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Michigan-Ohio State TWICE In Football? Never!
Posted by: | CommentsSome things are simply meant to be done once per year.
Thanksgiving. Christmas. Cleaning out the garage. Flossing.
And Michigan playing Ohio State in football.
What’s this I hear about the Big Ten/Twelve?
What’s this I hear that thanks to the new divisional alignment, Michigan and Ohio State have been separated, playing in two different divisions? What’s this I hear that because of this heresy, Michigan and Ohio State may sometimes play twice—once at the end of the year, as usual, and again the following week in the Big Ten/Twelve Championship Game?
U-M/OSU, Part II—after a one-week intermission?
Say it ain’t so, Jim!
Jim is Jim Delany, the commissioner of the Big Ten/Twelve. He’s the screwball who is presiding over this trampling of tradition.
Delany says he was afraid that, by keeping Michigan and Ohio State in the same division, the two schools would never get a chance to play for the conference championship.
Two words for you, Jim.
OK, I can’t use those two, so I’ll use these: WHO CARES?
Let’s get something straight about Wolverines and Buckeyes clashing on a gridiron.
It’s almost less about winning than it is about peeing in the other team’s Wheaties.
In Michigan-Ohio State, the loser feels worse than the winner feels good. For 364 days, the losing team has its insides gnarled. It’s 51 weeks and six days of cloudy skies and wind and rain. Your team loses and it’ll be a year, at least, until you’re able to crack a grin.
There’s nothing worse than being the loser of Michigan-Ohio State on the last football weekend in November. So you can imagine how the Wolverines fans are doing nowadays, their team unable to beat the Buckeyes more than once over the past nine years.
I submit that when you win a Michigan-Ohio State game, you feel little more than relief and satisfaction. When you lose, you feel like you just swallowed lye.
So what could be sweeter than to have Michigan and Ohio State in the same division, if for no other reason than to give one school the chance to ruin the season for the other?
That’s what Michigan-Ohio State has often been about—pouring sugar in the other team’s gas tank.
Nothing can do that better than to play the other guys with a chance to knock them out of contention for the Big Ten/Twelve title.
Let’s face it: The scales have tipped in the conference. It’s no longer the Big Two/Little Eight anymore. Ohio State is still elite, but Michigan is scuffling.
So the chances of Michigan and Ohio State meeting as divisional champs seem to be dwindling, though it could still occur on occasion—setting up the scenario where the schools would play twice in one season.
Doesn’t matter. There should NEVER be a scenario where Michigan and Ohio State play twice in the same year, much less on successive weeks. Let the loser feel lousy for a year!
On the other hand, there should ALWAYS be the possibility that Michigan or Ohio State could ruin the other’s chances of being divisional champion, thus knocking them out of a conference championship contest.
I get the winner-take-all camp, who desires to see The Game still have a chance at being a conference decider. But under the new alignment, that would necessitate there being TWO The Games.
For whatever reason, Delany and others looked at the tradition of having Michigan playing Ohio State on the season’s last weekend as being an “either or” thing. In other words, “You can have your ‘The Game’ on the last week, but only if we split the teams into separate divisions.’”
Huh?
Why not have both?
Why not keep the schools in the same division, AND keep The Game on the final weekend?
So Michigan will never play Ohio State for the conference championship under that scenario.
Once again, WHO CARES?
Either school will savor a Big Ten/Twelve Championship whether it comes against Iowa or Purdue or Nebraska. It would be the scrumptious dessert after a meal of Wolverine or Buckeye the week prior.
And if a scuffling Michigan or Ohio State is able to derail the other’s championship dream for that season?
Oo-la-la!!
Look, I know that ALL conference games count in the conference standings, regardless if they’re played against divisional rivals or not. And yes, that means that a team can still rain on another’s parade from the other division.
But how about when both Michigan and Ohio State end up on even footing—and yes, it will happen again. When that happens, if they’re both in the same division, things are likely to come down to the winner of Michigan-Ohio State being division champs, and moving on to the conference title game.
Loser gets those gnarled insides. As tradition dictates.
You’d have Michigan play Ohio State from separate divisions, and the loser getting another crack at it a week later?
It should never work that way.
Did Nixon get another try at Kennedy a week after the 1960 presidential election? Did they hold another Daytime Emmy Awards ceremony a week later so Susan Lucci could have another shot?
Hey, did MLB allow the Red Sox to play the Yankees again after Bucky Dent broke the Beantowners’ hearts?
Michigan should play Ohio State once, and once only, in football every year.
The winner can move on. The loser can bounce off the walls for a year, for all I care.
You win that game, you feel great. You lose it, your world comes to an end for 364 days.
That’s what Michigan-Ohio State football is all about. It’s “See ya next year,” not “See ya next week.”
You can’t have a proper Michigan-Ohio State football rivalry if the loser gets to feel better about themselves in 168 hours.
