Sorry, I'm just feeling it
You would think that in a summer like this, as devout a Tigers fan as people who know me know, that I would’ve prattled on since Opening Day about the professional baseball team playing their home games in Detroit and what a wonderful season it is having. I find it personally remarkable that it took this long, but then again it seems like I have a delayed reaction to hubbub these days. Make no mistake, I would probably put up a good fight for naming a baby “Olde English D” I’m so into my Detroit baseball [hey, fuck off, they can call him D for short alright?], so think less than once about where this baseball team occupies my heart.
I waited until this year’s All-Star Break, where just last year the physical bells and whistles went off in Detroit with the midseason classic and its hype ran rampant in a city poised to host a Super Bowl seven months later. For the first half of the 2006 season, I waited for the slide to begin, for the 9-game losing streak, for the team to go a good 3-16 against the Twins, Red Sox, Yankees, Indians, A’s, White Sox and Mariners. But it didn’t happen, so I exhaled a little. Don’t get me wrong, it is with pure joy that since the second week of the season I can open my sports section (which I’ve done pretty much every day since I was 13), look at the American League standings and see my beloved Tigers in first place. That could have lasted a week, maybe three, and I would have gladly smiled, enjoyed the view and then let the rest of the season play out, as tepid base running, flaccid hitting and a general aversion to completing routine plays and showcasing rudimentary defensive basics took over, and the Tigers drooped to 24 games out of the first place.
But the break came and went, and Detroit is still in first place. And it looks like they have this “we’re taking on all comers” kind of approach in a whiskey soaked, dirt-ass roadhouse parking lot fistfight mentality. And even as of today, July 25, 2006, they continue to beat the others down. They are 67-32, which in itself is an unexpected situation. The fact that Detroit is playing important games as we head into August is the perfect salve for this city of stricken fans who haven’t seen meaningful baseball since 1987. Detroit has the best road record at 34-15. They took a critical series against the White Sox, the defending World Series chumps with which they’ve jockeyed near the top of the division all season. They have 10 more games with Chicago. The last three were sellouts. Speaking of which, Detroit has sold out Comerica Park eight of the last 10 home games. That’s never happened since the park was built in 2000. And yes, they lead the majors with their ERA, they are in the middle of the pack for hitting, they are playing incredibly brilliant smart ball, they bunt, sacrifice and muscle their way around the basepaths, they break up double plays with a ferocious fluidity that’s as precision as it comes, and they remain a humble, focused group of players, saying and doing all of the right things. But when winning is contagious, strange little things start to happen. Like last night when Detroit scored five runs in the first inning en route to a 9-7 win against Cleveland, of course, in Cleveland. That burst was third straight game in which they scored 5 in the first, the first team to do so since 1891. That kind of shit.
Fans and pundits are now looking to the July 31 trade deadline. Who will the Tigers sign? Owner Mike Illitch said in the off-season that if this team was anywhere near contention by midseason, then he would “spend” to give his manager whatever he needed. Well, Mike, your team is in first place, 7 1/2 games ahead of Chicago. I would say that qualifies as contending. But the names being bandied about are all wrong. As wrong as a thong. Alex Rodriguez? That guy isn’t going anywhere and I’d shit if I saw him wearing a Detroit uni. Bobby Abreu? Philly management would be idiots to let that guy go. Yeah, I know, he jacked 40-something home runs out of Comerica last year during the HR derby, but people forget it was a hot night and those balls were being lobbed into him. Alfonso Soriano’s name seems to be the most prominently mentioned as Detroit’s big savior signee. Oh, he wants out of Washington alright, which was evidenced in his little bitch pout fest at the beginning of the season, when the man who makes millions every year to run around in the sun was upset about being put in the outfield. He actually threatened to sit out games until Frank Robinson sat his ass the fuck down and said “son, this pissing match is a losing one on your end. Get your ass in that outfield, nowski.” Is that the kind of character you would want in your clubhouse or in your dugout? I say hells no. They needed a left-handed batter for the better part of the season. Well, he’s back. Dmitri Young, fresh out of rehab (but still facing misdemeanor domestic assault charges for an incident in Birmingham) and a minor league assignment, with the scabs healing on the back of his right hand where he has a HUGE Alcoholics Anonymous logo tattooed, is now back with the club and if he hits anywhere near his potential, we could have a bonus the rest of the season.
