Sparky's Soothsaying Got It Right For Tigers In 1987

Sparky Anderson was best digested with a side order of salt, at least to those who had him figured out. To try him otherwise was usually a cause for consternation.

I tried Sparky, the old Tigers manager, without salt for the first couple of years he was in Detroit, and I can tell you that he was much easier on the tummy with sodium.

I believed him, or wanted to, when he told the reporters that Kirk Gibson was going to be “the next Mickey Mantle.” I listened, enraptured, when he announced before the 1980 season that his team would win “at least” 90 games.

I was still eschewing the salt shaker the next spring, when Sparky told us that between them, starters Jack Morris, Milt Wilcox and Dan Petry would win 50 games.

Then I got wise, and realized that Sparky was a lot more fun when you added grains and grains of salt to his words.

After that, Sparky amused me instead of bemused me.

Unknown rookie Chris Pittaro, so good that he’d be the Tigers’ second baseman, thus moving the great Lou Whitaker to third base?

HA—that’s a good one!

Pain don’t hurt?

Stop—you’re killing me!

But I found a Sparky gem, uncovered on the addictive site YouTube—a.k.a. your very own video home museum. And, had I heard it live, when he first said it, I’d have shaken my head, grinned, and said, “Oh, that Sparky!”

It was May, 1987. The Tigers were limping along, 9-15 and not showing much life. They had lost All-Star catcher Lance Parrish to Philadelphia before the season, via free agency. The pitching was a shambles, the hitting sporadic.

So Sparky was donning the TV headset and talking to the folks on Channel 4 during one of their pre-game shows. The Tigers were in Oakland.

“I want to tell people something right now,” Sparky said, and you knew you were in for a humdinger. “This is a very good baseball team. Make no question about that. And this will be a very good baseball team.”

Sparky’s words must have caused thousands of eyes to roll. But then he saved the best for last.
“I will say this: the people of Detroit will be very happy come October 4.”

The Tigers slipped to 11-19 in the week after Sparky’s boastful prediction.

The only happy that the fans would be come Oct. 4, it appeared, would be happy that the season was finished!

In early June, the Tigers picked up a former batting champ and aging veteran who was struggling to hit .200 with the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Bill Madlock’s signing looked like nothing more than a desperate move by a desperate team.

Madlock was 36 years old and looking like it, hitting a sickly .180 for the Dodgers.

But he bounced into town with the Tigers and things started to happen—for Madlock and for his new team. Immediately.

Madlock, in his very first game as a Tiger, in Boston, went 3-for-4 with a home run. The Tigers lost, but they wouldn’t lose very much the rest of the season.

Madlock went 12-for-23 in his first four games with Detroit. He had more hits in those four games than he had the entire season with the Dodgers (11) to that point.

Every time you looked up, it seemed Madlock was getting two, three hits a game.

And the Tigers started to win. Often.

They rose from the ashes of 11-19 and were battling the Toronto Blue Jays for supremacy in the division, along with the honors of having the very best record in all of baseball.

There was a crucial four-game series in Toronto the next-to-last weekend of the season.

The Tigers went into Canada one-half game behind the Blue Jays.

Three days and three one-run losses later, the Tigers were three-and-one-half games behind, including a gut-wrenching, come-from-ahead loss on national TV on Saturday afternoon, a game in which the Tigers blew a 9-4 lead.

The Blue Jays had seven games remaining, the Tigers eight. They started talking about Toronto’s “magic number” to clinch the division, which had now been whittled down to five.

The man who was not the next Mickey Mantle but instead the one and only Kirk Gibson, stood among the reporters in the tomb-like Tigers clubhouse in the wake of Saturday’s piercing loss.

Speaking softly but with determination, Gibson had a doozy for the press people.

“Maybe we’re just setting the greatest bear trap in history,” Gibby said of the Tigers’ seemingly insurmountable deficit in chasing the Blue Jays.

The Tigers won the next day in 13 innings, thanks to Gibson’s home run in the ninth to tie the game, and his game-winning single in the 13th.

They were two-and-one-half games back with a week left in the season.

The Blue Jays stumbled at home against Milwaukee, dropping three straight, while the Tigers split a four-game series at Tiger Stadium with the Orioles.

When the Jays hit Detroit for the season finale weekend, their lead was a measly one game. The bear trap’s jaws were about to clamp down.

The Tigers swept the series, winning all three games by one run. They won the division outright, avoiding the need for a one-game playoff. The bear trap worked. The Blue Jays finished the season 0-7 in coughing up the division flag in Chicago Cubs-like fashion.

It was Oct. 4—the date Sparky Anderson referenced on television back in May—when pitcher Frank Tanana fielded Garth Iorg’s tapper and lobbed the baseball to first baseman Darrell Evans, completing Frank’s 1-0 shutout and sealing the division for the Tigers.

Sparky got one right. The people of Detroit were, indeed, very happy—rivaled only by their surprise and shock.

The Tigers, after their 11-19 start, went 87-45 the rest of the way, nearly a two-out-of-three rate for 132 games.

That they fizzled out in the playoffs against Minnesota was almost forgivable after all they expended just to get there.

Sparky, in his book They Call Me Sparky, called that 1987 team his best in Detroit.

“We were finished,” Sparky wrote of his team’s state after those thrilling, season-ending matches with the Blue Jays, both in Toronto and in Detroit. “They (the players) had nothing left to give me against the Twins. I was very proud of them.”

Still A Flicker Left In “Big Red’s” Flame

Baseball is magic.

Check that—baseball is a magic act. It likes to pluck unsuspecting people out of the crowd and shine the spotlight on them, to entertain the rest of us. Then, in a flash, the poor sap is back into the crowd, often never to be heard from again.

It’s one of the beauties of the sport, to me, that the Joe Blow player—sometimes the 25th man of a 25-man roster, can take his place on stage, performing feats that belie his abilities, and thus take a place in baseball history. Forever.

The list of pitchers who’ve thrown no-hitters or even perfect games, for example, doesn’t read like a Who’s Who of hurlers. It’s dotted with Hall of Famers, but also liberally sprinkled with guys whose ERAs look like the price of a Big Mac meal.

Don Larsen was not a great pitcher. If we’re going to talk among friends here, he wasn’t even very good. He was serviceable. Another noodle in a plate full of spaghetti.

So how to explain Larsen throwing the only perfect game in World Series history, for the Yankees in 1956? Especially since, three days earlier, Larsen pitched one-and-two-thirds innings and walked four batters.

Larsen even tempted fate, daring to spit into the face of baseball superstition.

Sometime along the sixth or seventh inning, despite his teammates doing the usual ritual of not so much as even looking at him, much less discussing his ongoing perfect game, Larsen, nonetheless, found Mickey Mantle in the dugout.

“Hey Mick,” Larsen recounted years later, “wouldn’t it be something if I threw a no-hitter?”

Larsen said that Mantle looked at him as if the pitcher was possessed, and quickly moved away.

