Counting Down

Twenty-six days.  The home stretch is in sight.  We’re rounding the final bend of the grotesque, baseball-less off-season.  I, for one, am not entirely sure I’ll make it through these last three+ weeks.  One more story about our closer situation may send me toppling over sanity’s edge.  One more mention of Jhonny Peralta’s weight loss may loop me into idiocy.

I don’t generally attend Opening Day.  I have a couple times, but usually defer a day or two.  As much as I want to end the months long baseball fast, I prefer to avoid triple-priced parking, and a legion of drunken fans that don’t know a whole lot about baseball.  Do you have a tradition of attending Opening Day?  I’d love to hear your reasons for going or for staying away. 

Just pushing through the turnstile again is enough to put a smile on my face.  The weather is largely immaterial.  Last year, the first game I attended included a medley of wintery delights.  It blew freezing air, snowed periodically, and sleeted for a few minutes here and there.  Good times.  I never got cold, as I was bundled like little Randy from A Christmas Story, and was armed with hand and foot warmers.  Preparation, folks.  Fans don’t get a vortex of heat blown at them like the players in the dugout.

I have a confession to make, and I’m not sure if it’s ok or not.  After Magglio Ordóñez’ departure (sob), I thought long and hard before selecting Max Scherzer as my Tiger.  I still love Max, but I also have a lot of feelings for Austin Jackson.  Can I have two Tigers?   Please?  Don’t take this to mean that I don’t love Justin Verlander and Miguel Cabrera.  I do.  They are players of a generation, and I feel so fortunate to have them on my team.  But it’s almost like they’re EVERYONE’S Tiger.  They belong to us all, and no one needs to choose them as his/her personal Tiger.  Just tell me it’s ok for me to have Scherzer and Jackson.  Even if you tell me it’s verboten, I’ll secretly harbor them both anyway, so whatever.

Lastly, I know I haven’t written much on here at all lately.  I am almost at a loss as to why.  Posts just used to spring readily to my mind without any apparent effort on my part.  Such has not been the case as of late.  And yet, I have been loath to shut the site down.  I don’t know.  We’ll just have to wait and see how this season goes.  Thanks for bearing with me if you have.  I’m very grateful.  Now, excuse me while I go back to my spot at the window, waiting for April 1 to arrive. 

Why Octavio Dotel was Wrong...and RIght

When the Tigers were making a mockery of themselves in the World Series, Octavio Dotel thought one of the players should address the team.  He thought it should be Miguel Cabrera, presumably because Miggy is one of our best players.  This logic is all wrong.  Being really good at a sport does not make you a leader.  It could make you an on-field example/mentor, but it doesn't make you a team leader.

Was Michael Jordan arguably the best ever on the hard court?  Yes.  Was he a leader?   Not so much.  It's ok for the team's leader to be someone other than the best player.

If Dotel saw a need for a team speech, he should have addressed the team himself.  He obviously felt something needed to be said.  Well, speak up!  You're a veteran player who is also a veteran of the playoffs.  Share your wisdom, in the name of balls and strikes.  Don't wait for someone else to do it.  I don't blame Miggy one bit for declining to have the leadership mantle thrust upon him.  If he doesn't feel it, there is no reason to force it.

A lot of people scoff at team chemistry.  Others felt there was a leadership vacuum this year, largely due to the absence of Victor Martinez.  

I've got double good news for you.  One, Victor Martinez will be back with the Tigers next year.  Granted, we don't know what production we'll get from a guy who has spent as much time off the field as he has, but in the clubhouse, we know his presence will be felt.

Two, Torii Hunter has signed with the Tigers.  Now, Torii himself said he isn't a big rah-rah speech type of guy.  But I have evidence that he is a leader.  In an interview around the time of the MVP award announcement, Mike Trout was asked what Angels player helped him most.  His answer?  Torii Hunter.  He said his guidance was invaluable, especially early on when he was overwhelmed and scuffling.  What do you know about that?  The new guy IS a leader.

So, take heart, those of you who pined for leadership this past season, I think you'll be happy with what you see in 2013.  Now, if only it would hurry up and get here.

I Didn't Kill a Turkey Today

I'm a vegetarian.  Turkeys give me their thanks via Hallmark every year.

Since I can't give thanks for a championship, I'd like to share a few things that made me smile this season.  Sometimes you just have to isolate things and enjoy them for what they are.  Playoff implications have a way of coloring everything about your team and its performance.  Let's speak no more of expectations.  Moving on to "happy times for Tigers fans."

