Inge Giving Us A Performance That Will Be Legendary

It was used as yet another example of why hockey players are supposedly the toughest human beings on the face of the Earth.

Brent Gilchrist, a forward for the Red Wings with suspect talent but not suspect determination, made his teammates sick, literally, in the 1998 post-season.

Not that we knew anything about it at the time.

Playoff hockey is filled with mind games and secret intelligence that would make the CIA proud.

Never is this more evident than when it comes to player injuries.

Coaches smirk, players wink. General managers divert attention.

It’s a very well-orchestrated operation.

The NHL doesn’t require teams to divulge details of player injuries, an option that is taken advantage of, whole-heartedly.

Guys who are out of the lineup have “upper body injuries.”

Smirk. Wink.

Guys who are playing but who clearly don’t look like themselves are merely struggling. There’s nothing the matter with them.

Smirk. Wink.

It’s not until that team’s playoff run is over with, that we’re told the truth.

Gilchrist, we were told once the intelligence officers for the Red Wings deemed it OK, had played the entire post-season with a torn groin.

Try getting out of bed with one of those without sinking back onto the mattress, sobbing in pain.

Yet Gilchrist, not wanting to miss out on what he believed to be an excellent chance to win his first Stanley Cup, not only got out of bed, he dragged his butt to the hockey rink and proceeded to make even the most hardened of his teammates look away in disgust.

Gilchrist, it was disclosed, would have the training staff inject his groin with syringes the size of knitting needles, so that he could be administered the proper amount of cortisone, and in the precise spot, so the pain could be dulled enough for him to play.

Sometimes the cortisone would wear off, and Gilchrist would undergo the procedure during games—whether between periods or between shifts.

Other Red Wings players reported becoming almost sick to their stomachs, having accidentally catching a glimpse of what Brent Gilchrist was enduring, just so he could play some hockey.

The Red Wings played 22 playoff games that spring, which culminated in their second straight Stanley Cup. Gilchrist, with his mangled groin with the track marks, participated in 15 of them.

The extent of his injury was so severe that Gilchrist only managed to play in five games for the Red Wings the following season. It was acknowledged that his decision not to have surgery when he should have—choosing instead to play in the playoffs—cost him basically the whole next season due to belated surgery and recovery.

But he had himself his Stanley Cup—the only one of his career.

That’s a hockey player for you, eh?

Baseball players are wimps!

They sit down if they have a hangnail!

Can’t even play when it’s raining!

I have two words for you and your myths.

Brandon, and Inge.

Inge, the Tigers’ marvelous third baseman, is, under full disclosure, authoring one of the gutsiest feats by any athlete we’ve seen in Detroit—Gilchrist included.

Inge is playing on one leg for the Tigers right now—and he’s still one of the best third basemen in the game, defensively.

Correction: Inge is playing on, at best, two-thirds of one leg.

Rod Allen, the astute analyst for Fox Sports Detroit, put it right.

“There’s a difference between playing in pain, and playing injured,” Allen said Friday night as the Tigers were embroiled in yet another tight ballgame, in Oakland.

“And Brandon Inge is injured.”

No kidding.

This isn’t the NHL, so we’re all able to marvel at what Inge is putting himself through, just so he can do whatever he can to help shove the Tigers across the finish line before the White Sox or the Twins.

His knees are killing him—the left one being the worst of the two.

“Excruciating” has been used to describe the pain.

“Unbelievable” is what I’d use to describe his being on the field, and not in the hospital, his leg propped up and recovering from the surgeon’s knife.

Inge has what doctors say is about a 75 percent tear in the middle portion of the patella tendon in his left knee.

Yeah. That’s right.

The right knee hurts him, too.

But, as Allen said, the right knee is just pain. The left knee is injured.

Inge should be on the disabled list, for the rest of the season, and should have had surgery weeks ago. Someone else should be playing third base.

“It affects everything you do,” he said recently. “Anything that gets you in any sort of an athletic position, that’s what hurts. Anything.

“It’s not fun playing like this.”

Even stepping into the batter’s box—stepping into it—causes Inge great discomfort.

But here’s where it gets legendary, as if that wasn’t enough.

“How could I go on the disabled list and not play, when we’re in first place, when there are people all over out of work and struggling to get by? What kind of message would that send?”

Gulp.

Did a professional athlete, being paid millions of dollars, just say that?

The words are Inge’s, said a few weeks ago.

I wrote earlier in the season, before Inge’s travails were made known, that if they ever get around to erecting some more bronze statues at Comerica Park, they might want to include Brandon Inge, the Tiger with the most seniority of the current bunch, among the casts.

I got the expected reaction—scoffs and chortles and head shaking. A few, and only a few, agreed with me.

Then I found out about Inge’s knees and what he’s putting himself through, and the “v” word starting floating around my head.

Vindication.

Did you hear the latest?

Now they’re sticking needles into Inge’s knee and injecting him with a glucose solution, which is supposed to function as an irritant, alerting the body to fix the problem.

I just saw your hangnail and raised it by a broken knee and a half.

The Tigers offered Inge some time on the disabled list—the minimum 15 day requirement. This was several weeks ago.

But he said no, because no medical expert around the team could assure him that 15 days off would do any real good.

“I don’t want a day off the rest of the year,” Inge told the Detroit News’ Tom Gage last week. “Be sure to tell the skipper (manager Jim Leyland) that, too.”

The skipper isn’t obeying. He’s sitting Inge down occasionally, but not for entire games. Leyland can’t resist the urge to insert Inge into the game in the later innings, because his glove is so valuable.

Leyland failed to do that last Sunday against Kansas City, and faux third baseman Ryan Raburn let a hard groundball gobble him up in the tenth inning. The miscue led to the Royals scoring the game-winning run.

