issue. The reality is that the Pistons are in the middle of a glorious part of their schedule, where they play Charlotte (9-23), Atlanta (10-22), Boston (12-21), and Minnesota twice (17-15).
NBA Tonic.
That’s how you do it in pro basketball. Wipe the floor with the Have Nots, and try to break even with the Haves. I’m telling you, a team could chalk up 50 wins easily if they follow that recipe. Especially in the Leastern Conference, where the Have Nots mostly reside. Nine of the conference’s 15 teams are playing below .500 ball, and four of those are under .400. Two are even below .300.
The cure for what ails ya.
It’s the time of the season — the frigid cold of January, the playoffs months away — to exercise in experiments such as Rasheed Wallace off the bench. The players are bored. And what better time to tweak, with the Have Nots dotting the schedule over the next couple of weeks?
But circle next Wednesday, the 17th, on your basketball calendar. The Pistons host the Utah Jazz that evening. A real life Have. A Western Conference team, natch.
Even the defending league champs, the Miami Heat, are a Have Not, currently. The curse of the East.
All will be right again with the Pistons after they take their generous dose of league tonic this week and next.
Then they’ll be ready for Sheed to be late again. Maybe he should come off the bench against some Haves. It’s still January, after all. Experiment time.
There is no such thing, really, as “qualifying” for a Hall of Fame, in any sport. It’s a misnomer, so don’t let anyone use that word — “qualifying” — without challenge.
You can get elected into a Hall. You can be admitted. You can be enshrined. You can even be allowed.
But you cannot qualify.
There is no qualification, because there is no threshold — no minimum accomplishments to achieve that mean automatic inclusion.
This has never been more true than today, when voters who cast the ballots for Baseball’s Hall of Fame so overwhelmingly rejected the, ahem, “qualifications” of a man with 583 career homeruns, its effect should reverberate for years.
Mark McGwire is not a Hall of Famer today. Not even close. Only 23.5% of 545 ballots tabulated had his name on it. Seventy-five percent is needed to be elected, so he came over 50% shy of what was necessary to order his bronzed plaque in Cooperstown.
Normally, a ballplayer with almost 600 homeruns would cruise to election. He would be in the same percentile range as Cal Ripken, Jr. (98.5), and Tony Gwynn (97.6), both of whom were elected today. We would be talking about the dodos who left him off their ballots, rather than what we ARE talking about, which is how much this rejection is directly tied to the cloud of suspicion of steroid use that hovers around McGwire like that ball of dirt Pigpen from Peanuts comic strip fame walks among.
Cheater! Fraud! Lab experiment!
Uhhh…NO.
All those, and more, will be used to justify the dismissal of McGwire’s Hall eligibility like so much lint off a coat. He got what he deserved, it will be said, written, and otherwise argued. We don’t let cheaters into the Hall of Fame!
Yet Gaylord Perry is enshrined. And so overt was Perry’s admission of doctoring baseballs, done with a wink and a smile, that doubtless some voters chuckled in recollection of his exploits as they filled in his name.
There are others, too, whose likeness resides in the Hall, who engaged in various other shenanigans, like sign-stealing, more baseball doctoring, and magic with the insides of their baseball bats.
Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.
But McGwire’s transgressions — unproven, mind you — are considered to be so heinous that not even one-quarter of the voters felt obligated to grant him induction, despite his 583 homeruns.
No liars. No cheaters.
Not this time, anyway.
Mark McGwire is not a Hall of Famer, not today. Not even close.
Barry Bonds, beware.
There is no such thing, really, as “qualifying” for a Hall of Fame, in any sport. It’s a misnomer, so don’t let anyone use that word — “qualifying” — without challenge.
You can get elected into a Hall. You can be admitted. You can be enshrined. You can even be allowed.
But you cannot qualify.
There is no qualification, because there is no threshold — no minimum accomplishments to achieve that mean automatic inclusion.
This has never been more true than today, when voters who cast the ballots for Baseball’s Hall of Fame so overwhelmingly rejected the, ahem, “qualifications” of a man with 583 career homeruns, its effect should reverberate for years.
Mark McGwire is not a Hall of Famer today. Not even close. Only 23.5% of 545 ballots tabulated had his name on it. Seventy-five percent is needed to be elected, so he came over 50% shy of what was necessary to order his bronzed plaque in Cooperstown.