1.  April 8.  I was in attendance for Alex Avila's walk off dinger in the 11th inning.  Tigers 13, Red Sox 12.  If you don't remember this game, peep the play-by-play at Baseball Reference.  The weather was gorgeous for early April.  I had to take off my long sleeves and bask in the sun in my t-shirt.  Please get your minds out of the gutter.  I removed the long sleeve shirt in the ladies' room.  Geez.  Besides, how's this for a visual?  Rolls of fat spilling over the waistband of my jeans.  Anyway, that was a fabulous ending to what would have been a demoralizing loss.

2.  May 18.  Justin Verlander takes a no-hitter into the ninth inning.  Josh Harrison hit a one-out single up the middle to squash the no-hitter, but it was another stunning performance (we're really spoiled), not to be soon forgotten.  Hmmm, that game could be a keep-the-off-season-depression-from-getting-debilitating must-see.  If you were there, I'd love to hear about your experience.  I wasn't at this one, but just to be annoying, I'll remind you that I WAS at JV's first, and by first, I mean most important, no-hitter.

3.  June 5.  My brother-in-law bought my sister tickets to the game for Mother's Day, and we enjoyed a great dinner at Small Plates before heading to the park.  Our seats were three rows behind the Tigers' pen.  Little sister likes Phil Coke and his general silliness, and I don't need to tell you that he was in full goofball mode before the game.  He body slammed every single person in the bullpen when he walked in, including the cop.  The Tigers lost to Cleveland lost 4-2, but any game I go to with my sister is a good time.  However, poor little sis now believes she is curse on the club, as a seemingly innumerable number of games she's been to have landed in the L column.

4.  Miguel Cabrera wins the triple crown.  I have to admit it was a little strange, because I kept saying that the playoffs were more important, and the triple crown was a really cool thing, but not something on which to fixate.  But, as the season's end drew closer, I couldn't hold back even if I wanted to.  The crown was clinched when the Tigers were in Kansas City, and all I could think was that the Royals should tear the giant crown off Kaufmann's jumbotron and coronate Miggy right then and there.  Tears of joy for everyone!

5.  ALDS Game 1.  My generous employer sprung for tickets, and my friend Nicole and I got to be a part of the holiday known as Post-season Verlander Day.  Even though Coco Crisp led the game off with a home run, the Tigers ruled the day 3-1, so everyone went home rather frozen, but happy.  The MVP chants for Miggy were so thunderous that they echoed back and noone knew where the chant began or ended.  It was glorious.

6.  Sweeping the Yankees in the ALCS.  No further commentary required.

7.  Miguel Cabrera wins the MVP of the American League.  In a debate filled with acrimony and stubbornness, Cabrera came out the victor over Mike Trout.  I was surprised at the result.  I still can't understand why a legion of fans refused to accept that both players were deserving.  So many morons on both sides stuck to faulty arguments and resorted to putting down the player they weren't supporting.  To see the things accomplished by Mike Trout and Miguel Cabrera in one season of baseball is just astonishing.  We're fortunate to have seen it first hand.  It should have made you love the game even more, if that were possible.  Justin Verlander's "Keep the MVP in the D" shirt made me smile every one of the 50,418 times FSD showed it.

I didn't mention anything from the World Series, because the 2012 World Series is dead to me.  The pain has not begun to leave the chambers of my heart, nor will it any time soon.  My allergies have been insufferable ever since the end of Game 4.  Weird.

Anyway, my last item of thanks is not from the season, but it involves a certain free agent by the name of Torii Hunter.  Mike Ilitch opened his wallet once again, and Mr. Hunter earned a giant fake key to the city of Detroit by declaring he wanted to come here, wanted to get the deal done, is hungry to win, and...well I can't quote the entire love-fest of a presser.  Go watch it again, here.  Gratitude flows your way, Mr. Ilitch, and I hope that the championship you have desired for so long follows.

A Word About the Fall Classic

Well, it’s been a while since the unmentionable happened.  I’m just now able to begin talking about it without blowing out blood vessels and such.

I know a lot fans would love to be upset about losing the World Series, because that would mean their team was IN the World Series.  But I just can’t get to that place.  I can’t be happy just to have been there.  I’m sorry.  I realize it probably comes off as pouty and spoiled. 

I’m not saying the season was a failure.  I’m just saying it hurts, I mean really bludgeons the soul to lose the World Series.  Getting swept out of the World Series?  Feels like The World’s Strongest Man’s fist grabbed my heart muscle and squeezed it until there was just dry flesh.