Delany coughed up the football on this one, I’m sorry.
Strasburg Latest to Prove How Tenuous a Pitcher’s Career Can Be
Posted by: | CommentsIt was no less than Tom Seaver—”Tom Terrific”—who went to extraordinary lengths to protect his right arm, which he astutely realized was nothing more than his livelihood.
Seaver, while traveling as a player, wouldn’t carry any of his luggage with his right appendage. In fact, he tried mightily to do nothing with his right arm other than hurl baseballs at 90+ mph toward enemy hitters.
Seaver was the prototypical power pitcher of the 1970s—strong leg kick, violent arm action. His right knee would often scrape the dirt of the mound as he delivered the baseball to home plate. Seaver got more strength from his legs than any pitcher I’ve ever seen.
But it was his exemplary right arm that earned him his living, and so Seaver treated it as the mythical goose who laid the golden eggs.
Seaver enjoyed a long, storied career. A sure-fire Hall of Famer, Seaver was. You could see it coming in the late-1960s, when he burst onto the scene, and throughout the ’70s Seaver was among the top two or three pitchers in baseball.
Seaver knew rightly that at any moment, it all could have come crashing down, no matter how much care he took of his right arm.
The pitcher’s arm wasn’t cobbled together by God to withstand the whiplash-like tension that throwing baseballs incur on it. There’s nothing natural about the pitcher’s throwing motion. If a pitcher’s arm could talk, it would need a seven-second delay.
The American worker is all too familiar with layoffs and downsizing. Most of the time, the worker has no control over whether he stays or he goes.
In a profession where control is everything, a pitcher ironically has none of it, either—in the truest sense.
Companies and corporations lay off workers. A pitcher’s arm decides such matters.
How many times have we seen it? One last, violent whipping of the arm, and something goes snap, crackle, or pop and that’s the last we ever see of that hurler on a big league mound.
Every pitcher is one throw away from the end of his career. Not trying to be dramatic—it’s the truth.
In Detroit, we may have seen the last of lefty Bobby Seay and right-hander Joel Zumaya. Maybe not, but maybe. Both of them have serious arm/shoulder issues. Seay is scheduled to have surgery soon that may knock him out for all of 2011—after missing all of 2010.
It could also knock him out, period.
Zumaya’s injury-pocked career has been frightfully documented. When last seen, Zumaya was rolling around on the grass at Target Field in Minneapolis, in tears due to a broken elbow—an elbow literally broken by throwing a pitch.
Dave Dravecky’s left arm just about snapped off as he delivered a pitch, leading to the arm eventually being amputated.
Amputated!
The young phenom Stephen Strasburg’s career hangs in the balance today, his golden right arm in disrepair.
Strasburg, the biggest thing to hit a pitcher’s mound in years, is 22 years old and will have to undergo Tommy John surgery. If all goes well, Strasburg has a shot of pitching sometime in 2012.
If it doesn’t…
People often ask: What did they call Tommy John surgery before Tommy John came along?
It’s a trick question.
Unlike Lou Gehrig’s Disease, which had a medical name prior to Gehrig’s diagnosis, Tommy John surgery had no name because Tommy John was the first professional athlete to undergo it.
The surgery works thusly: a ligament in the medial elbow is replaced with a tendon from elsewhere in the body (often from the forearm, hamstring, knee, or foot of the patient).
You can imagine how groundbreaking this was when Dr. Frank Jobe famously performed the operation on the Dodgers’ John in 1974. And you can imagine how amazing it was when John returned to form and was pitching again in the big leagues in 1976. Even more astounding was that John pitched until he was 46 years old.
So there’s certainly hope for Strasburg, and baseball, which needs a kid of his freakish ability on an MLB roster.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a professional pitcher and feeling a “twinge” in my elbow or shoulder, or anywhere on my arm for that matter.
I can see why Tom Seaver went to such great lengths to protect his golden egg-laying goose.
Still, it can all end so quickly, without any warning.
I don’t ever begrudge the big league pitcher his large salary. You could be out of the game in your 20s, just like that.
Pit Bull****
Posted by: | CommentsIf you want a dog for protection, get a German Shepherd. Or a doberman. Or a rottweiler.
Owning a pit bull is like walking around with a cocked gun that has a hair trigger.
The aforementioned dogs in the opening sentence provide security without attacking out of the blue (for the most part). The pit bull clearly has some issues.
They come in waves, these pit bull attacks. And when a wave comes, it’s of the tidal variety.
We’re on the crest of one now. Pit bulls are running amok in Metro Detroit these days.
Yesterday, a four-month old baby’s scalp was bloodied. The other day, a family’s five-month old puppy was mauled to death and its teenaged owner was badly injured by a pit bull gone mad.
Those are just two of the recent pit bull incidents reported over the past several weeks.
