Beware Girl Scouts

After I glanced at the upcoming schedule and realized the Tigers would soon be out of town for quite a stretch, and then when they get back I'll be out of town, I knew I had no choice but to head to the park Tuesday night.  I knew it was searingly hot, but I told you, it wasn't a matter of choosing.  I had to go.  It happens.  There are nights when you just know that you must be at the ballpark.  At least I do.

Besides, it was Verlander Day!  A holiday every five days!  Who can resist its magic?  Not me.  The matchup with Lance Lynn promised to be a battle of the arms, a low scoring affair going down to the la.....wait a minute.  That pitcher's duel, hmmmm, what happened to Mr. Lynn?  Well, he didn't have pinpoint control and our boys pounced.  YAY RUNZ!  WE NOT SCORE JUST ONE!  I MIGHT PUNCTUATE THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST SOLELY WITH EXCLAMATION POINTS!  Sorry.

As is the way with such things, the festival that is Verlander Day was not unmarred by various irritants.  The heat withered at first, and the sun threatened to give all of us in left field epic migraines.  Once the orb dropped below the outfield stands, relief came quickly.

Justin got a little wild in the seventh and Quintin Berry followed with a 2 run error on a playable fly ball.  Ahem.  JV had to pitch all angrified, scorching pitches in there at 100 mph to extract the boys from the inning without further damage.

Then, in the bottom half of the inning, the Tigers are batting, and the bases are loaded.  I see a group of Girl Scouts descend the aisle staircase with their leader.  I figured she was arranging them for a photo.  To my absolute horror, the troop proceeds to implore the section to begin the wave.  IN THE SEVENTH INNING. BASES JUICED WITH TIGERS.  I JUST....I RESTRAINED THE DESIRE TO RIP THEIR SASHES OFF AND POINT TO THE EXIT.  Now, I totally get the idea that it would be fun for a group of young girls to lead the crowd in starting the wave.  I have no issue with this.  Eight year olds can enjoy the wave with impunity.  But, could the leader have used a milligram of brainpower to orchestrate this activity at a non-critical juncture?

I don't want to be that surly, glowering fan that is annoyed by every person around me.  Just stay at home if all of humankind is a bane to your existence.  However, there seems to be no escaping the ignorant, sloshy fans who could care less about what's happening on the diamond.  Many sighs.  I will use these trials to increase my fortitude, to endure in the face of unrelenting stupidity, to overcome boorish behavior by "fans" who leave their seats in the middle of every half inning, oblivious to everything but beer and ball park snacks.  These people make it possible for us to sign Prince Fielder.  I repeat that to myself over and over.  Maybe someday I'll believe it.

In the end, it was still a great night for baseball.  We won the game, vanquished the stupid Cards (who should be our chief inter-league rival, since we face off against them in the World Series all the time) yay team, rah rah, etc. The question to be answered is how will we all survive this next road trip?  /Pouts.

Off Day Nonsense

I’m not going to write about Quintin Berry.  There are already a trove of articles out there on the speedster.  The horse has been beaten to death, and several blood feuds sprouted on twitter over the guy.  I like watching him play.  Our team is entirely lacking in the speed department, so having someone like him on the base paths from time to time is refreshing.  I’ll be happy to see him get time as long as he’s hitting moderately well.  But I don’t think he’s a huge piece of our team’s puzzle.  If he somehow pulls a Jose Bautista and sustains the tear he’s on, I’ll be thrilled to be wrong, because that can only mean good things for the club.  Wait, I said I wasn’t going to write about him.  Enough.

In a moment of unbridled irony during Sunday’s rain delay, FSN was broadcasting an episode of Tigers Weekly in which preventive conditioning was discussed, specifically core work.  OOPS!  Both Doug Fister and Austin Jackson were sidelined with core-related injuries recently, and countless others were dropping like flies and being added to the DL rolls.  Sigh.  I know it’s just bad luck, and I believe conditioning coach Javier Gillett is widely respected, but still.  Perhaps a little editorial prudence, guys….

With defensive woes hounding us, does anyone else find themselves bracing, cringing and tensing every time a potential double play ball is hit?  It’s ridiculous for me personally.  I have had to deliberately relax my muscles and tell myself to stop being such an idiot over ground balls.  Let’s not sacrifice muscular health for baseball, folks.  Or perhaps, in game, twitter-led yoga sessions are in order.

The whole “turning the corner” nonsense is also out of hand.  Buster Olney himself tweeted about the Tigers turning the proverbial corner at least a week ago.  Maybe we get above .500 before the conversation begins?  Ugh.  I’m not sure what people need to understand the nature of the baseball season.  All of this giving up the season and proclaiming the salvation of the season every game or two is just beyond.  It seems so emotionally exhausting, too.  I can’t imagine vacillating in this manner all season long.  By all means, people, use twitter as a place to vent, to release the angst of excruciating losses.  Just don’t declare the season’s death or revival with every L or W.

Finally, if you haven’t noticed, it’s the year of the no hitter.  There have been FIVE already this young-ish season.  I’ll be referring to it as TYOTNH from here forward.  Not an awkward acronym at all.  Rolls right off the tongue.  Anyway, my point here is that if this is indeed TYOTNH, we sure as shoot’n better get one from Justin Verlander (sorry, I just watched the mini-series The Hatfields and McCoys on the History Channel).  I feel it would be an epic miscarriage of justice if we didn’t.  I mean, this is a guy from whom you feel a no no is possible almost any given start.  So, be ready for it.  It’s coming.  Justin’s third no hit game.  I feel it.  I will it.  I proclaim it.  I anoint him for it.