I just talked to someone who was at Game 4.  He stayed for at least 20 minutes after the game to witness the trophy presentation.  It never happened on the field.  The weather had worsened, so apparently the presentation was made in the visitor’s clubhouse.  He said he was disappointed.  Disappointed???  I’d have bloody well been relieved!  Not sure I could handle seeing the symbol of the championship paraded about by the Giants, with Romo photobombing every five seconds.  Not sure I could handle it at all.  I guess pouty and spoiled is fairly accurate after all.

I was pretty sullen that next day, as once again I had World Series tickets to a game that wasn’t played.  I feel accursed in a very special way.  Someone brought me my favorite Thai food, so I could comfort myself by binging, but the rest of the day was a giant sinkhole of suck.  As people at work “consoled” me, I spouted phrases like “there are real tragedies in the world” to make it sound like I wasn’t being such a first class crybaby over the whole thing.  I had to talk to clients on the phone with feigned patience and goodwill, when I just wanted to crawl into bed and lie wretched and sleepless with the covers pulled over my head.

I would like to admit that I am an absolute rube.  Not for a single moment did I believe the Tigers would get swept.  Not even when they went down 3-0.  Nope.  DID. NOT. BELIEVE. IT.  Neither my heart nor mind allowed even a speck of doubt.  So, when the 27^th out was recorded in game 4, I stood there rather numbly, not quite knowing what to do.  I didn’t cry this time (yes, I sat there with tears streaming down my face in 2006, sigh), but I had to choke back “feelings” a couple times.

I watched the Sergio Romo interview and then clicked off the television.  I couldn’t go to sleep, of course, but there was no more watching of the Giants revelry.  People on twitter were saying goodbye to the season, and sometimes each other, and talking about next year.  Those farewells made me want to sob my guts out.  This game.  When you love it, it consumes you.  Now all we can do is sit by the window and wait for Spring.

A Fool's Paradise

I wish I could explain to you what happened to me today (Sunday, September 16, 2012) while taking in the Tigers/Tribe finale.  I'm going to try, but I fear that my attempts to convey the events, the emotions, the resulting pile of rubble, will fall far short of what actually transpired.  Let us start at the beginning.

The Tigers had taken the first two games of the series, and stood one game back of Chicago in the divisional standings, with 17 games to go (including today).  Chicago had handled the Twins in both of the first two games of their series.  I resisted the urge to say the Twins rolled over for Chicago.  Five gold stars for taking the high road there.

The weather was a gorgeous fall day: sunny, mild--perfection.  The date, September 16, is my wedding anniversary, so I had some juggling to do, what with honoring that occasion and paying proper due to the gravity of this and every other game that remains.  Fortune smiled on me for a short while, as the kid got invited to a friend's, and the spouse wanted to take an afternoon nap.  I set up my radio, got out the necessary score-keeping accoutrements and prepared to enjoy the game al fresco.  I even determined not to let Jim Price annoy me too much.

I missed the very beginning of the game, and was mildly concerned (wholly unhinged) to hear that Austin Jackson was a late scratch, his ankle having lost a battle with the outfield wall yesterday.  IknewitIknewitIknewhewouldn'tbeokayafterthatIknewitwouldcomebacktohauntwhatarewegoingtodowithoutmyAjaxheisindispensiblewewillnevermakeitdoomdestructionandforfeitthegamerightnow.  Yes I said we.  Yes I am a loser that deserves all the snarky disdain you can dish.

I started scoring after the Tigers had put two runs on the board.  I have to say, things were very nearly idyllic.  The light breeze, the moderate rays, the sounds of baseball.  Couldn't ask for a better time, really.  I may or may not have been intoxicated by these powerful euphorics.

Then, the bottom of the 5th happened.   Four straight double play balls and NOT A SINGLE DOUBLE PLAY TURNED.  Error(s), infield hits, questionable calls, ejections, near ejections--PURE MAYHEM, PLAIN AND SIMPLE.  When the dust cleared, the Tribe had the lead and my lovely afternoon was in serious jeopardy.  I tried to slow my gulping, enraged breaths, looked around for something to kick, and ultimately sat bewildered, but still roiling.

At this time, I took intermission from the game to felicitate the years of marriage, reminisce about being young and in love, etcetera, etcetera.  I'll not bore you with any further particulars. You're very welcome.