Normally, a ballplayer with almost 600 homeruns would cruise to election. He would be in the same percentile range as Cal Ripken, Jr. (98.5), and Tony Gwynn (97.6), both of whom were elected today. We would be talking about the dodos who left him off their ballots, rather than what we ARE talking about, which is how much this rejection is directly tied to the cloud of suspicion of steroid use that hovers around McGwire like that ball of dirt Pigpen from Peanuts comic strip fame walks among.
Cheater! Fraud! Lab experiment!
All those, and more, will be used to justify the dismissal of McGwire’s Hall eligibility like so much lint off a coat. He got what he deserved, it will be said, written, and otherwise argued. We don’t let cheaters into the Hall of Fame!
Yet Gaylord Perry is enshrined. And so overt was Perry’s admission of doctoring baseballs, done with a wink and a smile, that doubtless some voters chuckled in recollection of his exploits as they filled in his name.
There are others, too, whose likeness resides in the Hall, who engaged in various other shenanigans, like sign-stealing, more baseball doctoring, and magic with the insides of their baseball bats.
Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.
But McGwire’s transgressions — unproven, mind you — are considered to be so heinous that not even one-quarter of the voters felt obligated to grant him induction, despite his 583 homeruns.
No liars. No cheaters.
Not this time, anyway.
Mark McGwire is not a Hall of Famer, not today. Not even close.
Barry Bonds, beware.
There they sat, the two Lions football greats – one still playing, the other out of pads but still on the sidelines every Sunday. And they spoke at a watering hole, tossing down beverages of their choice.
“I can’t take it anymore,” the retired player, by now the team’s coach, said to the player/drinking partner, in so many words. “They’re killing me. Sometimes I don’t know what they want from me.”
More drinking, and more words of frustration and anger were spewed by the coach. It was a moment from a long-ago era. Can you imagine Bill Parcells complaining about Jerry Jones to a player? And over a beer?
The player listened to the coach and thought for a moment.
“Well, then, why don’t you quit?,” he asked the coach, who was once his teammate on some of the greatest football defenses ever seen in Detroit.
The coach looked the player square in the eye.
“That’s the stupidest —damn piece of advice I’ve ever gotten!,” the coach bellowed before taking another swig of beverage.
This was the scene, according to former Lions defensive tackle Alex Karras, as described in his book, Even Big Guys Cry. He was drinking some pops with coach Joe Schmidt, circa the late 1960’s. Schmidt was in the midst of his six-year run as head coach.
Little did anyone know that those six seasons would be looked at now, some 34 years after they ended, as the salad days of Lions football – post-championship years of the 1950’s.
Schmidt giving it to the Packers in his inimitable way
Schmidt was, in some folks’ eyes, the greatest Lion ever, as a player. The oft-credited inventor of the middle linebacker position. A Pittsburgh kid who fit in nicely in the shot-and-beer town of Detroit, where he played from 1953 to 1965. Where he won some championships, and knocked on the door of a few others. And he appears to be, as history grows kinder and kinder to him, one of the franchise’s greatest coaches ever, too.
The latter honor is bestowed accidentally, but there are always the numbers.
Schmidt coached the Lions from 1967 to 1972, supplanting Harry Gilmer, whose feeble two-year run ended with fans in Tiger Stadium throwing snowballs at his cowboy hat-attired head as the team ran off the field following a season-ending loss.
In those six seasons, Schmidt’s record was 43-34-7, plus a playoff loss following the 1970 season. In his last four seasons, Schmidt went 34-19-3. If a Lions coach accumulated such a record nowadays, the mayor’s residence would await him. Maybe even the governor’s mansion.
He didn’t quit that time, as described above, sitting and sharing some drinks with Karras, his old teammate. Something caused Schmidt to stick it out. But in January, 1973, Joe Schmidt told the Lions to take their job and shove it. Right around this time of the month, in fact.
General managers of our teams have been one of two types, it seems. The wildly successful, walk-on-water guys whose every move sails through unquestioned by even the scalawags talking into cell phones in their cars to the sports talk radio stations. Or, they are the objects of disdain, disgust, and contempt. No in-between.
