Breakdown

I have now been reduced to a blubbering pile of snot, tears and tissues. I am in a state of total inability to cope. There's nothing left on which to maintain a hold. It has all slipped through my fingers and gone bye bye into the stratosphere.

Jim Leyland suspended for spitting sunflower seeds on umpire.

Tigers run out a lineup in which Will Rhymes is leadoff hitter.

Tigers acquire Jhonny Peralta.

I begin to laugh in maniacal, frightening bursts that are akin to wracked sobs.

Rays walk Miguel Cabrera when runners are on first and second to load bases and face scuffling Brennan Boesch. Strategy works.

Seriously. I got nothin'. Am totally bereft of sanity.

That's it. I can't write another sentence.

Lucky Bracelet Works Its Magic

I had a Detroit Tigers bracelet that looked much like the one pictured above, but it had blue stitching instead of red. Late last season, the bracelet went missing. I wore it to every game, so I was extremely disturbed that it was apparently lost.

Lo and behold, what did I find last week? The very same Tigers bracelet, which had found its way into a hole in the lining of my purse, and had been languishing in the very bag I use only for Tigers games. So, in point of fact, it had accompanied me to the games, but was not adorning my wrist. Well, lost treasure was found, and I wore the bracelet to last night’s game.

And what do you know?? After the Jays inexplicably pitch to Miguel Cabrera, but intentionally walk Brennan Boesch, unlikely hero Ryan Raburn hits a three-run double to put us ahead for good. Yes, the lucky bracelet is responsible. Yes, you can thank me for the win. Yes, I believe in its power. You should too. It may salvage this wreck of a season. It may help Magglio Ordóñez’ ankle to heal in record time. I am only sorry I wasn’t there Saturday night with my talisman to prevent the injury from happening in the first place. I’m sorry Magglio. I let you down.

Hey, if you send money, I will travel to St. Pete and bring us victory against the Rays. I am willing to make such sacrifices.

Rogo of DesigNate Robertson and I agreed, it felt like someone close to you died after Saturday night’s game. It was if our season had suddenly been terminated, but we still have to go through the motions for two more months. Now don’t get me wrong. I haven’t totally given up on us, but things are looking more than a little bleak, you know? I hope the young rooks go out there and play their tails off, and show everyone a little something, but you just can’t bank on it. Things might get a little weighty for them. Two outs, two on, down a pair of runs…that sort of thing.

So, encourage the youngsters, pull for them, and be patient with them...and never underestimate the power of the bracelet.

Mourning Magglio

I can only say that fate smiled upon me tonight in one small way. I did not witness the accident at home plate in which Magglio Ordóñez broke his ankle. If I had, I would have most likely burst into tears on the spot. Seriously. As it was, when I watched the clip on MLB.com, I felt queasy and misty all at the same time. It was horrifying. And devastating. And so not fixable.

Now some people might be all smug and satisfied that Magglio's option for next year will almost surely not vest.

Not me. Magglio has been MY TIGER since the middle of the 2006 season, when I asked myself in all seriousness, who IS my Tiger??? I didn't have one particular Tiger at the time, and the campaign finally got a hold of me. I had to have a Tiger. I settled on Magglio, and have never looked back. I'm very loyal. You may or may not remember that last year when everyone was calling for Magglio's outright release, I stood by him. I don't want to lose Magglio to free agency if his option doesn't kick in. I'm sorry. It's just how I feel. Sure there are fleeter afoot. Sure, he's the other side of 35 now. Whatever. I want him.

To top it all off, our playoff hopes are severely impacted. Our lack of depth has now reached crisis point. Terrific. You'll probably tell me next that Chicago traded for Prince Fielder. You know what? If they did, please spare me the news at least one more day.

Tonight is dark, maudlin, and hopeless. I don't think I'll sleep a wink.

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.

A Game Was Won and Other Nonsense

In the fourth inning of today’s game, Austin Jackson hit a soft ground ball right back to pitcher Ricky Romero. It was as sure an out any, yet Jackson ran down the line as if he sniffed an infield hit. He was thrown out easily, but I was impressed by Jackson’s hustle. Now, some might say work smarter not harder, meaning Jackson should have jogged down the line, because in case of an error, he would still have time to make it to first safely. I think young Jackson just has an all-out mentality, which is impossible not to admire. He shows us every night that he never gives up on a ball. Many times, I’ve thought he had no shot at getting to a ball, and he has proven me wrong more often than not. A lot of people have joked about how Jackson has put Curtis Granderson out of the minds of Detroit fans. It’s hard to argue that he hasn’t. He’s played defense way above expectations, and his hitting has been fantastic too, if overshadowed a little by fellow rookie Brennan Boesch. I grant you his batting average on balls in play (BABIP) is outrageous and unsustainable, but if he cuts down on strikeouts as that number comes back to earth, he’ll be ok.

Sigh. In the bottom of the seventh, Rod Allen warns that if Leyland sends Worth and Jackson strikes out, he’s a dead duck at second. Moments later the warning is unheeded and we have a strike ‘em out, throw ’em out double play on our hands. Sigh. Mike Rogers could pretty easily revive his Fire Jim Leyland blog right now. I guess he’s too busy over at Bless You Boys, but just sayin’.

Well, all’s well that ends well here today as Papa Grande got the save, and got right back on the hill after the wildness that characterized last night’s outing—an outing calculated to give us all nightmares. Thank you Big Potato for showing us that was just an anomaly. WHEW.