And what a season it has been, but it would not be this way if not for our stealth pitching. In the off-season the club signed veteran lefty Kenny Rogers and former Tiger Todd Jones for relief purposes. Everybody winced and bitched. I did, too. And while I still think Rogers is sort of a redneck hothead, he is 11-3 with and ERA under 4. And Jones, while he’s blown some critical games, is still fourth-best in the American League saves category with 26. But like the rest of the roster and the season played out so far, little nuances add to the luster of this phenomenal season. Joel Zumaya? He threw a 103-mph fastball the other day at Oakland’s Nick Swisher, who, when asked about it after the game, said “When he’s throwing like that, you’re basically going on sound at that point.” At 100 mph, it takes 3/10 of a second to get to home plate, which means you have about 7/16 of a second to decide when you’re going to swing. Good luck with that. Rookie Justin Verlander is 12-4 with a 2.77 ERA and could be Detroit’s first Rookie of The Year since Sweet Lou Whittaker in 1978 and Mark “The Bird” Fidrych in 1976. Verlander becomes an instant legend in this town. Jeremy Bonderman, who stepped aside in the ace role to make room for Old Man Rogers, is steady (despite his formula for giving up three or four runs within the first four innings and then fanning nine, leaving in the 7th for the win) at 11-4. Three of Detroit’s five starters could end the 2006 season with anywhere from 16 to 18 wins. Middle relief pitcher Jamie Walker, long a disappointment in my eyes, is crushing this year, with a 1.20 ERA in 30 innings. Mike Maroth’s elbow fried earlier this season and the club called up Zach Minor. He’s 6-2.
The bats are crazy. Pudge is hitting .315, Ordonez .304, and Guillen .302. With runners in scoring position Placido Polanco is batting .400. Marcus Thames (filling in nicely for Young) and Brandon Inge (whose career was called “over” by Jim Rome the day Detroit signed Pudge) is not only co-leading the team with 19 home runs, but he’s playing the sickest defense at third base this city has seen since Tommy Brookens. But, on a critical note, I could do without all of the strikeouts. Granderson (109), Shelton (95), Inge (84) could stand to focus at the plate and stop swinging at fucking garbage pitches. Those kind of K’s make you trade bait, boys.
It’s exciting, dare I say, refreshing to see the parking lots around the stadium filled to capacity and charging double their normal rate. The concession lines are packed and the crowd is really getting into it, even if most of them are fair-weathered fans. I’m getting ticket requests now from friends like I’m a fucking Ticketmaster kiosk or something. Funny how nobody was asking me for shit when Detroit was losing 119 games just two seasons ago. And you know what? I was at more games that season than I’ve been to this season. Because, you know, I care and all. I make the effort, even when it’s not popular, cool or remotely sexy to do so. I don’t know, I just think that’s what REAL people do. Yes, the babe factor has shot through the roof at Comerica, which is a good thing, trust me. But the gals with the good skin and nice tits, and the boys in their chi-chi shirts covering up their tanned and toned torsos will be back at the cosmetic surgery centers, ultralounges and golf courses the fucking nanosecond Detroit baseball is not trendy or popular, which is also fine. Winning is contagious and it spreads to the fans, but when you have a sellout stadium on a Saturday night in July, in a city starved for anything remotely positive on the baseball landscape, the feeling is what your laughably marginal newspaper sports columnist would call “palpable.” That’s right Rob Parker, you fucking hack, I’m taking a shot at you. It is a feeling without a fitting description, the vibe being thrown around Comerica Park on game nights.
And it’s not just there, either. It’s in the homes with a kid watching a winning Tigers team for the first time in his life. Ever. It’s on the beat-up clock radios in a Hazel Park home’s garage with some dude wrenching on his rig with a couple of buddies and some cold ones. It’s in the hearts of the old-timers, who remember 1934, the dads and grandfathers who were my age with 1968 went down. It’s very clearly in the fella in the car next to me, banging his fist on the steering wheel because Craig Monroe just hit a two-out, run-scoring double. It will be in the city, loud and motherfucking clear when Detroit hosts its first playoff game since the ’87 season, the year I graduated high school, seemingly and also fittingly, a lifetime ago. And it will be in me and Corbett, sitting in our season ticket seats for the first pitch. It could all go away tomorrow. The slide could start, it could be the biggest choke job since the Yankees two seasons ago, it could be as predictable as Steve Howe, all methed up to the sky, driving his truck into a pole. It could all dry up by the last game of the season and I’d still be content because I had a chance to say it all right here.
