I'm Deeply Moved...

The stars aligned evilly tonight. Tigers baseball was postponed. Day night doubleheader scheduled for Sunday. Now what am I supposed to do this evening? I came up with a suitable, if not completely satisfying substitute for "real" baseball. In honor of the late James Gammon, who recently passed, and who played Cleveland manager Lou Brown, and to recognize Bob Uecker's return to the broadcasting booth, I am watching Major League.

I actually saw Major League in a theater in Skokie, Illinois when it was released. Shut up, I know I'm old. At the time, I kind of thought it was stupid, I"ll be honest. The film grew on me in time, of course. Classic lines are repeated until they are worn out, and there is no parallel for Bob Uecker's drunken comic genius.

Pitcher Eddie Harris smears various, ahem, substances in strategic places on his body in order to add a little movement to his anemic fastball. Willie Mays Hayes puts his batting gloves on AFTER he arrives at first base. Rick Vaughn walks the bases loaded on twelve straight pitches to begin his major league career. "Juuuuust a bit outside."

Ok, I'm not going to repeat everything you already know about the movie. Suffice it to say that it was a nostalgic trip down memory lane. Thankfully, there will be baseball tomorrow. How on earth do I ever make it through the off-season?

You know what? There might be a valuable lesson we can take from Major League. Maybe our boys are coddled too much. Maybe the MLB life is just a smidge too swanky. Let's remove a perk or two and see how our club performs, shall we? Let's strip away a little of the pampered, rich and famous, glammed-up lifestyles these boys take for granted. Maybe a little working-man's mentality would rub off on our prima-donnas. It's not that I don't think our ballplayers put forth effort, but who doesn't go through the motions now and then? Going through the motions may have cost us a playoff run last year. I'm going to tell Dave Dombrowski to take away those foofy robes Johnny Damon bought for all the players. No more massage chairs in the clubhouse. Sycophantic entourage members are verboten. Let's enforce a strict curfew on the road. (Well, Miggy, that goes for home as well. Sorry.) The boys can read classic comics instead of canoodling with groupies. Then we'll see if we can prevent another stretch run collapse. Ha.