A trip to the ballpark can, three hours later, be unforgettable. Could be a no-hitter. Could be someone hitting for the cycle. Maybe a spectacular catch in the outfield that lifts you out of your seat. Perhaps that 25th man knocks a couple balls out of the park, including a game-winner in the bottom of the ninth.

Stuff that keeps you talking to captive audiences for years.

Chris Shelton is back in the big leagues. Could be a sip of coffee, but he’s back. He’s with the Seattle Mariners now. They say he’s going back down when the M’s need a fifth starter again, but it’s only been a few days and Big Red has already driven in a game-winning run. So who knows?

Shelton owned Detroit for a few weeks. It was in 2006, and Shelton, a red-headed first baseman who looked like Raggedy Andy all grown up, came out of the gate in April like he was being chased by a pack of wolves.

Big Red, they called him. Some took to calling him Red Pop, in honor of Detroit’s Faygo soda company.

The dark skies descended upon Shelton in a hurry in '06

Nine home runs in the Tigers’ first 13 games, Chris Shelton hit in April 2006. That power display made him just the fourth player in MLB history—and the first ever in the American League—to hit at least that many homers in his team’s first 13 games, joining Mike Schmidt, Larry Walker, and Luis Gonzalez before him.

If there had been one of those special mayoral elections in Detroit back then, the kind the city has fallen in love with lately, Shelton would have won in a landslide.

He was another of baseball’s faces in the crowd pulled on stage by the fickle magician.

Shelton was a nobody, and I don’t mean that derisively. It’s fact. He was a 26-year-old who’d kicked around in the minor leagues for a few years, unable to even make the 40-man roster of the woeful Pittsburgh Pirates, who left him exposed in baseball’s Rule V Draft in December 2003.

The Tigers snatched him up, and the only reason he stayed with them is because, according to Rule V, a selected player has to stay with the selecting team the entire season, or else he goes back to his previous team. No being sent to the minor leagues, in other words.

Shelton had a grand total of 46 at-bats in 2004, tethered to the Tigers.

The next season was a lot more active, and productive, for Big Red: 388 AB, 18 HR, a .299 BA.

Still, no one could have foreseen Shelton’s jackrabbit and history-making start in 2006. After 41 AB, Shelton was hitting a softball-like .512.

But the magician was eventually done with him, and Shelton got dumped back into the crowd, his participation in the act over.

By mid-June, people no longer stopped what they were doing to watch a Chris Shelton at-bat, as they had done back in April. The Tigers as a team thrived, but Shelton individually was in the 14th minute of his 15 minutes of fame.

He was no longer a .500 hitter, or a .400 hitter, or even a .300 hitter. As July began to wane, Shelton was at a very ho-hum .278, and sinking fast.

That’s when I found him in the Tigers clubhouse, in a sour mood.

I was making the usual rounds before game time, the first-place Tigers trying to fend off the visiting Chicago White Sox, who were just three-and-one-half games behind them in the Central Division race.

I saw Shelton, at his locker, head down, twirling a bat slowly. Perhaps he was silently asking the piece of lumber why it had forsaken him so quickly.

“Got a few minutes?”

Shelton looked up and slowly nodded. He wasn’t the jovial, smiling kid from a couple months ago.

I dared to ask him about his swing, wondering where it had gone.

My question shouldn’t have blindsided him, for everyone was beginning to wonder about Chris Shelton. Yet Shelton snorted and sneered, telling me that he had no intention of answering such a query, incredulous that I had the temerity to pose it.

About a week later, Shelton still slumping, the Tigers shipped him back to Toledo. To work on his swing.

Shelton didn’t make the Tigers in 2007, and was traded in December of that year to Texas. He batted .216 for the Rangers in 97 at-bats last season.

The Mariners signed him as a free agent over the winter. They called him up from the minors last week, and he delivered a game-winning single last Sunday. He’s still only 29 years old.

The 15 minutes are up, and Shelton is just another face in the crowd. But at least he’s in the crowd. For now. But better to be in the crowd in the big leagues, than on stage in the minors.

Only Their Mothers Could Love These Guys

(Author’s note: in honor of Mother’s Day, here are five athletes—and one bonus guy—who played in Detroit and who, for one reason or another, would never have won a popularity contest—unless the only voter was mom)


One was nicknamed, appropriately, “Bad News”. Another was a convicted felon. One of them, they called “Terrible.”

Thank God for mothers.

For without mom, I don’t think the following list of former professional athletes who once played in Detroit would have had anyone to show them any love.

The criteria for this bastion of ignominy is varied. Either they were hated by their opponents, or their coaches, or the fans, or even their own teammates. Some of these guys managed to anger all of the above.

Except mom, it’s presumed.

It’s hoped.


Denny McLain, Detroit Tigers (1963-70). McLain is the last pitcher to win thirty games, and also the last one to spend time in the federal pen as a convicted felon.

Denny’s travails are too numerous to get into when there are so many other people to talk about here, but here’s a quick summary.

Suspended for carrying a loaded handgun. Left teammate Mickey Lolich and his wife at the 1969 All-Star Game, despite promising to fly them back in his plane. Dumped a bucket of water on a sportswriter. Hoodwinked some teammates into investing into a failed paint company.

(Deep breath before continuing)

Openly broke team rules so he could jet around the country and play the organ. Long suspected of having his foot stomped on by a mobster in 1967 due to some gambling debts.

(Another deep breath)

Whined and pouted his way through a season in Washington under Ted Williams. Out of baseball by age 28. Convicted of racketeering. Spent time in federal prison. Released. Convicted of embezzling pension funds from a Michigan packing plant. Spent more time in prison. Released.

(One more….)

In and out of TV and radio as a talk show host. In and out of 7-11 as a store clerk.

But always in the news, for one reason or another.

Like the song said, “There’s never been any like Denny McLain.”

Thank God.


Marvin “Bad News” Barnes, Detroit Pistons (1976-78). When the American Basketball Association folded, four remaining teams merged into the NBA. The ABA’s orphaned players were then drafted into the NBA.

The Pistons had a chance at a young, powerful center named Moses Malone.

So naturally, they picked a talented but troubled forward from the St. Louis Spirits named Marvin Barnes, despite his nickname from college: “Bad News”.

Marvin belted a teammate with a tire iron in college. He skirted team rules, both as a collegian and as a pro.

He reported late to his first training camp with the Pistons. He pouted about coming off the bench. He was caught at Metro Airport with a gun in his luggage. He would arrive late to games, if he arrived at all.

All that, and he had the nerve to ask that his nickname be changed to simply, “News.”

OK, Marvin.

And don’t they say that no news is good news?


“Terrible” Ted Lindsay, Detroit Red Wings (1944-57; 1964-65). The nickname says it all.

But if you look at Teddy today, and thank goodness he’s still with us, it’s hard not be taken by how slight of build he is. A runt, by today’s standards.

Frankly, Teddy wasn’t much more than a runt by yesterday’s standards, either.

Listed at all of 5-foot-8, Teddy was one of the most hated players of his day.