It’s not just the dog itself—the owners of these violent animals are culpable. For example, it’s amazing how many pit bull owners don’t keep their dogs chained, tied, or otherwise under control.
I’m a dog lover. Let’s get that straight right off the bat. We currently own an epileptic Jack Russell Terrier who is precious to all of us. So my anti-pit bull stance isn’t because I wish a pox on dogs of all breeds.
Too often, the missing ingredient is that elusive element we like to call “common sense.”
Pit bull owners will tell you that their breed gets a bad rap. They’ll say that the pit bull only attacks when provoked, or that if it is violent, it was somehow made that way by an irresponsible, perhaps sadistic owner.
I can go along with the latter, but what’s provoking about a teenager walking his puppy without trespassing? Or a four-month old child minding his own business? If that’s considered enough to provoke another dog to attack, then something is wrong with the attacking dog.
The lovable pit bull
I’m not sure what the answer is, because it’s not easy regulating who owns what pet. What muddies the issue further is that when pit bulls attack, it’s very often the first instance of violence that the animal has ever exhibited.
In other words, if you own a pit bull you own a ticking time bomb that only counts down internally, so we can’t see the detonation coming.
I don’t think that pit bull owners are bad people, any more so than the owner of any animal is a bad person. But I do think that too many pit bull owners lack responsibility and that much-ballyhooed common sense.
The pit bull attack is scary because the animal’s jaws are so strong and so is its barrel chest, and the ferocity is mind-boggling when it happens. A smaller dog or even a human can be killed within a minute or two.
Do we dare try to eradicate pit bulls? They aren’t on any endangered species list, but if we make their breeding illegal, that might be a start.
For all who think that might be unconstitutional or otherwise tromping on dog owners’ rights, come talk to me when we start reading of a spate of Golden Retriever or Pomeranian attacks.
Chelios’s New Role Par for the Red Wings’ Course
Posted by: | CommentsThe Detroit Red Wings do a lot of things well—win hockey games, take care of their players, represent the Original Six with aplomb. They show up to the playoffs every year and it’s never as an afterthought, like someone slipping into an elevator just before the doors close.
Four Stanley Cups since 1997, plus some close calls that could have brought that number to five or six.
Now the Red Wings are becoming a feeder program for team and league executives.
Brendan Shanahan, an NHL Vice President.
Steve Yzerman, GM of the Tampa Bay Lightning.
And now Chris Chelios, the newest Red Wings front office man.
It’s not likely to end there.
What might defenseman Nick Lidstrom be asked to do, when he hangs up his skates—assuming he returns to Sweden? The NHL could use Lidstrom in their hierarchy, perhaps as an ambassador or liaison to hockey in Sweden or elsewhere.
You think Kris Draper will just fade away? I can see him as a coach or in the front office in Grand Rapids, a few years hence.
I can just picture Chris Osgood traipsing to Traverse City every September to work with the team’s young goalies.
The Red Wings aren’t just a hockey team, they are a hockey institution, literally. It’s where you go to be educated about the game and contribute to hockey society after your playing days are done.
Joe Louis Arena may as well add some ivy onto its old brick walls and a build a campus bookstore and student lounge inside. Players shouldn’t get a playbook, they should get a syllabus.
Look at GM Ken Holland.
Holland was a struggling minor league goalie when the Red Wings secured him from the Hartford Whalers organ-EYE-zay-shun (this is hockey; gotta pronounce it correctly). In 1985, Holland finished his brief NHL career with the Red Wings, who saw something in his intuition for the game and groomed him as a scout, starting in his home turf of Western Canada.
One thing led to another, and before long Holland was back in Detroit, learning how to be a hockey manager (hockey people don’t say GM) under Scotty Bowman, no less.
After Bowman had held the dual roles of coach and manager from 1994-97, it was decided that Holland was ready to take over the managing.
The transition was seamless; the Red Wings won another Cup in 1998, Holland’s first year as manager.
Look at assistant GM Jim Nill.
Nill was acquired as a player late in his career, and when he retired, the Wings again saw something and made Nill an offer to stay in the organ-EYE-zay-shun.
Before long, after also going the scouting route, Nill ended up as Holland’s right hand man and as the Red Wings’ draft specialist.
Look at advanced scouting director Mark Howe.
Howe joined the Red Wings in 1992 as a 37-year-old geezer looking for another kick at the can, after two failed Finals appearances with the Flyers.
The Red Wings made the Finals in Howe’s last year as a player (1995) but were swept by the Devils.
No matter. Howe wasn’t allowed to fade away, either. The Red Wings made him a scout, too (see a pattern here?), and true to form, Howe was eventually promoted to advanced scouting director, which means he’s in charge of scouting upcoming Red Wings opponents in the regular season and playoffs.
Howe, thanks to the initial post-playing job offer, wears four championship rings, albeit all gained in Armani instead of on skates.