Needless to say, I took a brief moment to capture the rest of the game on my DVR prior to embarking on anniversary celebrations.  When I returned to the contest, I was watching rather than listening, but still keeping score.  OF COURSE, OF COURSE before I even began playback of the recording, SOMEONE referenced some detail about the game, to which I shrewishly replied that I had taped it and could you please refrain from any more spoilers, you moron, I mean my beloved husband.  Let this be a cautionary tale to you, that no matter how careful one is to remain "in the bubble" and away from sources that could destroy the sanctity of an unwatched game, it almost never works.

I rather wish I hadn't seen Alex Avila take a Prince Fielder forearm to the face.  I would have preferred not to view replay after replay of Avila getting knocked down and nearly out.  I MEAN, WHY WAS PRINCE NOT CALLING AVILA OFF???? I KNOW, I KNOW, HE PROBABLY NEVER SAW HIM COMING AND IT'S NOT HIS FAULT, BECAUSE YOU NEVER TAKE YOUR EYE OFF THE BALL, BUT HE IS NOT A FORCE YOU WANT TO SEE COLLIDING WITH YOUR ALREADY BATTERED BACKSTOP UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE WHATSOEVER.  In the end, Avila walked off the field with a little help from his trainer friends, but you know, concussion scare, freak out, more hand-wringing.

I rather wish I hand't seen Don Kelly tumble off the wall after attempting to make a play on Santana's deep fly to right.

I rather wish I hadn't seen Jose Valverde blow the save, even though it was his fourth outing in five days.  It was a rather hard thing.

I rather wish I hadn't witnessed Lloyd McClendon walk two batters intentionally to load the bases for Chisenhall.  Not that I fear Chisenhall, and yes, I know the runner was already at third, but I HATE STUFF LIKE THAT, INTENTIONAL WALKS ARE EVIL INCARNATE, ESPECIALLY IN LATE INNINGS.

I rather wish Chisenhall hadn't jumped all over the first pitch and walked it off in our faces.

I rather wish Chris Perez hadn't started jawing all over again, drawing the attention of Miguel Cabrera.  I see he is intent on waging all out war between the clubs, so that is fine, just fine, Perez.   Noone will forget any of your junk, and I can't wait to hand you another "low point of your professional career."  I realize that as of right now, Perez is luxuriating in the fact that his team took the season series from the Tigers, and is negatively impacting our playoff chances.  Whatever, I've got more serious concerns for the time being.

I will only say one more thing before I pass out in a fit of exasperation.

I loathe more than anything depending on the outcomes of other teams' games to determine my team's fate.  SO TAKE FATE BY THE THROAT AND DRAG HER TO THE 2012 PLAYOFFS, TIGERS.

Incoherent Streams of Baseball Consciousness

Of late, baseball of the Tiger variety has been making me feel like the Mad Hatter, so I'm going to slosh some tea into a few broken cups and expose you all to blasts of rabid lunacy.

Peavy's blue eyes are rather piercing as he looks out of the dugout in the 7th with a Sox runner on third and only one out in a game that's knotted up at 4.  As Beckham stands in, I fantasize that his hand is broken in five places from that earlier hit-by-pitch.  He's handling the bat fine, so, guess not.

Dotel wears his cap like a trucker--lightly perched atop his head.  I hate that.  Give me Max Scherzer's old school look, por favor.

Tenth pitch of Beckham's at bat.  He loops one out to center, and it is deposited safety into Austin Jackson's glove.  Insert a bunch of strained, but relieved hysterical laughter here.  Aside number two, I was instructed by my 13 year old, who looked over my shoulder and exhaled dragon breath in my face, to change what I had typed as Ajax to Austin Jackson.  I TOLD YOU THERE WOULD BE RAMBLING VAGARIES!

I know people have just had their stuff and lives threatened by a natural disaster and such, but I selfishly can only think of the fact that I still look for Magglio Ordóñez when the camera pans the dugout.

Miguel Cabrera steps to the dish to chants of MVP.  This after being vilified mercilessly last night when he failed to run out a ground ball to end the game last night.   HE IS EXPERIENCING THE SAME WILD SWINGS FROM DESPAIR TO EUPHORIA THAT I AM.

As the Sox make the call to the 'pen, Pitbull's "Give Me Everything" plays over the PA.  I curled up into a ball and rocked it out as I thought of all the runners stranded in scoring position in Victor's absence.

Prince comes up and gets beaned by Thornton in the shoulder.  BASES ARE JUICED FOR DELMON YOUNG AND ZEEEEEERO OUTS.  All I can do is laugh maniacally because I think of the many ways we're going to squander again and strand every duck on the proverbial pond.  DELMON, DELMON YOUNG, I SAY, clears the bases with a gapper to left, but tries to get to third and is out by a mile.  Rod tells us it was "just outstanding coaching there by Gene Lamont sending Fielder home."  Oh Rod, I just...even crazed babble fails me at the moment.