He taught Gordie Howe, no less, how to handle himself on the ice. Teddy gave Mr. Hockey pointers, including being aware of who is on the ice with you—something that served Gordie well when he famously beat the tar out of tough guy Louie Fontinato of the Rangers.

Teddy received death threats before a playoff game in Toronto, and after scoring the game-winning goal, he skated around the ice and used his stick to pretend to spray the Maple Leaf Gardens crowd with machine gun fire.

Teddy started the tradition of skating the Stanley Cup around the ice after winning it. I once asked him how and why.

“Back in those days, all they did was put the Cup on a little table on the ice. You posed for pictures and that was it,” he explained.

“So I decided that I’d give the fans a chance to see it. I took it and before anyone could stop me, I skated it around the ice with me. I wasn’t trying to start a tradition. It was just something I decided to do at the spur of the moment.”

Shucks, Teddy wasn’t so Terrible after all.


Joe Don Looney, Detroit Lions (1965). This time, the surname says it all.

Looney was a first-round draft pick of the New York Giants in 1964 after a stellar, if not strange, career at Oklahoma.

The hijinks began on campus.

Looney first enrolled at Texas in 1960, but flunked out. He then entered Texas Christian. They kicked him out. So he tried Cameron Junior College for a bit. Finally, he ended up at Oklahoma.
But Looney was kicked off the team after just three games in 1963 by coach Bud Wilkinson after Looney punched a graduate assistant.

Still, the Giants drafted Looney 12th overall.

Just a few weeks into training camp, the Giants were so fed up with Looney’s behavior that they traded him to Baltimore. The Colts had him for a year before dealing him to Detroit.

Lions coach Harry Gilmer once asked Looney to run into the huddle with a play for the quarterback.

“Coach, if you want a message sent, call Western Union,” Looney told Gilmer in a story that is absolutely not apocryphal, though it seems so, for as many times as it’s been re-told.

Looney was out of pro football by age 26.

After football, Looney converted to Hinduism and joined the Siddha Yoga movement led by Swami Muktananda. It was alleged that Looney was one of Muktananda’s “enforcers” who intimidated people into obeying him.

Joe Don Looney died on September 24, 1988 in Texas when he ran his motorcycle off the road and crashed into a fence. He was 45.

It was later determined that Looney never hit the brakes.

That should have been his epitaph.


Bill Laimbeer, Detroit Pistons (1982-93). The Pistons of the late-1980s, early-1990s were “The Bad Boys” and Laimbeer was to them what Leo Gorcey was to The Bowery Boys. On second thought, maybe Bill was more like their Al Capone. Or Charlie Manson.

It’s quite possible that there was never an NBA player more despised by opponents than Bill Laimbeer.

He flopped to the floor, drawing whistles. He whined and scowled. He fouled dirty. He smirked. He loved it when the opposing crowds would boo and jeer him.

Once, in Chicago, the team mascot drew roaring approval when he pummeled Laimbeer in effigy.

Laimbeer never committed a foul in his life, according to him. Except the ones where he tried to dismember the other guy.

Bill Laimbeer was a big, lunky white guy who could shoot from the outside, which only proved to torment the opposition even more. He couldn’t jump over a puddle, yet he averaged double digits in rebounds year after year.

Oh, and what do Hall of Famers Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, Bob Lanier, and Robert Parish all have in common?

Each of them punched Bill Laimbeer in the face during an NBA game.

Don’t bother asking them about regrets.


Ned Harkness, Detroit Red Wings (1970-73). OK, so Ned wasn’t a player, but he might have been the most-hated front office executive in Detroit sports history not named Matt Millen. Russ Thomas of the Lions is up there, too.

Ned was hired to coach the team in 1970, fresh out of college, where he led Cornell to the 1970 NCAA title.

But the players soon revolted, going so far as to submit a petition to GM Sid Abel, stating they wouldn’t play for Ned anymore.

But Ned kept his job, and it was Abel who left, quitting after he wasn’t allowed to fire Harkness.

So Ned was promoted to GM, and then the fun really began.

Ned traded players like bubblegum cards, always getting rooked in the process. He fired coach Johnny Wilson, despite Wilson leading the team to its first winning record in three years. Ned replaced Wilson with minor league coach Ted Garvin, who won two of his first eleven games before getting canned himself.

Ned even bungled that.

He wanted Alex Delvecchio to retire and coach, and Alex agreed. But Ned did it on a game day, and Alex didn’t file retirement papers on time. The NHL wouldn’t allow a still-active player to coach, so Ned begged Garvin to coach that night’s game despite having already fired him. Garvin did, but vamoosed late in the third period, disappearing into the Detroit night. Injured player Tim Ecclestone coached the last few minutes of the game.

That kind of thing is why Ned’s time in Detroit will forever be known as “Darkness with Harkness.”

And it lands him on this list of ignominy.

Shortly after becoming coach, Harkness showed up at the home of defenseman Gary Bergman. Not long after arriving, Ned began rearranging Bergie’s living room furniture to explain his theories and Xs and Os.

“Right then,” Bergman said in recalling the story years later, “I knew we were in trouble.”


Happy Mother’s Day!

Porcello A Potential Ace Between The Ears, Too

There’s no telling how good Dave Rozema could have been, if only he’d taken his career seriously.

Rozema, “Rosie” to his adoring fans and to some of the more informal members of the media, was what some of us old-timers used to call players of his ilk, a “flake.”

The flake was the odd, the goofy, the unstable player. He could be a fun-loving flake or someone you’d just as soon not be alone with in the same room.

Baseball has been full of them. I think it’s the long season, being cooped up with the same guys from February till October, that can cause some guys to get flaky. Or worse.

Alex Johnson was a Detroit kid, grown up on the west side. His brother, Ron, was a star football player who thrilled the folks in Ann Arbor as a running back for U-M before having a decent career in the NFL.

Alex was…different. A flake? Perhaps. Or maybe just plain weird.

A.J., as they called him, was a terrific hitter. He won the 1970 A.L. batting title. But he was strangely unhappy most of the time. A professional might even call him paranoid and/or depressed. Alex Johnson was a good baseball player who thought everyone was out to get him.

Once, while playing for the Angels, Johnson accused teammate Chico Ruiz of waving a gun in his face in the locker room. Ruiz denied it. Johnson stuck to his story.

Johnson played for the Tigers in his last season, in 1976. Folks around town made a big deal of A.J. coming home, finally, to play big league ball, but I don’t think Johnson cracked so much as a grin while he was here. Then again, A.J. never did smile much. At all.

Dave Rozema happened upon the scene in 1977. One year after Mark “The Bird” Fidrych thrilled baseball audiences. Rozema’s fastball couldn’t break a pane of glass, but he could get hitters out with precision control and changing speeds. Rosie was 21, fun-loving, and a jokester during his rookie season in ’77.

Rozema was the antithesis of Alex Johnson. Where A.J. moped and brooded, Rosie always had a smirk on his face. He was the cat who ate the canary. Then he fell in with Kirk Gibson and that’s what did him in.