Look at advanced scout Pat Verbeek.
Howe was Verbeek’s boss, essentially. Patty Verbeek, known as The Little Ball of Hate as a player, was in the Red Wings’ scouting department ever since retiring from the NHL several years ago, until Yzerman hired him away to work for the Lightning.
The highest-profile examples of this Red Wings-as-an-institution of higher hockey learning thing of course are Shanahan, who’s doing marvelous work for the NHL, and Yzerman, who’s gaining his footing as the Lightning’s new man in charge.
Tuesday, Chelios officially retired as a player and joined the Red Wings front office. His role is still being defined, as Yzerman’s was when he retired in 2006. But Holland said Chelios will advise Holland, will advise coach Mike Babcock, and will work with the team’s defenseman prospects. For now.
Holland is still a relatively young guy—not in his 60s yet. He won’t budge from Detroit anytime soon, but the Red Wings are starting to send former players from the ice to the executive washrooms of their own team, other teams and even the NHL itself.
It’s yet another affirmation of the Red Wings’ place as a beacon of hockey smarts and its status as the best organ-EYE-zay-shun in the NHL, by far.
Could’ve Ben Better
Posted by: | CommentsBen Affleck has been disappointing.
I look at Affleck, who has a new film coming out soon—a movie that he directed, wrote, and stars in—and I can’t help but think that he could have been so much more.
It’s been 13 years, believe it or not, since the 38-year-old Affleck burst onto the scene in Good Will Hunting, a film he co-wrote and co-starred in with Matt Damon about a math wiz who needs guidance.
The movie introduced us to Affleck, a nice-looking, well-spoken young man who looked to be the next big box office male lead. Co-star Damon seemed a tad too nerdy looking to assume that mantle.
But something happened on the way to stardom for Affleck. He made a lot of so-so movies; some were downright awful.
He could have been so much more.
There were some decent flicks: Armageddon, Shakespeare in Love, Boiler Room. But they weren’t blockbusters, and they weren’t yesterday. We’re talking about a decade ago.
Instead, there’s been Changing Lanes, Gigli, Jersey Girl, Surviving Christmas, and it hasn’t been so much what Affleck has done, it’s been what he hasn’t — which has become the matinee idol that so many of us thought he was destined to be.
He’s done “Saturday Night Live” many times and he’s poked fun at his failed relationship with Jennifer Lopez and he’s not had a bad career—just not one that reached its potential. My opinion.
So here comes The Town, slated for a September 17 release, in which Affleck plays a career bank robber who starts to grow a conscience, while at the same time trying to elude the FBI.
Affleck is the biggest name in the cast, though fellow players like Jeremy Renner and Jon Hamm are probably recognizable by face.
A movie star’s career—and it’s often different than an actor’s, because there can be a distinct difference between actor and star—is at the mercy of variables outside the control of the player.
Script selection, though, is where the player has to be accountable. No one held a gun to Affleck’s head and ordered him to do Surviving Christmas.
But Affleck is only 38. He can still turn things around. Maybe The Town is the vehicle that will help him to do that. We’ll see.
I look at Ben Affleck and I don’t see failure. I just don’t see what I thought I’d be seeing, when he arrived on the scene in the late-1990s.
It’s been an uneven career, where I thought he was destined for Burt Reynolds or Chevy Chase or George Clooney-like box office power.
But he’s only 38. It’s far from over.
In Pittsburgh, the Bucs Stop in April
Posted by: | CommentsThe Pittsburgh Pirates will not have a winning record this season.
And water is still wet. The sun still rises from the east. Telemarketers still call at the dinner hour. Wile E. Coyote still hasn’t caught the Road Runner.
You know how whenever you watch a boxing match, no matter how little-known the fighters are, they always have winning records? This defies logic, because somewhere out there must be a fighter with a record of like 5-45. A tomato can with gloves.
The Pittsburgh Pirates are that tomato can.
It’s 18 in a row and counting—the Pirates’ streak of losing seasons. The last man to guide them to a ledger where the left hand column read higher than the right was none other than the Tigers’ own Jim Leyland, back in 1992.
That was about 18,000 packs of Marlboros ago.
It was also when George Bush—the first one—was president. Steve Yzerman was 27 years old and wondering if he’d ever win a Stanley Cup. VHS tapes were still all the rage. The Lions were good.
In 1992, when the Pirates sported a 96-66 record and went to their third straight NLCS, Barry Bonds was still in the Dr. Banner stage of his career, pre-Hulk. He could actually fit through a doorway without turning sideways.
Leyland had dark hair and lighter lungs. Lloyd McClendon was one of his players. Andy Van Slyke, too. The Pirates played in Three Rivers Stadium, along with the Steelers, who were still being coached by Chuck Noll.