I waited until this year’s All-Star Break, where just last year the physical bells and whistles went off in Detroit with the midseason classic and its hype ran rampant in a city poised to host a Super Bowl seven months later. For the first half of the 2006 season, I waited for the slide to begin, for the 9-game losing streak, for the team to go a good 3-16 against the Twins, Red Sox, Yankees, Indians, A’s, White Sox and Mariners. But it didn’t happen, so I exhaled a little. Don’t get me wrong, it is with pure joy that since the second week of the season I can open my sports section (which I’ve done pretty much every day since I was 13), look at the American League standings and see my beloved Tigers in first place. That could have lasted a week, maybe three, and I would have gladly smiled, enjoyed the view and then let the rest of the season play out, as tepid base running, flaccid hitting and a general aversion to completing routine plays and showcasing rudimentary defensive basics took over, and the Tigers drooped to 24 games out of the first place.
But the break came and went, and Detroit is still in first place. And it looks like they have this “we’re taking on all comers” kind of approach in a whiskey soaked, dirt-ass roadhouse parking lot fistfight mentality. And even as of today, July 25, 2006, they continue to beat the others down. They are 67-32, which in itself is an unexpected situation. The fact that Detroit is playing important games as we head into August is the perfect salve for this city of stricken fans who haven’t seen meaningful baseball since 1987. Detroit has the best road record at 34-15. They took a critical series against the White Sox, the defending World Series chumps with which they’ve jockeyed near the top of the division all season. They have 10 more games with Chicago. The last three were sellouts. Speaking of which, Detroit has sold out Comerica Park eight of the last 10 home games. That’s never happened since the park was built in 2000. And yes, they lead the majors with their ERA, they are in the middle of the pack for hitting, they are playing incredibly brilliant smart ball, they bunt, sacrifice and muscle their way around the basepaths, they break up double plays with a ferocious fluidity that’s as precision as it comes, and they remain a humble, focused group of players, saying and doing all of the right things. But when winning is contagious, strange little things start to happen. Like last night when Detroit scored five runs in the first inning en route to a 9-7 win against Cleveland, of course, in Cleveland. That burst was third straight game in which they scored 5 in the first, the first team to do so since 1891. That kind of shit.
Fans and pundits are now looking to the July 31 trade deadline. Who will the Tigers sign? Owner Mike Illitch said in the off-season that if this team was anywhere near contention by midseason, then he would “spend” to give his manager whatever he needed. Well, Mike, your team is in first place, 7 1/2 games ahead of Chicago. I would say that qualifies as contending. But the names being bandied about are all wrong. As wrong as a thong. Alex Rodriguez? That guy isn’t going anywhere and I’d shit if I saw him wearing a Detroit uni. Bobby Abreu? Philly management would be idiots to let that guy go. Yeah, I know, he jacked 40-something home runs out of Comerica last year during the HR derby, but people forget it was a hot night and those balls were being lobbed into him. Alfonso Soriano’s name seems to be the most prominently mentioned as Detroit’s big savior signee. Oh, he wants out of Washington alright, which was evidenced in his little bitch pout fest at the beginning of the season, when the man who makes millions every year to run around in the sun was upset about being put in the outfield. He actually threatened to sit out games until Frank Robinson sat his ass the fuck down and said “son, this pissing match is a losing one on your end. Get your ass in that outfield, nowski.” Is that the kind of character you would want in your clubhouse or in your dugout? I say hells no. They needed a left-handed batter for the better part of the season. Well, he’s back. Dmitri Young, fresh out of rehab (but still facing misdemeanor domestic assault charges for an incident in Birmingham) and a minor league assignment, with the scabs healing on the back of his right hand where he has a HUGE Alcoholics Anonymous logo tattooed, is now back with the club and if he hits anywhere near his potential, we could have a bonus the rest of the season.