Rosie and Gibby. What a pair!

They partied together. They dated sisters – “exotic dancers”, to boot. Then they eventually married them. Gibson, a self-admitted jerk in his formative big league years, was hardly the best influence on the impressionable, flaky Rozema.

Rozema’s career moved on, decently, but never did he truly improve upon his 15-win rookie campaign. He had the talent. He had the ability. He just didn’t seem to have the moxie.

Then, in a moment of foolishness in 1982, Rosie sealed his fate for good.

The Twins and the Tigers brawled at Tiger Stadium. As far as baseball fights go, this one was pretty brutal. It was the kind where fists truly flew and the potential for something dangerous to happen was high.

Enter Rozema. Literally.

He came from the dugout, or the bullpen – not sure which – and spotted Twins player John Castino. Rosie got up a running start and, leaving his feet, tried to execute a Jackie Chan-like karate kick at Castino.

Rosie blew out his knee trying to impersonate Chan.

Tigers manager Sparky Anderson wasn’t amused.

Rozema was even less the same after his karate kick. But he didn’t learn his lesson.

A couple years later, Rozema was goofing around in the Tigers clubhouse and, while clowning, fell on his rear end. A small glass jar of medicine that was in his back pants pocket broke. He got cut up in his…posterior.

Sparky wasn’t amused again.

The Tigers eventually let Rozema go, and he ended up with the Texas Rangers. While with the Rangers, Rosie, in a relief appearance, ended up facing Kirk Gibson one night down in Arlington. The TV cameras caught Rozema giggling like an eighth-grader, unable to keep a straight face, as he prepared to pitch to his friend Gibby.


Rozema’s karate kick was immortalized in a bobble head doll last summer at a minor league game in Grand Rapids


The Tigers, in 2009, have themselves a young stud named Rick Porcello. He’s a 20-year-old right-hander who doesn’t have a whole lot of professional experience but who has baseball folks dismissing that forthwith. This is because Porcello possesses a golden right arm that has the real possibility of thrilling baseball fans in Detroit for years to come.

But it’s not just Porcello’s talent for throwing a baseball that has impressed folks down in Florida this spring training. It’s also his demeanor. The veteran players love how he conducts himself.

“He’s the kind of pitcher who, if he gives up a home run or something, just asks for the ball and says, ‘Let’s go’,” said designated hitter Gary Sheffield, no less, a couple weeks ago. “He doesn’t let anything bother him.”

The accolades regarding Porcello’s arm have been out there since last summer. Now they’re starting to pour in about his head. The words are similes of the best kind.

Composed. Mature. Unflappable. Focused.

And so on.

Porcello has a shot, albeit an outside one, to make the Tigers’ Opening Day roster. Manager Jim Leyland’s starting rotation is a little in shambles right now, due to injuries and others not doing so great. And Porcello, save one shaky outing on Thursday, has pitched well.

“It’s an honor to still be here and still have a chance,” Porcello said the other day.

On other occasions, Porcello has been one of his toughest critics. He already has that perfectionist thing about him. A lot of the great pitchers have that gene.

Dave Rozema was out of baseball by age 30. The karate kick didn’t help. But the kick was merely symptomatic of his bigger issue, which was a distinct lack of professionalism in his approach toward the game.

He had his fun, though. Maybe that’s all he was in it for. Mission accomplished.

Rick Porcello wants to have fun, too, I’m sure. He just wants to do it more responsibly and with more long-term success.

If only someone was able to give Rozema’s head that final screw to the right. Just another quarter turn might have done it. Oh well; you amused us, David, if nothing else.

Hard To Believe, But 25 Years Since Detroit’s Boys Blessed

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.

Leyland Anything But Lame, No Matter What You Read

The next person to call Walter Alston a lame duck will be the first. And the last, for Walt’s ghost won’t have any of that nonsense.

Alston was the longtime manager of the first Brooklyn, then Los Angeles Dodgers, from 1954 to 1976. For twenty-three seasons, Alston ruled the roost, wearing Dodger Blue. He won 2,040 games filling out lineup cards and signaling for the hit-and-run and summoning that guy from the bullpen. But it’s the calling card of the length of the baseball season that Alston also managed to lose 1,613 games – proof that the lineup and the hit-and-run and that guy in the bullpen didn’t always work the way Walt thought.

But he was no lame duck.

Here’s how Alston’s arrangement with the Dodgers went. He’d manage the season. Sometimes the Dodgers went to the World Series, sometimes they didn’t. Regardless, Alston put in his year’s work and then waited for his contract for the next season to arrive in his mailbox, sometime that winter. He’d sign it and mail it back, then presumably head back for the golf course, or the nearest billiards hall.

That was it. For twenty-three straight years.

But he was no lame duck.

You’re going to hear that terribly misplaced and overused term, “lame duck”, in reference to Tigers manager Jim Leyland. A lot. Some of the ink-stained wretches in town just can’t seem to use it enough to suit them.

Jim Leyland, lame duck. Get used to it.

It’s also a bunch of baloney.

Apparently, you can’t have a coach or a manager who’s not signed beyond the current season without also having a lame duck coach or manager. That’s what those miscreant ink-stained wretches would have you believe.

They’ll tell you – over and over, trust me – that Leyland is the dreaded lame duck because the Tigers have the audacity to send him off to battle without a contract beyond the 2009 season.

Lame duck!!

Their “reasoning” goes like this. Since the Tigers players know that the manager has no pact for 2010 and beyond, then he is, in a baseball sort of way, a eunuch. Emasculated, because his arrangement to manage potentially ends with the final pitch of the ’09 campaign. In other words, why should the players listen to and respect and obey a man who isn’t signed long-term?

My goodness, are the Tigers that fragile?

If they lose a few, are they really going to look at Leyland, twirl their mustaches, and “Muwah-ha-ha” in some sort of group effort to undermine him?

Funny, but no one did that to Alston – he of the twenty-three straight one-year contracts.

It should be added here that it was Alston, not the Dodgers, who insisted on the year-by-year thing. His logic? If I don’t do a good job, then I shouldn’t be asked back. If I do a good job, there’ll be another contract for me in my mailbox this winter.

And you would argue with that?

The ink-stained wretches screaming “lame duck!” sure would seem to find issue with such impenetrable reasoning.

Leyland, within the past month, summoned Alston’s words.

“If I do a good job, I’ll keep my job,” he said. “If I don’t, I won’t. Simple as that.”

Indeed.

But it was Leyland himself who needed to come around before channeling Alston.

Shortly after the dreadful 2008 season had mercifully ended – the Tigers a hugely disappointing 74-88 – it was revealed that the front office wasn’t going to extend Leyland’s contract beyond its current length, which was through 2009.

The manager whined and pouted about it.

Leyland went to the papers and told the ink-stained wretches all they needed in order to place the “lame duck” tag on him. He publicly, and foolishly, I believed, called out owner Mike Ilitch, complaining that he – Leyland – had done enough since becoming Tigers manager to warrant some faith and trust. Jim Leyland wanted to be signed past 2009 – but putting his owner on the spot in the newspapers was a funny way of showing it, I thought.