The Florida Marlins and Colorado Rockies weren’t even teams yet. The Milwaukee Brewers played in the American League. Randy Johnson was still young.
Tigers fans grouse that their team has been disappointing since 2006, when Leyland led them to the World Series in his first year in Detroit. 2006 did in fact end an 18-year streak of playoff-less baseball in Motown.
But the Pirates fan has the Tigers fan beat because at least the Tigers had two winning seasons among those 18 (1988 and 1993).
A typical Pirates season means being out of contention by Easter. And that includes the years when Easter has fallen in March.
There should be a sign outside of PNC Park: The Bucs Stop Here.
Baseball seasons can be cruel and heartbreaking, like kids on the playground or your college girlfriend.
Baseball seasons can tease and give you a come-hither look and motion for you to come upstairs, and when you get there you see skeletons of the men before you—like that Monty Python sketch with the milkmen.
The baseball season is arduous and long and has more peaks and valleys than the Dakotas.
Except in Pittsburgh.
In Pittsburgh, there never is any hope. There’s no teasing. Just mocking.
The calendar flips to February, the Pirates gather for spring training, and already the folks there are talking about the Steelers’ chances or girding up for the next Penguins playoff run.
Then comes March and the exhibition games come, and the people up north in the Steel City plead with the media down in Florida not to let them know of all the tripping over the shoelaces and the throwing to the wrong base and the striking out with the bases loaded—because there’ll be plenty of time for that between April and September.
The Pirates are usually something like 8-17 in April, and by the time the kids get out of school in June, the Games Behind First column in the standings is in the 20s and growing faster than Pinocchio’s nose at a game of liar’s poker.
At the end of the season the Pirates are always 67-95. It’s uncanny.
For 18 seasons now, the Pirates have been playing the role of the team that all the others feel they should beat. The other 15 teams in the National League have two different kinds of vacations on their schedule: the All-Star break and whenever they play the Pirates.
As is always the case with losing franchises, it’s never a case of lack of trying (unless you’re the Los Angeles Clippers). The Pirates try. But when the Pirates try, it’s like when George McGovern tried to beat Richard Nixon. Or when Chuck Wepner tried to beat Muhammad Ali.
About that.
The Pirates don’t win because they never have enough talent. Their last decent catcher was Jason Kendall, and that was eons ago. They used to have Jason Bay, if that floats your boat.
The Pirates, since 1993, have been like an expansion team stuck in the baseball version ofGroundhog Day. They’re always young, inexperienced, and made up of minor leaguers. Every year. Again, uncanny.
Actually, one thing has changed. The Pirates used to finish last in the NL East. Now they finish last in the NL Central. So there’s that.
Pittsburgh hasn’t seen baseball this bad since the early 1950s, when Joe Garagiola was the Pirates catcher. Back then, the Pirates would go 50-104, and the only attraction was Ralph Kiner. Today the Pirates go 67-95, and they’d kill for someone half as good as Kiner.
With a history of 90-plus-loss seasons dotting the past 18 years, you’d think the Pirates would be using the revolving door method of hiring managers. But since Leyland’s last season in Pittsburgh in 1996, the Pirates have only had four skippers—and two of them sit in the Tigers’ dugout as coaches today: Gene Lamont and Lloyd McClendon.
It’s on the roster where there’s been the revolving door. The names change, but not the talent level. The Pirates rosters have been a Who’s Not Who of baseball.
This year the Pirates even outdid themselves in their mediocrity. They hit loss No. 82—thus guaranteeing a losing record in the 162-game schedule—last week, which is a new record for them in terms of promptness. They typically don’t lose their 82nd game until about a week or so later than that.
As I write this, the Pirates are 43-84. They’re on pace to lose about 107 games—even more Piratian than usual. Their roster, as usual, is filled with 20-somethings who are household names—they’re only known in their own household.
Ba-dum-BUM!
But the Pirates have one thing going for them. They have a player who has the best name in baseball: outfielder Lastings Milledge.
Just call him Last for short. Seems appropriate.
By Rejecting Red Sox, Damon Ingratiates Himself with Detroit Sports Fans Forever
Posted by: | CommentsThe Detroit sports fans are an easily scorned bunch.
When they’re happy and when it’s moved them, the Detroit sports fans have long cheered the miscreants, the black sheep types. They’ve leaped from their seats to yell themselves hoarse for pugilistic, alcoholic, drug-taking hockey players. Players coming off suspension have been greeted like returning war heroes.
They’ve also booed mightily at some of the most talented athletes to ever roll through this town.
The basis for this is quite simple.
Work hard and show that you want to be here, want to be one of us, and we’re behind you through thick and thin.
But display a desire to be elsewhere, and you’ll get a swift kick between the back pockets.
The Detroit sports fan is fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault. And he/she expects that same loyalty from the athletes wearing the city’s uniform colors.