And what a season it has been, but it would not be this way if not for our stealth pitching. In the off-season the club signed veteran lefty Kenny Rogers and former Tiger Todd Jones for relief purposes. Everybody winced and bitched. I did, too. And while I still think Rogers is sort of a redneck hothead, he is 11-3 with and ERA under 4. And Jones, while he’s blown some critical games, is still fourth-best in the American League saves category with 26. But like the rest of the roster and the season played out so far, little nuances add to the luster of this phenomenal season. Joel Zumaya? He threw a 103-mph fastball the other day at Oakland’s Nick Swisher, who, when asked about it after the game, said “When he’s throwing like that, you’re basically going on sound at that point.” At 100 mph, it takes 3/10 of a second to get to home plate, which means you have about 7/16 of a second to decide when you’re going to swing. Good luck with that. Rookie Justin Verlander is 12-4 with a 2.77 ERA and could be Detroit’s first Rookie of The Year since Sweet Lou Whittaker in 1978 and Mark “The Bird” Fidrych in 1976. Verlander becomes an instant legend in this town. Jeremy Bonderman, who stepped aside in the ace role to make room for Old Man Rogers, is steady (despite his formula for giving up three or four runs within the first four innings and then fanning nine, leaving in the 7th for the win) at 11-4. Three of Detroit’s five starters could end the 2006 season with anywhere from 16 to 18 wins. Middle relief pitcher Jamie Walker, long a disappointment in my eyes, is crushing this year, with a 1.20 ERA in 30 innings. Mike Maroth’s elbow fried earlier this season and the club called up Zach Minor. He’s 6-2.
The bats are crazy. Pudge is hitting .315, Ordonez .304, and Guillen .302. With runners in scoring position Placido Polanco is batting .400. Marcus Thames (filling in nicely for Young) and Brandon Inge (whose career was called “over” by Jim Rome the day Detroit signed Pudge) is not only co-leading the team with 19 home runs, but he’s playing the sickest defense at third base this city has seen since Tommy Brookens. But, on a critical note, I could do without all of the strikeouts. Granderson (109), Shelton (95), Inge (84) could stand to focus at the plate and stop swinging at fucking garbage pitches. Those kind of K’s make you trade bait, boys.
It’s exciting, dare I say, refreshing to see the parking lots around the stadium filled to capacity and charging double their normal rate. The concession lines are packed and the crowd is really getting into it, even if most of them are fair-weathered fans. I’m getting ticket requests now from friends like I’m a fucking Ticketmaster kiosk or something. Funny how nobody was asking me for shit when Detroit was losing 119 games just two seasons ago. And you know what? I was at more games that season than I’ve been to this season. Because, you know, I care and all. I make the effort, even when it’s not popular, cool or remotely sexy to do so. I don’t know, I just think that’s what REAL people do. Yes, the babe factor has shot through the roof at Comerica, which is a good thing, trust me. But the gals with the good skin and nice tits, and the boys in their chi-chi shirts covering up their tanned and toned torsos will be back at the cosmetic surgery centers, ultralounges and golf courses the fucking nanosecond Detroit baseball is not trendy or popular, which is also fine. Winning is contagious and it spreads to the fans, but when you have a sellout stadium on a Saturday night in July, in a city starved for anything remotely positive on the baseball landscape, the feeling is what your laughably marginal newspaper sports columnist would call “palpable.” That’s right Rob Parker, you fucking hack, I’m taking a shot at you. It is a feeling without a fitting description, the vibe being thrown around Comerica Park on game nights.
And it’s not just there, either. It’s in the homes with a kid watching a winning Tigers team for the first time in his life. Ever. It’s on the beat-up clock radios in a Hazel Park home’s garage with some dude wrenching on his rig with a couple of buddies and some cold ones. It’s in the hearts of the old-timers, who remember 1934, the dads and grandfathers who were my age with 1968 went down. It’s very clearly in the fella in the car next to me, banging his fist on the steering wheel because Craig Monroe just hit a two-out, run-scoring double. It will be in the city, loud and motherfucking clear when Detroit hosts its first playoff game since the ’87 season, the year I graduated high school, seemingly and also fittingly, a lifetime ago. And it will be in me and Corbett, sitting in our season ticket seats for the first pitch. It could all go away tomorrow. The slide could start, it could be the biggest choke job since the Yankees two seasons ago, it could be as predictable as Steve Howe, all methed up to the sky, driving his truck into a pole. It could all dry up by the last game of the season and I’d still be content because I had a chance to say it all right here.
posted by John at 7:50 AM
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