Leyland, it says here, will be ranting on the Tigers’ behalf next year and beyond


Besides, Leyland didn’t earn a look past 2009. Other managers have found themselves in the unemployment line after presiding over the unexpected diarrhea that was the Tigers’ 2008 season. I wrote that Jimmy Leyland should, instead, have thanked his lucky stars that he still had a job, much less crab that his contract was too short.

The ink-stained wretches took another tack.

They endorsed an extension for Leyland – sort of. They went for the “pee or get off the pot” approach: if you want Leyland, sign him past 2009. If you don’t, fire him – forthwith.

Sheesh!

I went on the Internet and told anyone who cared to know, all about Walter Alston and his twenty-three consecutive one-year contracts. I pointed to the Dodgers’ record from 1954 to 1976 and safely argued, I thought, that the franchise had enjoyed a pretty darn good run with Alston receiving contracts in his mailbox each winter.

If it was good enough for a Hall of Fame manager like Walt Alston, then it should be good enough for Jim Leyland. Right? Wrong, according to the Chicken Little sportswriters in town.

Lame duck!!

I was disappointed in Leyland, when he fed into this horsepucky with his public boo-hoo act last fall. I thought he was better than that.

But he seems to have gotten it out of his system.

Leyland won’t talk about his contract anymore, except to say that he’s confident that it will all work out in the end. And he’s absolutely right.

The Tigers, I say, will prove that 2008 was nothing more than a bad dream. With players dotting the roster who are destined to have better years, whether because of good health or otherwise, it’s hard for me to believe that the team won’t be vastly improved.

Which means Jim Leyland will get his precious extension, after all. Probably before the season is much more than halfway old. And no more lame duck talk.

Not that he was one to begin with.

Right, Walt?

The Roller Coaster Grinds To A Halt

A sports era ended in Detroit this week. Perhaps you heard of it. It was a time that had people wringing their hands and double-checking the supply of antacid in their medicine cabinets. Sports talk radio just got a little quieter.

One of the city’s perceived athletic villains is no more.

No, this isn’t about Matt Millen, the ex-Lions president who was “relieved of his duties” on Wednesday. I only have about 900 words left, after all.

Todd Jones isn’t a roller coaster, but he played one on the baseball diamond.

They say Ernie Harwell gave Jones the nickname.

“Here comes Roller Coaster Jones,” Ernie supposedly said into his microphone, back in the earlier days of Jones’s Tigers career. Because with Jones, the closer and the Tigers’ all-time leader in saves who retired on Thursday, it was hardly ever three up and three down in the ninth. It was up and down and around and down and up and across and down – and then the Tigers were on the field, shaking hands after Jones put everyone through the ringer.

Just like a roller coaster. It was yet another of Ernie’s apt nicknames.

But there’s great irony in the moniker, because if ever there is someone who’s so NOT a roller coaster, as a person, it’s Todd Jones.

Why in the world someone would want to be a closer for a baseball team, I’ll never know. You sit in the bullpen for eight innings, sometimes freezing your fanny off, and then, after some two-and-a-half hours of your team clawing and fighting, you’re asked to warm up and, basically, you’ll have one of two outcomes by the time the game is over: hero or goat. Nothing in between. Sometimes a minion will hand the closer a warm up jacket as he departs the bullpen for the pitching mound; he might as well hand him a blindfold and a cigarette.

You save the game for your team, or you blow it. No gray areas. And no one cares if a couple of the base hits were of the bloop variety, or that the umpire squeezed the strike zone, or your shortstop couldn’t come up with the ground ball that had “game-ending double play” written all over it. If you need to get four outs instead of three thanks to your team’s leaky defense, then so be it. Just do it.

It’s a job that has destroyed lesser men than Jones. Literally.

Donnie Moore was the California Angels’ closer in 1986. His team was on the brink of going to the World Series, about ready to nail the coffin shut on the Boston Red Sox. Moore was one out away from saving the clinching game in the ALCS that year. He entered Game 5 in the top of the ninth with a one-run lead and a man on first base. But then Boston’s Dave Henderson drilled a home run off Moore deep into the left field seats, and the Red Sox moved in front, 6-5. The Angels tied the game in their half of the ninth, but the Red Sox won it in extra innings. And they would rally to win the ALCS in seven games.

Games 6 and 7 wouldn’t have been necessary, if only Donnie Moore hadn’t given up that home run. Or so it was written, and talked about, and screamed and cried about, in the days that ensued. Boston’s Bill Buckner and his horrific gaffe a couple weeks later in the World Series took Moore off the front pages. Or so we thought.

Moore let the Henderson home run haunt him. Terrorize him, really. The fans and the media were no help, of course – but then, they never are in situations like that. Moore pitched the 1987 and ’88 seasons, but with not nearly the effectiveness as his pre-Henderson home run days. The Angels released their one-time closer in August, ’88.

Then one July morning in 1989, another baseball season in full swing, the news came in: Donnie Moore was dead. Of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 35. Think about that for a moment. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

So don’t tell me that pitchers who close baseball games aren’t a little goofy, to want to do something as thankless as that.

Todd Jones heard it all in Detroit, especially during his second stint here, which began in 2006 and ended with Thursday’s announcement.

He stinks! He’s costing us! He couldn’t close a door!

Get rid of him!

Jones, you see, wasn’t the prototypical closer by the time he returned to Detroit in his late-thirties. He was, as they say, a pitcher who “pitches to contact”, which is a nice way of saying, “he couldn’t strike out Stevie Wonder even if you spotted Jonesey an 0-2 count.” Jones’s style was to let the batter hit the ball, and hope for the best. That’s not as ill-conceived as it reads. His control was usually pretty good, so you didn’t have to worry about walks. And, he was usually ahead in the count, which meant he held the upper hand in numerous at-bats. But he wasn’t the brute who storms into the game, treating the affair with disdain and acting as if the opposing hitters are making him late for a date with a Playboy bunny after the game. Jones didn’t have that closer’s scowl or the temperament of a hibernating bear being nudged awake. In fact, the way he chewed his gum so fervently on the mound, you got the impression that he was just as nervous as we were. He wasn’t Don Quixote. He was Don Knotts.

Jones closed games as if he was waiting for everyone who had been in line at the concessions, or in the little boys room, to return to their seats, so as not to miss the final out. He didn’t know the meaning of one-two-three, unless it was in terms of how many base runners he was going to surrender before finally ending the matter.

Now, about that irony of which I spoke earlier.

If Jones was a roller coaster on the field, he was a Ferris Wheel in the clubhouse: slow, comfortable, and reliable.

Part of the closer’s job is to field questions from the media, especially when things don’t turn out so well. Then you’re staring at a bunch of bottom feeders in the face who want to know, “Hey, what happened out there?”

I’ve been one of those bottom feeders, and I can tell you that Jones never ran and hid from any of us. If he stunk, he said he stunk. No excuses. No sugar-coating. And no flashes of anger, even after some obnoxiously stupid questions. He manned up.