I’ve seen them go mad for Bob Probert, when Probie was living in an apartment near enough to Joe Louis Arena so he didn’t have to drive—because he couldn’t, thanks to legal issues. I’ve seen them rise and roar for him when he battled the Blackhawks and the bottle, and cocaine.
I’ve also seen them mercilessly boo Sergei Fedorov, a player infinitely more talented than Probert and who defected from Russia and who helped the team win three Stanley Cups, because Fedorov had the temerity to flee as a free agent.
Because of this insecurity that the Detroit sports fans have ingrained in them, Johnny Damon should forever be a member of their fraternity.
Damon has rejected a trade to the Boston Red Sox. He’s turned his back on a better playoff race, and playing for a higher profile team. He’s said no to chasing the Yankees and the Rays and being on ESPN every week and a chance to rekindle old, strong teammate relationships.
Damon has pulled a reverse from the playbook. Normally it’s the Detroit teams that lose players to the brighter lights of fame and relevance.
Damon, 36, was placed on waivers and the Red Sox claimed him. He had about 48 hours to approve a trade to Boston, since the Bosox were not one of the eight teams to which Damon would consent being traded.
The Red Sox wanted him for real. They say it wasn’t merely a procedural move to keep the Yankees and Rays from making a play for him. Red Sox players of the magnitude of Jason Varitek and David Ortiz reportedly reached out to Damon, campaigning for him to return to Boston, where he spent some of his finest years.
This is where it usually goes against the Detroiters. This is where the celebrated player is wont to tell us it’s been nice and all, that we have a decent town, but that the allure of the Red Sox or the Celtics or the Lakers or the Patriots is too damn much to resist.
Except when it comes to the Red Wings.
But these are the Tigers, and they’re 63-63 and nine games out of first place and seem to be nothing more than destined to finish Show to the Twins and White Sox’s Win and Place.
This is Detroit with its hard-scrabble town and its beleaguered, unemployed fans and a baseball team that’s never on ESPN and which has fallen out of the playoff race faster than a sinking lead balloon.
No matter. Damon is staying.
“I’m not jumping ship,” he says.
Damon loves the city and the organization and the fans and being a mentor to all the Toledo Mud Hens surrounding him.
“I’m almost a player-coach,” he said recently, and it was with pride, not prejudice.
Damon likes the Tigers so much that he is making early overtures to come back in 2011, putting some pressure on the front office. He even went so far as to say that had he been traded elsewhere this season, he’d still like to come back next year. And he’d only agree to a trade to a team not on his list of eight if he could be guaranteed that the Tigers would get good young prospects in return.
When was the last time you heard a player say that?
Damon says in his heart he’s a Tiger. And he’s only been a Tiger since February.
The Detroit sports fan eats that stuff up. Damon is exhibiting that desire to be here in spades, belying his relatively short time in town.
What Johnny Damon did this week, nixing a trade to a better team with a more grandiose near future just so he could stay in Detroit and play as a Tiger, won’t soon be forgotten by the sports denizens in this town.
The love he gets here from now on ought to be the 180 degree opposite of the vile he has gotten from Red Sox fans ever since leaving Boston for New York some five years ago.
Damon left a good thing once, and it’s come back to haunt him.
He’s not about to make that same mistake again.
And Detroit will forever love him for it.
Havin’ WHOSE Baby?
Posted by: | CommentsThirty-six years ago, the worst song of all time reached #1 on the Billboard charts.
That sounds like opinion, but it’s almost morphed into fact.
The poll was conducted by CNN in 2006. The winner (loser?) was Paul Anka’s ode to his expectant wife, “(You’re) Having My Baby,” which found itself on the top of the charts on this day in 1974.
Anka, whose songwriting prowess cannot be denied, penned a stinker when he wrote “YHMB,” which was written in celebration of the impending birth of Anka and his wife’s fifth child. Anka wrote the song while appearing at Lake Tahoe.
At the suggestion of United Artists recording executive Bob Skaff, Anka was asked to change the song from a solo effort to a duet with virtually unknown vocalist Odia Coates, who made the mistake of being present in the studio when the song was about to be recorded.
Anka took a lot of abuse from women’s rights activists, who saw the lyrics and the spirit of the “YHMB” to be highly chauvinistic, egotistical, and basically obnoxious.
Among other issues, the song was criticized for declaring the child was the man’s, rather than the couple’s. Anka would later replace the line “you’re having my baby” with “you’re having our baby” while performing in concert.
The song was so vilified that Anka would often simply omit it when he sang a batch of his old hits in concerts.
Then there’s the 2006 CNN poll, which placed “YHMB” at the top of the heap when it comes to all-time bad songs.
Paul Anka
The National Organization for Women gave Anka the satiric “Keep Her in Her Place” award during “its annual putdown of male chauvinism” in the media on Women’s Equality Day. Ms. Magazine “awarded” Anka their “Male Chauvinistic Pig of the Year” award.
