/scans empty room
Ahem. Despite the fact that I have lost my readership, I am proceeding with a post here. If anyone comes across this by chance, um, hello!
I've been dealing with a pretty severe case of writer's block. I have made several abortive attempts at writing pieces. I've stayed active on twitter, venting frustrations over this debacle of a season thus far by talking about what fragile item I will break next.
Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about the Tigers. Let's talk about Drew Smyly's zip code sized blister, a picture of which he was "kind" enough to post on twitter. Let's talk about Austin Jackson coming off the DL and returning to form. Let's talk about Quintin Berry and the polarizing effect he's had on folks. Seems Tiger fans like being polarized or something. Seems like twitter is the perfect place for people to get their panties in a twist and yell at each other.
My sister came up last Tuesday for a rare chance to attend a Tigers game. We left early for downtown to catch a pre-game meal at a bonfide restaurant since neither of us like boiled hot dogs (sorry, CoPa, get better food). On recommendation, we tried Small Plates on Broadway, and it did not disappoint. Great menu, delicious fare. Highly recommended. Reasonable, too.
My sister got a big kick out of Phil Coke's antics last time she was here, so I got seats in left field again. I found some reasonable tickets on Stubhub in the second row behind the Tiger's pen. She was thrilled. We got to see the young whippersnapper Smyly warm up before the game. Sis: how old is he, anyway? Me: put it this way, I'm basically old enough to be the kid's mom. Sigh.
Here are some shots of Drew during warmups (click to enlarge):
The game. Many sighs. We scored one run right off the bat in the first and then NOTHING. Nothing until a false hope rally in the ninth. Really now, boys, is that hospitality?
Luckily, Phil Coke entertained as per usual. First, upon entering the 'pen, he body slammed/chest bumped EVERYONE. Then, he grabbed someone, not Rojas, but not sure who, by the neck and gave him noogies. I mean, the guy is still twelve. Really. TWELVE. He waved back to my sister, talked at length to some beer vendor, and hopefully helped to make up for the hapless play of the fellas on the field.