Oh, and I should tell you that, a few years ago, Todd Jones helped set up a trust fund for a paralyzed high school football player in Jones’s native Georgia. Paid for a new wheelchair ramp and everything for the kid’s home. Jones said that watching the young man battle his horrible misfortune gave him pause.

But you probably didn’t read about that, did you?

Well, now you have.

Tigers’ Willis A Self-Microcosm Of Disappointing Season

Dontrelle Willis would be having a great season – if the plate was high and outside.

I apologize to the unknown baseball observer whose words I have semi-pirated, when he was talking about a young Sandy Koufax in the 1950s. Koufax, before becoming one of the best pitchers of his time, had control problems when he first reached the major leagues – wildness that he had difficulty wrangling in the minor leagues. And it was that lack of command that led to the line from which I unashamedly stole for my opening sentence.

“Koufax would be a great pitcher if the plate was high and outside.”

Sandy Koufax got his control together, and did very well with home plate where it has always been, thank you.

Willis is a Detroit Tigers pitcher, and that’s not just a rumor. Only, he’s not really a Tigers pitcher. He’s a Toledo Mud Hens pitcher. Before that, he was a Lakeland Tigers pitcher. Last year, he was a Florida Marlins pitcher. Just a few years ago, he was considered one of the top young pitchers in the big leagues. The fact that he’s left-handed made him all the more of a precious commodity.

Today, Willis struggles mightily to get minor league hitters out, mainly because he often has no clue where the ball is going. His apparently sudden loss of control is stunning, if not frightening. This sort of thing has ruined promising careers in the past.

When the Tigers acquired Willis along with Miguel Cabrera from the Marlins last December for top drawer prospects Andrew Miller (LHP) and Cameron Maybin (OF), the trade was a bona fide blockbuster. Cabrera is a beast – a 25-year-old manster who’s good for 30+ HRs and 100+ RBI for the next 10 years, at least. If not more. And Willis is a 26-year-old lefty who’s already thrown over 1,000 big league innings, and with a fine 3.78 career ERA. The move looked to put the Tigers over the hump and put the rubber stamp on a playoff appearance in 2008, and for many years beyond. The team was gutting the cash-strapped Marlins, absconding with their two biggest stars.

Cabrera has pretty much held up his end of the deal, despite an atrocious start. He has 27 HRs and 99 RBI after slugging two homers in Friday night’s win over the Kansas City Royals.

On Wednesday, Willis made his second start for the AAA Mud Hens, after sort of earning a promotion from the Class A Lakeland team. Truth be told? Willis was moved up to AAA because, well, you simply don’t keep multi-millionaire pitchers in Class A for too long; it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. He didn’t really earn it with his performances, though they reportedly improved in tiny increments.

In that start Wednesday, Willis threw five innings, surrendered three runs, and – here’s the troubling part – walked five batters. Tigers manager Jim Leyland, as usual, minced no words, sugarcoated nothing, when he said flatly, “It wasn’t a good outing.”

There were no hints, really, that Willis had control issues when the Tigers traded for him. In 1,022 big league innings thru the end of last season, Willis has walked 344 batters. The calculator tells us that such a ratio is about 3.0 walks per nine innings – hardly alarming. But since joining the Tigers organization, Willis has been nothing but wild and exasperating. The control problems surfaced in spring training, but it was hoped that they were the bi-product of switching teams and simply having a poor spring. Then Willis made his first start of the season on the first Saturday of the 2008 campaign, and while he didn’t give up many hits, he walked a bunch. Then he started again, and hurt his leg in the first inning. Then he returned, started again, and once again there was a parade of opposing hitters jogging to first base after taking ball four.

The Tigers sent him down to the minors – wayyyy down, all the way to the bottom feeding team in Lakeland, which plays in a league mainly for rookies and second-year prospects. It’s an instructional league, certainly not one where you’d expect to find a 26-year-old pitcher with 1,000 big league innings under his belt. But Willis was so off the mark with his control, so messed up, it was thought, with his mechanics, that Tigers brass felt only the instructors and baseball scientists in Lakeland could put him back on track.

It worked, as I said, sort of. Hence the promotion to Toledo – one step away from the big leagues. So close yet so far, in the case of Dontrelle Willis.

There’s no indication that Willis will throw another pitch for the Tigers this season – even when the rosters are expanded to 40 players on September 1. He really hasn’t slain his control dragon. There’s still wonderment when Willis throws the ball, as to where it will end up. Usually it’s not in the strike zone.

I’m not the first to draw this comparison, but it’s hard not to think of Steve Blass.

Blass was a Pirates pitcher in the early-1970s who helped lead the Bucs to the 1971 World Series championship. In 1972, Blass pitched nearly 250 innings and won 19 games, with an ERA of under 3.00. He had no control problems. Like Willis, Blass averaged about three walks per nine innings. But the next year, Blass lost it. He pitched 89 innings and walked, get this, 84 batters – the same amount he walked in 250 innings the year previous. He tried to pitch again in ’74 but walked seven in five innings. His career ended, at age 32. His curious and sudden loss of command and control helped spawn a new term, Steve Blass Syndrome. SBS became the terminology whenever a pitcher suffered from sudden loss of control.

Dontrelle Willis was supposed to be an integral part of the Tigers rotation this year. He was supposed to be one of the many reasons why the team was to overwhelm its opponents and cruise to the World Series. He was supposed to continue his path to greatness, the path he forged in Florida. Now he can’t even throw a strike with any consistency. It’s not overstating things to suggest that he may have SBS and will never pitch in the big leagues again – at least with any degree of success.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, but neither was the Tigers season as a whole. Willis symbolizes that by his lonesome.

"Shocking" Pudge Deal Not So Much, After First Inspection

(I'm cheating today. This post also appears on my baseball blog, Where Have You Gone, Johnny Grubb?)


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.

Always A Roll Of The Dice When You Add Latecomers To The Mix

Something funny goes on in Major League Baseball along this time of the summer. As the calendar charges forward to the end of July, the 30 teams get funneled into two categories. And we stop talking about them as baseball teams and start referring to them in Wall Street terms.

Buyers? Sellers?

The deadline for consummating trades between teams without players having to pass thru waivers is July 31. Once the clock strikes midnight on that day, any trade that is made after that point becomes less likely to come to fruition, because all involved players must make it thru the waiver process – meaning that every team in the majors must take a pass on said players, which is not always likely. It’s kind of like going to a garage sale, finding a great deal on a lamp, and having to ask everyone else if they want it – and everyone saying no, before you can purchase it.

The Tigers have been “buyers” the last two seasons – meaning they have something to play for in August and September, and thus are looking to add to their roster. The have-nots – aka the “sellers” – can get into fire sale mode, wanting to peddle as many players (read: contracts) as they can, usually to acquire prospects. And when the buyers and sellers get together on or around July 31, the rumble can be seismic.