All that, yet the song achieved great commercial success.
One of the lines from the song that took some heat stated that while the woman could have “swept it from [her] life” (abortion), she hadn’t because it was “a wonderful way of showing how much she loves him” In response to feminists, Anka said the song was “a love song”.
The song is typical 1970s shlock—a syrupy melody and an arrangement that screams lounge singer.
But it topped the charts, 36 years ago today.
Perhaps no Paul Anka quote is more appropriate for this discussion than the following.
“I believe in criticism,” he once said.
And he’s gotten a ton of it, for a song he probably innocently wrote over three decades ago.
Monday Morning Manager
Posted by: | CommentsLast Week: 4-3
This Week: KC (8/23-25); at Tor (8/26-29)
So What Happened?
The Tigers had a “sandwich week.”
Their bread was a win over the Yankees on top and a sweep of the Indians on the bottom. In between there were three losses to the Yanks.
Kind of like good rye bread with head cheese inside.
Still, it was a winning week—4-3 when so many of them recently have been lopsidedly losing.
The week also showed the vast difference in competition between the Yankees, who might be World Series-bound again, and the Indians, who are among baseball’s dregs.
But the Tigers will take their four wins and run, won’t they?
Hero of the Week
MMM likes this Will Rhymes cat.
It’s too early—far too early—to determine whether Rhymes can be a serviceable, everyday second baseman. But it’s not to early to render an early, snap judgement on the kid.
MMM likes Rhymes’ range, his arm, and the fact that he appears to be a throwback to the hard-nosed, pesky middle infielder of days gone by.
Rhymes was recalled last week as a replacement for the perpetually-disabled Carlos Guillen, whose knee took a hard slide from the Yankees’ Brett Gardner on Monday night.
Rhymes rapped out four hits in Sunday’s win over the Indians, and scored three runs. Since his recall, Rhymes is 8-for-17 with five runs scored. His batting average is up to .310.
Even better is that Rhymes swings lefty, and solid-hitting middle infielders who bat left-handed aren’t aplenty.
MMM likes how Rhymes always seems to be in the middle of things—rallies, double plays, you name it.
But his time with the Tigers is still a small sampling.
If the Tigers make a splash in free agency this off-season, and pick up some offensive pieces elsewhere, maybe Rhymes can be the everyday second sacker in 2011 and beyond.
Close runners-up: the Tigers’ starters in the Cleveland series, who made the Tribe look helpless most of the weekend.
Goat of the Week
The Tigers’ bullpen’s luster keeps becoming more of a distant memory.
With the exception of solid and steady Phil Coke, the relief corps has been as guilty as any for the team’s freefall after the All-Star break. Leads have been lost and close games have turned into laughers, thanks to the guys in the pen.
It didn’t manifest itself against the Indians, but it sure did in New York, and that was just a continuation of a nasty trend that’s more than 30 days old.
MMM has been cranky with the bullpen for a few weeks, and this time it lands them as Goats of the Week.
Upcoming: Royals and Blue Jays
Things never seem to go according to plan when the Tigers play the Royals, whether it’s in Detroit or in Missouri.
The Royals have a knack for taking series from the Tigers when you least expect it, and when the timing couldn’t be worse.
Nothing is really all that crucial now, because the Tigers are out of playoff contention. Still, it would be nice to take 2-of-3 heading into Toronto—especially since the Tigers won’t see Comerica Park again until Labor Day.
If the Blue Jays were a boxer, they’d be a slugger with no finesse. Their ballgames are like Marvin Hagler-Tommy Hearns battles.
The Blue Jays like to pound you into submission, slamming home runs at a dizzying pace. If you like four-baggers, the Blue Jays might be the most exciting team in baseball. Earl Weaver, who just turned 80, would love to manage them.
The Tigers don’t play on artificial surfaces too much, and they’re not really designed for such an environment. Yet they would be best served avoiding a slugfest with the Jays, whose entire lineup, just about, can take you deep.
Perhaps looking ahead to the Jays series, the Tigers reportedly are recalling slugging outfielder Casper Wells from Toledo today.
That’s all for MMM this week. See you next Monday!
Sudden Immortality Forever Link Thomson, Branca
Posted by: | CommentsBobby Thomson didn’t hit his famous home run off a tee, in case you were wondering.
Nor did he flip the ball into the air, fungo-style, and swat it over the left field wall at the Polo Grounds on October 3, 1951.
Most of the great history makers had sidekicks.
Charles Lindbergh had the Atlantic—and his plane. Dr. Jonas Salk had mold. Elvis Presley had his hips.
And Bobby Thomson had Ralph Branca.
Thomson, auteur of the biggest walk-off home run in baseball history, died this week at age 86.
