There he was, this wacko hippie in a Tigers costume, with the play-by-play lugnuts marveling as if he'd just escaped from Nurse Ratchet. He got down on his knees to pat the mound. He talked to the ball, which seemed to talk back. When a grounder was hit, he chased it like a 6-year-old in tee-ball. He had ratty hair and the face of a Keebler elf. And our might, league-leading lineup? He shut us the fuck down.
I think we maybe scored a run. The girl blew me off. The Detroit crowd went crazy. After the game, they wouldn't leave Tiger Stadium until he came out for a bow. The announcer collared him for an interview. In the bar, they turned up the TV volume, and the entire place went quiet to listen. He nearly fainted, sort of like Tiny Tim at his Tonight Show wedding, oooohing and blushing from the attention. They chanted his name. From that moment on, he was The Bird.
The one and only. The Bird.
They claim he owned one suit, he cut his own hair, that he never passed a vending machine without checking the coin slot for loose change. These days, you wouldn't believe such stories. You'd recognize them as the bullshit spin of publicists. But this guy... he was The Bird.
And I swear, everybody in that bar, every baseball fan in America, that night in 1976 had the exact same thought:
This is what we need.
This is America, wide-eyed and innocent, coming to save itself...
Two years later, he was gone. Arm trouble. Whatever he had, it just disappeared. There was never another Monday Night Baseball like that one. And I frankly am glad that the Yankees were part of it, even if we were on the wrong end that night.
There hasn't been one like him since.
Isn't that sad? Not one.
Mark Fidrych died today. He was 54.
That night, he held our hearts in his hand.
Always will.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Lookit that crazy nutjob pitcher, he's talking to the ball!
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3 comments:
"That ball has a hit in it, so I want it to get back in the ball bag and goof around with the other balls in there. Maybe it'll learn some sense and come out as a pop-up next time."
A woodsman from Western, Mass. as I recall.
I saw the same game.
But had no shot at getting lucky.
Love that Bird.
Thank Zeus he was a Tiger and not a Red sock.
The Tigers were indeed horrible that year, but he brought joy to Motown. Sadly, amid all the hoopla, Ralph Houk pitched him too long too often and ground the Bird's shoulder into mush.
He was indeed giddy, crazy, happy to be there. And it made you happy to watch him.
But the best part is, he never complained that his career was cut short. Never did he moan that he deserved better, that the breaks should have gone his way, that the great rookie year only made it harder for him to face the shortened career.
Forget about ballplayers--How many PEOPLE do you know with that kind of disposition?
Joy is a fleeting thing.
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