But this season, there seems to be some question as to whether the Tigers should consider themselves buyers. Yet, they would appear not to be sellers, either – not with their cache of huge contracts and the recent purging of their farm system. But in baseball when it comes to the trading deadline, you’re either a buyer or a seller. Nothing in between. So let’s call them buyers.

Jim Campbell, the crusty general manager of the Tigers from the early-1960s to the early-1980s, sort of made it his habit to secure latecomers for his manager, trying to give Chuck Dressen or Mayo Smith or Billy Martin or Sparky Anderson those extra horses needed to nip the pack. And as what happens when you are a “buyer”, you must beware. Sometimes those horses come up lame.

Not so in 1972.

Martin was at the helm in Detroit, working his usual magic, and pissing people off in the process – namely, his own players. Nobody could make a closer replica of chicken salad out of chicken feathers than the hyper Martin, and nobody could grate on his players’ nerves quite like Billy, either. Jim Northrup, for one, once told me that he never hated a manager as much as he hated Billy Martin. But check out Northrup’s numbers while Billy was here. Not shabby – which speaks to the professionalism of Northrup, and the fire-lighting ability of Martin.

Martin’s tenure in Detroit (1971-73) was marked with aging veterans and precious few legitimate prospects being groomed at the minor league level. Basically, Billy was asked to coax one more championship out of the core that made up the 1968 World Series-winning team. And he darn near did it in 1972 – with some help from Campbell.

As four teams jockeyed back and forth for the divisional lead – the Tigers, Red Sox, Yankees, and Orioles – Campbell went to work, burning up the phone lines talking to his counterparts who were that year’s “sellers”.

From Philadelphia came lefty pitcher Woodie Fryman. Duke Sims, a catcher/outfielder, was acquired from the Dodgers. Frank Howard came over from the Texas Rangers.

Fryman was sensational, going 10-3 down the stretch for the Tigers. Sims provided clutch hits and batted over .300 after the trade. And Howard, who didn’t join the team until mid-September, hit a couple home runs and became the team’s no. 1 cheerleader. All that was left was for Martin to push the right buttons – and he did so, including those of his players, on occasion. The Tigers won the East by a half-game over the Red Sox, then fell, 3-to-2, to the Oakland A’s in the ALCS.

In 1988, Bill Lajoie tried to supply Sparky with some of those extra horses. And it involved some manic air travel.

On August 31 – the last day players can be acquired and still be eligible for a playoff roster – Lajoie worked out one of those waiver deals with the Baltimore Orioles. Coming to the Tigers would be 36-year-old outfielder Fred Lynn – a bona fide All-Star in his heyday. Only, this wasn’t his heyday – hence him clearing waivers.

Anyhow, Lajoie makes the trade, but according to MLB rules, Lynn must be in the same city the Tigers are in by midnight that night, or else he can’t be eligible for the playoffs. In other words, he has to literally join the team before the clock strikes twelve. Sort of a twisted, baseball version of Cinderella. The Tigers are in Milwaukee, and Lynn’s Orioles were on the west coast when the trade was made. So Freddie hops some planes and lands in Milwaukee a tad before midnight. I’m not making this up.

This SI cover's headline had even more meaning when the Tigers dealt for Lynn in 1988

Lynn is eligible after all. He hits some home runs in September, plays some good defense, and basically holds up his end of the bargain. But the Tigers end up in second place, one game out of first place, when the season’s curtain comes down. Not enough extra horse power, apparently.

In 1993, Jerry Walker is the Tigers GM and he pries another one-time superstar past his prime, outfielder Eric Davis, from the Dodgers on trade deadline day. Davis easily makes it to Detroit in time, and hits a home run in his first game as a Tiger. But the Toronto Blue Jays have more and better horses, and leave the Tigers in the dust.

Two summers ago, the Tigers rescued Sean Casey from the Pirates. In the World Series, Casey was easily the Tigers’ best hitter, going 9-for-17 with a couple of homers. Last season, the Tigers – although considered buyers by most – stood pat, satisfied with their horses. But too many of them came up lame, and before you knew it, the Tigers were done – shoved ingloriously out of playoff contention by the Indians and Yankees.

This year, the Tigers are fiddling around with .500 and they’re on the cusp of being sellers, but they probably consider themselves buyers, if they’re wearing their rose-colored glasses. Trouble is, glasses or not, one thing never changes.

Caveat emptor.

Like Martin Did, Maybe Time For Leyland To Pull A Rabbit Out Of His Hat

Eddie Brinkman was a fine fielding shortstop, one of the best of his time. He once played nearly half a season – 72 games – without committing an error. His glove was about as dependable as you’ll ever find.

The only problem with Brinkman was that he couldn’t hit a lick. He might as well have been swinging a limp noodle at the plate, rather than a piece of lumber. Edwin Albert Brinkman had nearly 6,000 official at-bats in the big leagues, and finagled them to the tune of a lifetime .224 average. In 1972, playing everyday for the Tigers, Brinkman managed a .203 mark – his steady glove keeping him in Billy Martin’s lineup. He had six home runs in 516 at-bats.

So you can only imagine the stunned looks on the faces of Tigers fans who crowded into Tiger Stadium on August 13, 1972 when it was announced over the public address system by the late, great Joe Gentile: “Batting fourth, playing shortstop, number 8, Eddie Brinkman.”

Eddie Brinkman??!! Batting cleanup? The spot of Horton and Killebrew and Aaron and Stargell? Skinny Eddie Brinkman, the man with the Golden Glove and the aluminum foil bat?

Today’s Tigers manager, Jim Leyland, has been reaching deep into his bag of tricks while his talented team struggles under the pressure of too much pre-season praise and regular season underachievement. He’s tried players switching positions. He’s tried yelling and screaming. He’s tried reminding them that they’re good. He’s tried players changing spots in the batting order.

Ahh, that last one – Martin tried that, too. But his method was a bit less scientific. And it’s why Brinkman was the Tigers’ cleanup hitter that August day.

The ’72 Tigers were an old, fragmenting team, still built around the core of the 1968 world champs. Precious few new, young players were being injected into the lineup, mainly because the Tigers’ farm system wasn’t growing any. And it was Martin’s charge to cajole this group of aging vets into one more act of triumph. That he pulled it off should go down as one of the greatest managerial displays ever seen in Detroit. But then again, no one said Billy couldn’t manage. I certainly never did.

So when Martin’s graybeards lost five out of six to slip into second place behind the Baltimore Orioles in the divisional race, Martin had an idea. And when Billy had an idea, there really wasn’t anything that was going to stop him from implementing it. Such headstrongness cost him a few jobs – in many different cities.

What would happen, Martin wondered, if he selected his next batting order out of a hat?

That’s right.

Place the names of the eight position players (there was no DH in 1972) into a baseball cap, and have someone reach in and pluck the names out. And that would be today’s batting order. No joke.

So Martin did that, and here’s what resulted:

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

Martin’s experiment could have been even more skewed, really. Besides Stormin’ Norman Cash batting leadoff (that was weird) and Brinkman hitting fourth, the rest of the lineup wasn’t all that out of whack.