Peavy's brow now contracts rather peevedly (see what I did there) in the dugout and his mouth twists in displeasure.   HA, JAKE PEAVY, HA!  Actually, I kind of like Peavy.  But never, ever tell anyone that.

You see my state of mind, here?  You see the diseased thinking patterns, the freaking out at every turn?   It's all your fault, Tigers.

Avisail Garcia is in this game, y'all.  And so is Joaquin Benoit.   Rod says his numbers this year are outstanding.  Yes, Rod, the number of home runs he has surrendered is nothing short of horrifically OUTSTANDING.  IMAGINARY BLOGGER CAPS COP, COME AT ME, I MAY NEVER TYPE IN LOWER CASE AGAIN.

Benoit gets a nice strikeout of Wise, and sends Youk back to the dugout hacking at the air as well.  I guess he just needed me to yell about those home runs a little.  All that's left in the 8th is DUNN DUNN DUNN, who reminds me of one of my most loathed players of all time:   Rob Deer.  Home run or strikeout.  That is all you get.  Man I hated Rob Deer.  And Dunn better not get comeback player of the year.  Dunn went around, but 3rd base ump Gary Cedarstrom rules he didn't, so Benoit has to throw one more pitch to STRIKE OUT THE SIDE, WOO!  I also dislike when people say that someone struck out the side if runners reached base during that inning.  Even if all the outs are strikeouts, I feel that the term striking out the side should be reserved for retiring all batters on Ks in order.

After a routine defensive play by Ramirez (you expect me give him credit?) to retire Peralta, Omah hits a bloop single, and swipes second.  I will only call Omar Infante "Omah," like the Red Sox fan that always called Nomar Garciaparra "Nomah."  Sorry.  I can't help it.  That's how I always say in in my mind.  Couple Ks for My Ajax tonight, but a triple, too, so just be quiet with your "austinjacksonstrikesout" hashtags.  Dirks could pad our lead here, and we might need every run we can plate.  He pops out harmlessly to Youk.  Sigh.

Top nine.  Papa Grande.  Two quick outs, but I'm scared to even think we might finish this thing off here.  Of course, A.J. Pierzynski is up.  Of course, we would love nothing more than to strike this turkey out and see his walk of shame back to the dugout as we point in the faces of the putrid Sox.  But Valverde can't find the plate and its a four pitch walk.  I look around for things to break, but there's not much left, honestly.  I'd like to avoid grabbing the fireplace poker and smashing out the glass fireplace doors, because we've had some critters come in through the chimney before, and I don't particularly care to have another bat land ON MY FREAKING FOOT IN THE HOUSE AND I'LL BET MY NEIGHBORS COULD DO WITHOUT THE BLOOD CURDLING SHRIEKS.  Yes, that was an actual thing, and I won't describe to you how I was awakened in the night to this wild creature.  But, if you want to send me consolatory gifts, feel free.

Hahahaha, Valverde gets Viciedo on a pitch that was actually quite a bit inside, IMO.  YUP.  THAT's ABOUT RIGHT.  Rip that jersey out of your uniform pants, and dance.  DANCE PARTY, USA!  Yes, I am decrepitly old, and I'm sure you've never heard of Dance Party, USA, which was an actual show when I was a teenager.

I think I've traumatized everyone enough for one evening, and the Tigers won, so, you know, high fives all around.

Walking It Off

A good friend of mine hung up his blogging cleats.  This makes me rather sad.  I'm not so secretly hoping that it's a temporary hiatus, and not goodbye forever.  But who knows?  I haven't been posting much myself lately, but can't quite bring myself to put the shutters up.  It's hard to give such a thing up.  I might even have to choke back a tear or something.

Scott told me a little while back that he was going to be punking out quitting the blogging game.  I kind of didn't believe him.  He was churning out a lot of great content, so it really didn't seem possible.  Also, he lies a lot.  I thought he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger when it came down to it.  Even I can be wrong once in a while.

Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you to Scott Rogowski for entertaining us for the past four years.  Many times when I was bored, I'd beg him to write something.  He's also been my shoulder to cry on whenever the Tigers make me crazy.  Designate Robertson will stay on my blog roll indefinitely.  Feel free to browse the archives, and check periodically to see whether Rogo has come out of retirement.

Take care, my friend, and accept my gratitude for a spectacular blogging career.  Way to go out on top.