Russ Thomas was the latter type. Oldtimers like me can’t help but chuckle during this current era of disdain, disgust, and contempt with Lions president and de facto GM Matt Millen, for we never thought another Lions executive could turn a town off like Russ Thomas turned everyone off during his decades-long run as Lions GM. But we were wrong.
Thomas was cheap. He was stubborn. He didn’t get along with coaches. He was abhorred by players. And his teams rarely were anything more than a plodding, .500 ballclub. Yet he was in the good graces of owner Bill Ford Sr., and thus was able to retire and leave the team on his own accord, after the 1989 season.
Sound ghoulishly familiar, at least some of it?
Schmidt was stubborn, too, and a damn good football coach. The records during the seasons from 1969 to 1972 were, as follows: 9-4-1; 10-4; 7-6-1; and 8-5-1. So it’s reasonable to assume he had a firmly-planted cleat as Lions coach.
But Schmidt couldn’t abide Thomas, and it’s presumed that he was one of the “they” Schmidt was complaining about to Karras that night over drinks.
After the ’72 season, Schmidt believed the team needed A,B, and C. Thomas must have thought they needed D, E, and F, because the two were butting heads. Schmidt took his beefs to Ford, and basically issued an ultimatum, according to those who might have known: Me, or him (Thomas).
Ford opted for him.
Ziggy is the word, and Joe Schmidt is credited with coining it. It means a coach got fired. And it’s distinctly a Detroit word.
So the apparent loser of an internal power struggle, Schmidt committed a self-ziggy. He quit the Lions, shiny record and all, and got out of football entirely.
You know the rest, for the most part.
It is Schmidt, along with – gasp! – Wayne Fontes who rank #2 and #1, respectively, in career coaching wins accumulated after 1964, when Ford bought out the consortium of over 100 partners and became sole owner. But it is only Schmidt who is the possessor of a winning record, of anyone who wasn’t an interim coach, in that time.
Had Ford somehow been able to broker an arrangement back in 1973 that would have enabled Schmidt to remain as coach of the team, I believe he – Schmidt – would have been coach here well into the 1970’s, at least. And I think winning football would have been the order of the day.
Today the Lions have Rod Marinelli, and I still am among those who believe he can be the right guy, if provided with the proper talent. In Schmidt’s six seasons as Lions coach, the team won 43 games. In Millen’s six seasons as de facto GM, the team has won 24 games. But Millen is in no power struggle with his head coach. And even if he were, it would be wiped out by his close bond with Ford.
Just like Russ Thomas’ close bond with Ford, the strength of which led to the departure of the greatest Lions coach since the Kennedy administration.
We just didn’t know it at the time.
I don’t know when Red Wings defenseman Chris Chelios is going to be back in the lineup, and frankly I don’t care. The horrific events that occurred at his Cheli’s Chili Bar Tuesday morning, the details of which are even worse than I imagined, render the question of his return to game play absolutely moot.
Employees Mark Barnard and Megan Soroka were brutally stabbed to death Tuesday morning by, police allege, a 17-year-old fired employee, Justin Blackshear, who had gone to the restaurant asking for his job back. Blackshear has an 18-year-old pregnant girlfriend, who herself was also fired from Cheli’s.
According to police reports, Blackshear got into a fight with cook Barnard, stabbed him ten times, then lured Soroka to the scene, where he then stabbed her multiple times.
Soroka, it was revealed in the reports, had been speaking with Chelios via telephone just minutes before she was killed. She reportedly told her boss that Barnard was in a fight, and that she was going to “check on him.”
So Chris Chelios was the last person to speak to Soroka before she was murdered.
Hockey is hardly important this morning to him, and for who knows how many more mornings going forward.
We at Motor City Sports Magazine sat on pins and needles all day Tuesday, because the IDs of the victims weren’t released, and we know one of the female managers at Cheli’s. Was she the one who was killed? It wasn’t a very pleasant afternoon.
But the fact that Soroka was not our contact did not make this crime any less tragic, of course.
The week has been unkind in the world of sports. Denver Broncos cornerback Darrent Williams was slain in a drive-by shooting last Sunday.
Understandably, Red Wings management is giving Chelios however much time he needs before he chooses to rejoin the team. Currently he’s helping police in their investigation.