Oh, and the Tigers won, beating the Indians 3-2 – Cash with two hits and Brinkman doubling home a run. Told ya Billy could manage a little bit.

Martin's impulsiveness worked; will Jim Leyland follow suit?

Martin worked his magic through the end of the regular season, nudging his old-timers a half-game ahead of the Boston Red Sox to claim the AL East flag. Then they lost a heartbreaking ALCS, 3 games to 2, to the Oakland A’s. No more lineups drawn out of a hat, but maybe there should have been.

Jim Leyland won’t resort to such chicanery – I don’t think – in order to shake his team out of its malaise, which is now entering its second month. Leyland’s impulsive at times, but he’s no Billy Martin in that sense. Few ever were.

The other night, his Tigers again going gently into the night with nary a whimper, Leyland tried yet another tactic as he spoke into the tape recorders and microphones from behind his desk. He, in one breath, combined sober self-reflection with hope and optimism.

“It’s not that anybody’s not trying. We’re a slow team. When he don’t hit we look lethargic. But we’re a good team. I believe that. But it’s not because of lack of effort.”

The game before, the Tigers awoke from their daze long enough to rally for a 10-9 victory over the vaunted Red Sox. They did it against closer Jonathon Papelbon, who’s a genuine door slammer. Then they went back into hibernation the next night, prompting Leyland to wax sage and wise.

It’s only May 10, and Jim Leyland has run through most of his gamut with his maddening ball club.

But he hasn’t tried drawing a batting order out of a hat. Maybe he’s saving that one, like something in a glass case with the words “Break only in emergency” painted on it.

The old St. Louis Browns, owned by crazy Bill Veeck (as in wreck), once let their fans manage a game, complete with large placards that had the words YES and NO on either side. An attendant would flash a piece of poster board with a question like, “Infield in?” and then wait for the response from the section which possessed the placards. The Browns won that game, too.

Funny, huh?

McLain Could Make It All Back As A Professional Cautionary Tale

Denny McLain is broke, evicted, and has just been arrested again. This hardly qualifies as earth-shattering news. In fact, I’d place it in the same, getting-fatter file of shenanigans like Britney Spears’s latest personal train wreck. Denny’s stuff would be in that file, too.

The latest McLain mug shot appeared in the papers this morning. You could wallpaper a small room with the variations over the years. Denny’s been getting arrested since 1985, you know. And he keeps getting broke. And he keeps reappearing, on the radio, or on TV. Then he gets broke again. And arrested. And reappearing. He’s been running in place for 23 years.

Some Oakland County sheriff’s deputies showed up at McLain’s door in Livingston County’s Hamburg Township on Friday, to finalize an eviction due to a foreclosure judgment that went against him. Then they discovered that Denny had an outstanding warrant, from failing to appear in court on a civil charge back in January. Back to the hooskow went Denny. Another mug shot to add to the collection.

I blame Mayo Smith for all this. It’s always convenient to pick on the dead.

Smith, McLain’s manager in the salad days of 1967-69, let his star pitcher run rampant. It was OK for Denny to flit off and play the organ between starts, and fly his plane to the cities the Tigers were in, and otherwise break team rules, as long as he kept winning. That’s one version, anyway – one that I tend to believe the most. You can find the truth about McLain somewhere, as long as you don’t resort to asking him to tell it.

Smith, and Tigers management – usually a stiff, staid bunch – liked to turn the other way when McLain acted up. After all, Denny did win 92 games for them from 1966-69, including 31 in the World Series year of `68. He took home two Cy Young Awards (’68 and ’69). Maybe they just thought he was a flake – that wink of a baseball term for the fresh, the funny; the oddball. Whatever, it wasn’t until Denny dumped a bucket of water over some sportswriters’ heads in 1970, then was caught with a gun later that year, that he was suspended by the team, and eventually the league.

Oh, there was more that went largely unreported. Jim Northrup once told me of a business idea that McLain hoodwinked some of his teammates into, involving paint manufacturing and distribution. Sportscaster Dave Diles said on an ESPN piece about McLain: “Denny is the kind of person who would stab someone and explain that the victim ran into his knife – sixteen times.”

The sordid history of McLain, off the pitcher’s mound, begins in 1967. He complained late in the season of a mysterious foot injury. The Tigers, his teammates, were in a dogfight with three other clubs for the league pennant. But Denny, thanks to his bothersome foot, was largely unavailable to pitch in September, the race for the pennant in its last leg. The Tigers lost the flag – it being torn from their grasp on the last day of the season. There’s no telling how much a healthy McLain could have changed things.

One of the most understated book titles in publishing history

But here’s the rub. It eventually came out that McLain, in trouble with some gangsters over a bad debt, had his foot stomped on by one of the thugs late that summer. Again, it’s one version. But after what happened since ’67, it’s probably not all that far off the mark – despite Denny’s frequent denials.

So you have that, then the suspension in 1970. Then a disastrous season in 1971 with Washington, to whom the Tigers traded Denny in one of their best, most lopsided deals ever. He was washed up by the end of the 1972 season, at age 28.

There were failed business go-rounds, but that’s no crime. From ’72 to 1985, Denny McLain was simply a sad tale of a once-great player who lost his mojo quickly and whose career went down in flames at a tender age. Usually, that tale is sad enough. But McLain added to it, thickening his file, so much so that I wonder why he never went on the lecture circuit, giving speeches with the theme, “Don’t do what I did.”

Really. If Denny chose to, he could have made a living flying around the country, warning anyone in the crowd – anyone – to not do the things that he did. That’s all. Not even any writing involved. Just an easel, listing his boneheaded decisions, and a big circle to the right with one of those lines through it – the international symbol for NO.

“Don’t do the following...”

He could have made a mint. Of course, he would have maybe needed two easels, come to think of it.

Racketeering and other federal crimes in 1985. Convicted. Released after the verdict was overturned, due to prosecutorial misconduct. Another chance at life. Another chance to get it right.

Bought a meat packing plant in Chesaning in 1993. Charged with embezzling from the pension fund – actually, the WHOLE fund. Convicted in 1995. Thousands of families left holding an empty bag and staring at broke futures. Released in 2003. Yet another chance to get it right. Instead, McLain refused to show any remorse or acknowledge the big deal that his actions caused. He couldn’t care less.

In between, there were more failed business endeavors and several stints on talk radio and television. Someone kept hiring Denny. He wrote a book last year, belatedly titled I Told You I Wasn’t Perfect. Although I don’t remember Denny ever telling us that. I DO recall, however, his frequent cries of “not me” and “well, ME, but here’s why.”

Denny McLain has spent most of his life telling us that things just didn’t happen the way that they appear to have happened. He was a victim, just like those that he screwed.

Well, he’s a felon and a liar. And he STILL could have made it, if he only would have told everyone that, and cautioned them to be his antithesis.

He’s the only weasel I know with nine lives.

You Heard It Here First: Verlander Hall Of Fame-Bound

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.

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.