In the Fox post-game show, Ryan Fields interviewed Miguel Cabrera. He asked Miggy how he continues to come through in the clutch. The Puma played the humble hero’s role, deflecting the praise, giving credit instead to teammates for getting on base in those big situations, and saying how they all have to work together to get it done. Adorable. And I really don’t get why people whine about a big language barrier with Miguel. I speak virtually no Spanish, and I understood him perfectly. Sure, there’s an accent, but if you just listen a smidge more carefully than usual, you’ll be fine. I like when it’s not just Brandon Inge in the post game interviews.

Finally, I must protest against stupidity. Someone on sports talk radio was talking about acquiring Adam Dunn and moving Miggy to third. Are you a moron? Miguel has shown he just doesn't have it at third. He plays very well at first. He's a legitimate triple crown candidate. And you want to mess with this???? Please, go away. Stay away from my Tigers. Go become a Milwaukee Brewers fan, would you?

In the Bell Jar

We have arrived. At a horrifying place. A fourteen inning gauntlet that ends in consecutive loss number six. Johnny Damon makes a baserunning gaffe on a play that should have ended the game and winds up standing at third. Carlos Guillen then grounds into a disastrous double play to end the eleventh.

I blame the hitting in such situations. If the pitching staff has gone out and put up zeros for four innings in a row, the offense has to do its part and push one stinking run across. How could one run prove so elusive? How can the boys of summer not buckle down and get it done to put a halt to this skid?

I'm not on the ledge saying our season is over and we should sell at the trade deadline and look at next year. No. I want to fight for our season.

BUT....

We do have some gargantuan obstacles to clear. Our starting pitching has not solidified. Andrew Oliver needs more time to develop. Armando Galarraga has had one outing of brilliance and many of mediocrity. Rick Porcello has barely put Toledo in the rear view mirror. I fear that Jeremy Bonderman is an incurable head case. He constantly lets one bad pitch bleed into the next 25 pitches. You can read it in his face.

Our defense. Can we talk about defense for a minute? Only the Nationals separate us from last place on defense. I am ready to hop the fence and start leading some fielding drills, despite a complete lack of athleticism. I could show them what NOT to do, and how horrible they look when they field like me! That would shock them into doing better, I know it. Noone wants to look like me out there. Even in a backyard family game, I get mocked and derided mercilessly. I am the ultimate cautionary tale.

Aaaaaaaand let's not forget about offense. We have what can only be called several automatic outs on our squad. The names, Laird, Avila, Worth, Raburn come quickly to mind. When these gentlemen stride to the plate, it's as good as a television commercial. People can walk away from the tv without the slightest worry that anything of note will happen. Unless you count strikeout looking as something of note.

Now Brandon Inge has a broken hand and is out for the next four to six weeks. You may be aware that Brandon Inge is not my favorite player. However, he shores up a shaky defense, and has raised his average to a respectable (for him) .263. We can't really well afford to lose him right now. There are too many holes already.

In addition to all these roster issues, we have scheduling issues. We are on the road more this half, where we, um, suck. We don't face the Pirates, Nats and Orioles so much this half, and they, um, suck, which helped us pad our record. Starting with Cleveland after the break, we have eighteen games in a row with no off-day. Are you screaming yet? Have you begun cutting yourself yet? Would that be weird? I haven't done that. No, I have not. I categorically deny doing that.

With all that being said, I hope Dave Dombrowski makes some savvy moves at the trade deadline. Moves that won't eviscerate our already paltry stock of prospects. I hope he can swindle the pants off some other GM to give us a couple pieces that could put us over the top. Use the power of those horrible sailboat sweaters, Dave. They could hypnotize an unsuspecting baseball executive into giving up say Dan Haren or Ben Sheets, or Stephen Drew (who Kirk Gibson says has really bad luck, which could certainly be changed by coming over the AL). Right? RIGHT???

Suspend Your Disbelief

If you were off somewhere pretending it was 1901 this past weekend, completely cut off from television, radio and the Internet, and you just returned to hear that the Tigers endured a four-game sweep by the cellar-dwelling Cleveland Indians, who are without Grady Sizemore, Shin Soo Choo and Asdrubal Cabrera, and you think that someone is having a little fun with you...think again.

No, it's not some imaginary nightmare you wake from panting in a cold sweat. It's the stark reality of the past three days. It's the unabated misery of a sweltering hovel in an relentless hot spell without so much as a fan. It's Holly Go-Lightly's pressure cooker gone ka-blow-ey all over her apartment just when she's trying to impress her attempt at domesticity upon Paul Varjack. It's the worst horror movie you've ever seen, one that seems so real you can't sleep at night for weeks afterward. It's...it's..it's the second half Detroit Tigers team of the past four seasons, playing out in HD before your bloodshot, shell-shocked eyeballs. I wish someone would sear my eyeballs with a chemical so caustic I never have to see the likes of this weekend again. I'd be better off.

I sincerely hope that someone in the Tigers clubhouse lost it after today's 7-2 finale. I don't care who it was. It could have been Scott Pickens for all I care. Someone better have been blowing steam out his ears in a fury so violent, the rest of the team was afraid to look him in the eye. I swear, if someone didn't scream themselves hoarse in a fit of rage, I will storm into Comerica Park tomorrow and do it myself.

To say our franchise was embarrassed this weekend would be an understatement I don't care to quantify. Stranding baserunners at a rate that would cause sandlot kids to crawl under the nearest rock has become an art form. Running the bases has apparently become a lost art, and throwing the ball is a skill too difficult to master for our crew. To quote manager Joe Riggins from Bull Durham "This... is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball." We couldn't manage to perform those simple elements very well this past weekend, and it hurts. So badly. I want to cry, but I'm too stubborn, so I'm just going to go punch a hole in some drywall and call it good.