It was Thomson who slammed Branca’s pitch into the Polo Grounds seats in the bottom of the ninth of the tiebreaker game between Thomson’s New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers, lifting the Giants into the 1951 World Series.
With one swing, Thomson became as famous as Babe Ruth, even though he was one-tenth the player that Ruth was.
Such is the gravitational pull of the legendary singular moments that occur from time to time in baseball, a sport where nothing can happen until the pitcher hurls the ball toward the plate. After that, all bets are off.
Thomson’s three-run home run capped a furious second half charge by the Giants, who found themselves double digits in games behind the Dodgers at one point during the 1951 season.
The Giants chomped into the Dodgers’ lead like a Pac Man game until the two teams were in a dead heat by season’s end. Baseball rules at the time mandated a best-of-three playoff to determine the league champion.
The teams split the first two games of the playoff, and the Dodgers were ahead 4-2 when Branca was summoned from the bullpen in the ninth inning of Game 3.
Thomson had some power; he hit 264 home runs in his 15-year career. This wasn’t Bucky Dent/1978 at the plate.
You know what happened. Branca threw, Thomson swung, and Giants radio announcer Russ Hodges lost his mind.
“THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT”
A young whippersnapper on Bleacher Report suggested to me that Hodges’ call—long heralded as the most famous in sports history—was overrated.
“All he did was yell the same thing over and over,” the whippersnapper whined. “What was so special about that?”
If he’d been sitting next to me I would have backhanded him across his puss.
Instead, I took a deep breath and wrote back to him that Hodges’ call gained so much notoriety because it was basically the very first dramatic sports call captured on audio tape.
That, plus even many non-sports fans know what “The Giants Win the Pennant!” refers to.
Branca, by the way, is still alive, if anyone has cared to wonder.
He’s 84 and enjoying his retirement at the Westchester Country Club in Rye, New York.
What’s fascinating, to me, about the Branca/Thompson connection is that neither player was anything close to being a Hall of Famer. If they didn’t have the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” no one beyond their own families would know who they were after retirement.
Branca was 88-68 with a 3.79 ERA. He made three All-Star teams but he was no star, per se. Thomson had a career batting average of .270 and ended up becoming a journeyman, playing for five teams from 1946 to 1960. Thomson, too, made some All-Star teams but All-Star rosters throughout history are teeming with dogs who had their day.
Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca were joined at the hip the moment that baseball soared into the seats at the Polo Grounds on 10/3/51.
Baseball’s Batman and Robin, forever.
Ironically, just months prior to his death, Thomson was finally showing signs of Branca fatigue.
For decades, Thomson had been haunted by accusations that sign-stealing engineered by Giants manager Leo Durocher enabled Durocher to somehow signal to Thomson what pitch was coming from Branca—specifically a fastball.
Thomson vehemently denied those charges.
In a Q&A with the New York Post’s Steve Serby published in May 2010, Thomson says those who accuse him of benefiting from sign-stealing are trying to take something away from him.
Among the accusers: Ralph Branca himself.
“Naturally I’m not happy about anyone who takes away from me the one thing that I’ve always thought, the one thing I can take credit for (that) I’ve earned in my baseball life,” Thomson told the Post.
So does Thomson have any hard feelings toward Branca re: the sign stealing accusations?
“I just got a little tired of having that home run taken away from me. I was glad to get down here in Savannah (GA) and get away from it. In the last four years, (Branca’s) called twice, I guess to do a card show. I’m all through with card shows, and I wasn’t going to come to New York. I’ve had enough of Ralph, and I’m sure he’s had enough of Thomson.”
Thomson also hit a homer off Branca in Game One of the playoff. Funny how no one has cried about stealing signs when it comes to THAT dinger.
But a word about Ralph Branca.
On the day Jackie Robinson made his big league debut in 1947, the number of folks against the idea of a black man taking a Major League Baseball field included many of Robinson’s own Dodgers teammates.
In fact, only one of them had the temerity, the courage, and the sense of decency to stand alongside Robinson during the playing of the National Anthem prior to the game. The others refused.
That man was Ralph Branca.
Indeed, the sign stealing thing aside, Thomson calls Branca “A very decent person.”
Baseball immortality strikes like lightning—it shows no preference based on skill, stardom, or reputation. And it comes with no warning whatsoever.
The Tigers had a light-hitting shortstop named Cesar Gutierrez, a career .235 hitter. Yet on June 21, 1970, Gutierrez went 7-for-7 in an extra-innings game in Cleveland. He came into the contest hitting a robust .218.
Ty Cobb never went 7-for-7. Nor did Ted Williams or Rogers Hornsby or Tony Gwynn.
I love the suddenness of baseball fame and infamy. The sport has a propensity for it that makes it, in my mind, America’s greatest game.
“It’s a funny thing with Ralph Branca and me ending up the way we did on the ballfield,” Thomson told the Post.
Indeed.