Mark Barnard was 52. Megan Soroka was 49.
It’s safe to say that Detroit doesn’t exactly feel like Hockeytown to Chris Chelios right now. But in time it will again, most likely. The ice and pucks will someday be a welcome elixir for the 22-year NHL veteran.
There is a life to still lead, after all — even if it’s a drastically changed one.
Been reading a terrific book that I picked up at Barnes and Noble the other day.
It’s called The Big Book of Baseball Blunders, by Rob Neyer. In it, Neyer takes us through the 20th century chronologically, devoting several pages each to some of the bonehead moves, both on and off the field, in the game’s history.
It’s one of those books — and I love these — that you can open up wherever you want and start reading. It’s light on pertinent photos, but that’s OK, because the meat of the book is the text, the storytelling.
Neyer often uses a statistic, developed by Bill James, called Win Shares — a pseudo-scientific method of determining how many wins a player is worth to his team. Three Win Shares is equal to one team win. He also likes to attach BA/OBP/SLG, in that order and with the slashes, to players’ worth. But that’s it for the number crunching, for the allure of Blunders is Neyer weaving his own opinions with historical fact, to tell us why the blunder in question is worthy of inclusion.
Some of the obvious ones are there, like Red Sox manager Grady Little leaving Pedro Martinez in too long in Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS; Billy Martin overworking his 1980 Oakland A’s starting rotation; and the Red Sox trading Sparky Lyle for Danny Cater. But there are so many that even the most fervent baseball afficionado probably isn’t aware of. There are also delicious sections on managers that shouldn’t have been managers; teams that missed a pennant by one game, and why; and other decisions that should never have been made.
Blunders retails for $16, and is an oversized paperback. I heartily recommend it!
The denials came, fervent and repeated. The college coach wanted the ink stained wretches and TV talking heads to know that he was no way, no how, leaving his current position to take another, at a university in the southwest. Then one day, just 24 hours after the last denial, the news was broken: college coach was leaving, to that opportunity in the desert.
A few years later, the same college coach, tanned now but perhaps restless again, issued more of the same denials. And the same boobs that report such things bought it again, though there were some more skeptics than before.
NO! I am NOT leaving the desert to enter the NFL as a head coach.
The denials were being spewed, right up until the time the press conference was being announced that the NFL team had found its new coach. Then the denying coach hopped a plane and went from the heat of the desert to the cold of a Michigan winter.
This was Darryl Rogers, back in the 1980’s. First he said he wasn’t leaving MSU for Arizona State. Then he did anyway. Next, he said he wasn’t leaving Arizona State for the Detroit Lions. Then he did anyway. In neither case did our teams come out ahead on the deal.
I couldn’t help but think of Rogers and his false denials — the second of which was uttered even as the presser was being arranged to announce his hiring by the Lions — as the latest Nick Saban drama played out.
Saban explains himself to Dolphins owner Wayne Huizenga
Here I thought we’d heard the last of Saban rumors for awhile when he accepted the job as Miami Dolphins head coach, before the 2005 season. Well, hoped was more like it.
Saban is a fine coach, but I’m tired of him. Tired of him being rumored for every stinking NFL job when he was in college. Tired of him being rumored, once he left for the NFL, for every stinking college job. Football’s Larry Brown.
Now he’s gone again, off to Alabama, despite those same indignant, repeated denials — similar to those issued by Rogers (who wasn’t near the coach that Saban is) — uttered, once again, almost right up to the moment he penned his signature on the Crimson Tide contract.
Nick Saban, like Darryl Rogers 20+ years before him, lied. To everyone. Forget the media, because who doesn’t lie to us? He lied to his players, his owner, and who knows who else. He signed an eight-year contract, but what does that matter, really? Saban had three years left on his Dolphins contract, after all. So how long before Saban is, once again, bantied about as being the perfect choice for another NFL team?
I’m already bracing myself.
Maybe Saban left the Dolphins because he feels that, deep down, he’s a college coach, not an NFL coach. Fine. But he didn’t even feed us the standard non-denial/denial, which if he had, wouldn’t make him look like such the false prophet that he appears to be this morning.
No, I’m not leaving! No way! No how!
Until I sign my next contract, at the next locale, that is.