I’m going to turn 44 on Monday. It’s not 34, but I’ll take it. For now, I’ll just be happy that it’s not 54 – not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But it’s also not 10, and that’s when I saw Frank Howard jack a homer into left field to tie the Yankees in the bottom of the ninth inning – sort of. Actually, sitting in the upper deck in left, all I saw was the ball in flight, the Yankee outfielder drifting back, and then it disappeared from my view – but the screaming, full house crowd at Tiger Stadium told me what had happened. That, and Hondo rounding the bases in a jubilant home run trot.
44 isn’t 12, either, and that’s when I saw – as sure as I’m typing this – Brooks Robinson drop a foul popup with nobody around him. The man whose name should be forever etched on every third base in every big league stadium for his defensive brilliance, simply dropped it. I can still see it today – the Tigers in the middle of a 19-game losing streak. And even Brooks’s unthinkable bobble didn’t help. The Tigers dropped both games of a doubleheader.
My parents started carting me and some choice friends to Tigers games on my birthday, starting when I was ten and continuing to when I was 16. Amazing that there was always a home date on August 6 – and I didn’t even have a pipeline to the league schedule maker. At least not that I’m aware of. Maybe my folks placed a courtesy call each winter.
That first date, in 1973, ended wonderfully but started horribly.
There was a mix-up of some sort – my mix-up. I was allotted two tickets for two friends.
At this time, I’d like to publicly apologize to Brian Mitter, wherever you are.
Mitter was the victim of a 10-year-old’s lack of organizational skills. Somehow, I told Mitter he could go, after the two allotted tickets were promised to other friends. Can’t even blame it on a computer glitch.
So one of my two friends is already at the house, and while we’re chatting, I see my other lucky friend running across our front lawn, laughing and giggling. But he’s not alone. He’s racing with Brian Mitter.
Can a 10-year-old make a faux pas?
I remember some random things: my mother breaking the news to Brian, Brian crying, my mom calling Brian’s mom, and him trudging home. Not my best moment. My mom even offered to return the birthday gift Brian toted. Brian’s mom let me keep it.
Ahh, but the game.
It was Monday night, and the Tigers-Yankees were that week’s NBC Game of the Week. The Tigers trailed by a couple runs going into the ninth. Then big Frank Howard laced a pitch into the lower deck, and we’re tied. Then I recall Aurelio Rodriguez sliding home with the winning run in the 10th. Wonderful ending, as I said. But 34 years later, I can’t forget the beginning. You don’t think Brian Mitter turned to deadly violence because of it, do you?
1974 was the Indians and, as it turns out, Norm Cash’s last game as a Tiger. Retrosheet.org, simply the best website ever created, gives you play-by-plays and box scores of thousands of games, sorted by year. I knew Cash was released by the Tigers around my birthday, so I looked him up. Says his last game was on the 6th, against the Indians. Seems he pinch hit late in the game and got a single. He was cut by the Tigers the next day. I saw his last big league hit. Then it was my turn to cry.
1975 was the Orioles, and Robinson’s dropsie. The Tigers were losing in bunches, and my dad was irritated. When something went wrong for them early in the ballgame, my father clapped derisively. He rode them hard, but the Tigers lost again.
1976 – I don’t recall. Retrosheet says the Indians were again the opponents. The Tigers won, 3-1. I’ll take their word for it.
1977 – Texas was in town. I sort of remember that one.
1978 – the White Sox, on a Sunday afternoon. Somewhere I still have the scorecard from that one. The Tigers won. The White Sox wore shorts, I believe. Not sure if I did or not. Two days later, as part of my birthday present, I was allowed to go to Toronto with my friend Steve Hall and stay with his aunt and uncle. We took in a couple of Blue Jays games, hoping to laugh at the second-year Jays. They won both games we went to. Go figure.
1979 – the Texas Rangers again, and a twi-night doubleheader. For those too young, the twi-nighters were awesome. Game 1 started around 5:30 or 6:00, followed by another game. It was, as my dad liked to say of DHs, “A LOT of baseball.” They played faster back then, but it was still … a LOT of baseball. Tigers won both games.
Don’t EVEN ask me who went with me to these games. I think I pretty much rotated friends in and out. Kind of like the faces who join Colin Mochrie and Ryan Stiles on “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” The same suspects, just taking turns.
The tradition mysteriously ended after that ’79 DH, for whatever reason. Maybe I got too old. Maybe the tickets got too expensive. Maybe my rotating friends became too insufferable. All I know is, I haven’t gone to a birthday game since. But I am going to Thursday afternoon’s game, covering it for Michigan In Play! Magazine – three days late and not as a fan. Doesn’t count, I’m afraid. The Streak continues.
I had an old buddy from college, named Todd Dunne. His birthday was in November, and he told me that his dad always took him to a Red Wings game to celebrate.
“St. Louis always seemed to be the other team,” Dunne said.
The Red Wings usually lost, he added. Of course they did. That was long before this city had the gall to call itself Hockeytown. It was a time when it was still trying to lift itself out of “Darkness with Harkness.”
Did anyone ever go with you, I asked Todd. No, he said – just his dad and he.
No offense to the rotating friends, but that would have been enough for me, too. And mom. She put up with her two sports-loving men like a trooper.
After all, who ended up breaking the news to Brian Mitter?
Brian, man – again, I’m sorry. Please don’t kill anyone.
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