“Inge would have made that play,” was the first thing that came to mind when I saw Raburn turn butcher.

Brandon Inge, on two-thirds of one leg, would have made that play. Likely.

Don’t any of you dare forget what this guy is going through to play baseball this season.

I know I won’t.

Inge Should Be Careful About What He Wishes For

I’m not going to get to him in time to say this in person, because I won’t be in Lakeland, Fla. for spring training, so I’ll blare it here, in black and white.

Brandon Inge, my friend, let me tell you a tale of two Detroit Tigers: Mickey Stanley and Lance Parrish. Then maybe, just maybe, you might be a tad happier with your current situation in Detroit.

First, I’ll get the reader up to speed, for sake of completion.

Inge, who’s been with the Tigers since being drafted by them in 1998, is now a man without a position. At least, that’s how HE looks at it. I say he’s a man of many positions, and that he should embrace that; it’s liable to keep him in the big leagues for a very long time.

Inge was the Tigers’ starting catcher during the lean years, a.k.a. B.P. – Before Pudge (Rodriguez). He was a barely-.200 hitter for a 43-119 team when the Tigers signed Rodriguez for the 2004 season. Inge hadn’t hit a lick in the majors. One could make the argument that had he not been playing for such a wretched team, Brandon Inge would be scrambling to absorb himself into society with the rest of us working stiffs. He wasn’t much of a player, his decent defense notwithstanding.

Yet Inge had the nerve to squawk when the Tigers signed Rodriguez – who’s only a Hall of Famer – going public with his contention that the team already had a catcher: him. So why did they need to go out and get another one?

“My defense, I believe, can be on par with Pudge’s,” is my paraphrasing of what Inge was feeding us four Februarys ago. He made no mention of the 180-degrees difference in offense between Rodriguez and him. He was exhibiting, I thought, a rather reticent reaction for someone whose career batting average, at the time, was under .200, and who should have been kissing the turf that he was under the employ of a big league team. But there you have it.

I didn’t think much of Brandon Inge at that point, and couldn’t have cared less if he was an ex-Tiger, or an ex-big leaguer.

My opinion has changed, so hence I offer this friendly advice to him.

The advice comes because Inge is again chafing, though this time he has the resume to chafe.

In December, the Tigers acquired All-Star third baseman Miguel Cabrera from Florida. This displaced Inge, who after Rodriguez’s signing became a third sacker himself – and a darned good one. Defensively. He still has occasional issues with the stick, which Cabrera does not have. Cabrera can be counted on for 30+ homers, 100+ RBI, and .300+ BA. And he’s only 24 (he’ll be 25 in April; Inge is 30). It’s frightening how good he – Cabrera – can be

Rodriguez is still around, so the question was obvious: Where will Brandon Inge play, if he plays at all, for the Tigers?

Inge wants to play – can’t blame him there. He still sees himself as a starting third baseman. Again, I can see that. He loves Detroit, but was wondering – again, publicly – if that love would trump his desire to be a full-time player. The Tigers view him as a sort of “super sub” – someone who could play multiple positions (including catcher) and find his way into the lineup that way, because of his great athletic ability. Inge bristled at the notion of being a glorified utility player.

Brandon, meet Mickey Stanley.

Stanley was the Tigers’ starting centerfielder from 1965 till around 1974. After that, when the team groomed Ron LeFlore and other youngsters, Stanley stuck around, playing all over the field. It was warmly remembered that Stanley switched to shortstop in the 1968 World Series to make room for Al Kaline in the Tigers’ lineup. His ability to be the chameleon baseball player was not lost on Tigers brass. One day he was at first base; the next, maybe left field. After that, perhaps third base. He did it all, except catch and pitch. And maybe only because they never asked him.

Stanley filled this role, gallantly and without brooding, until his retirement after the 1978 season. He, like Inge, loved Detroit, its fans, and the way he was treated. He also realized that baseball’s grass isn’t always greener in other cities. His acceptance of the “super sub” designation no doubt added years to his career – and money to his bank account.

Now, Brandon, say hello to Lance Parrish.

Parrish, the stalwart catcher of the 1980s, played out his option after the 1986 season. For whatever reason, he and the Tigers couldn’t come to terms. He, like Inge and Stanley, was a homegrown Tiger – drafted and nurtured by the club. It didn’t hurt that his personal tutor every spring was a guy named Bill Freehan. Parrish had become a fixture in Detroit. He wore the Old English D on his massive chest fiercely. But, just like that, he was gone – fleeing to Philadelphia for more dough.

From the moment I saw Parrish walk onto the field at spring training with the Phillies in 1987 (they had cameras taping his debut), I knew that this was going to end badly. He never looked comfy in the Phillies pinstripes. Then there was the issue of the fans – which was the first thing I thought of when Parrish’s exodus to Philly was announced.

“My goodness, they’re going to eat him alive there,” I thought. Philadelphia may be the City of Brotherly Love, but it’s a brotherly love full of noogies and Melvins and cat poop in your chocolate bar wrapper.

Not surprisingly, Parrish struggled. And the more he struggled, the more the fans rode him. And the more they rode him, the more he struggled. Those Phillies pinstripes were wrapping themselves around him like tentacles, squeezing the baseball life out of him.

Parrish was never the same. He became a journeyman, ending his career on a carousel. He asked the Tigers for a tryout at the end, but they politely told him no.

So, Brandon, I would suck it up, put on a smile, and be ready when needed. I know you’ve agreed to do it, and I know you’ve said you’re not happy about it. That’s understandable. But look no further than Stanley and Parrish for what can be – both good and bad.

Do with this what you will.