Blue Eye, Max, It's the Blue Eye

So, Max Scherzer.  I anointed him My Tiger after a protracted search following #30’s retirement.  /prolonged sob.  It’s kind of hard to fill Magglio Ordóñez’ shoes.  (By the way, Magglio is ALWAYS MY TIGER, along with Kirk Gibson.  I assert my right to have two “My Tiger” emeritus.)  Anyway, Max has been inconsistent this year, to put it mildly.  The bad news is that his mechanics are apparently more delicate than a hothouse flower.  The moment they get a hair out of whack, BOOM, Max gets lit up.  The good thing is that Max seems pretty adept at recognizing problems and making adjustments.  Maybe Jeff Jones needs to monitor those touchy mechanics on a day-to-day basis to keep them from going haywire.

Another thing I count as a positive is Scherzer’s general attitude.  In a recent interview, he was asked about whether he felt it was a particularly important outing.  He replied, no, he has to go out there every start and give the team a chance to win.  He doesn’t put special emphasis on any one outing.  He also talked about having confidence every start.  Of course, some of this talk is just your standard baseball clichés, but a pitcher has to be able to clear his head of a previous start and work with confidence on any given day.  We’ve seen what can happen when a pitcher lets things bleed into the next pitch (looking at you, Jeremy Bonderman, you head-case, you).

The inconsistencies from Scherzer are beginning to get worrisome, no doubt.  He’s got to be able to string strong starts together, not waffle back and forth like a kid still trying to put it all together in the bigs.  If he doesn’t have a rock solid second half, his value will take a big hit.

I’m rooting hard for Scherzer, not just because we need him for the team’s success, but because he is a good teammate.  He gets so excited when someone does something good.  He’s fanboy number one.  I love it.  Watch him in the dugout sometime, if you haven’t noticed this.  He looks completely silly sometimes.  It’s awesome.  It’s one of the reasons he’s My Tiger.  Go get ‘em tonight, Max.  I’ll go crazy fangirl for you.

In a Vacuum

Testing, 1,2,3.

/scans empty room

/clears throat

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.

A Walk Off and White Out

It's almost like there's no describing what happened on Sunday. I am going to annoy you and try anyway. For starters, I lied to myself and everyone else by swearing up and down that I was not going to go to any games over the weekend. This, despite the fact that my family had made a last minute decision to go out of town, leaving me behind alone and unsupervised. Apparently, I am sadly predictable and in need of Miguel Cabrera's accountability partner. By Saturday night, I surveyed the mountain of work I had to do, and decided that the best course of action would be to blow it all off and go to the game on Sunday. When I texted my husband to inform him, he replied simply, "I know." He later said that everyone he was with yukked it up at my expense over the whole situation. My resolve to get some much needed painting done had crumbled in a matter of mere hours.

In hindsight, my dead-beat slacking turned out to be the wisdom of sages, because YOU SAW THAT GAME, DIDN'T YOU? DIDN'T YOU?? Even if you didn't see it, you watched the highlights. You heard replays of Dan Dickerson's calls. You learned of the historic double comeback. You saw Miguel Cabrera erase a three-run, bottom of the 9th inning deficit with one mighty swat. You witnessed Alex Avila, a man who had caught 200 pitches over the course of 4.5 hours, club the ball to right field, and put the game in the W column.

Of course, all of this glory did not occur without a few minor irritations along the way. Nick Punto threatened to impact the game, which of course sent Tiger fans into a torrid, frothing rage. Max Scherzer pitched out of his brown eye and got shelled. Some loser blogger guy pretended that he and I attended the game together, when in reality, we passed each other on the concourse, I couldn't avoid his grotesque, oversized person bearing down on me, so I said hello out of pity, then hurriedly got lost in the crowd so he couldn't follow me back to my seat.

Small inconveniences, considering the ultimate outcome, which comes close to being the greatest game I've ever witnessed in person, playoffs and no-hitters notwithstanding. I walked out of the stadium the same way I entered it: with a goofy grin plastered across my face.

Today's pilgrimage to the CoPa was a planned event, with a good friend of mine and her boyfriend, whom I had not yet met. A glance at the radar showed a giant blotch of snow straddling Southeast Michigan. Wheeee! April baseball, bring it on! I began assembling layer after layer of clothing, winter boots, hand warmers, hats, scarves, and long underwear. It took a while, but I managed to don it all or stow it in my bag. I was unfazed by the doomsday forecast, because Desmond Howard himself had replied to a tweet of mine this morning, and it rendered my disposition unflinchingly sunny. Anyway, the lovebirds were all gallantry and sweetness, not saccharine, but just fun to be around.

I got the chance to meet up with a bunch of cool people I follow on twitter before the game, and it was really nice to put faces to avatars and hear voices instead of just reading words on my screen. Give a follow to @ashleigh_briana, @mike_is_bored and @mcintyrepatrick.

As for the game, you don't need a rundown of it. Although the wind did its best to flay the skin from our faces, and the snow assaulted us no less than five times, sometimes rather sleety, stinging as it pelted us, the crowd, paid attendance at 22,000, actual quite a bit less, but still impressive considering the wintry blast, stayed. A section near home plate began chanting "Danny" when Worth came to the plate, and it was just so stinking adorable, I had to smile.

Austin Jackson continued his tear, notching a home run, and spurring a movement to change the favorite twitter hash tag from #austinjacksonstrikesout to #austinjacksonstrikesagain. Groan. Sorry. Anyway, Papa Grande was sufficiently recovered from his illness to record an uneventful save, and the sun came out just as the game wrapped up.

4-0. Soon we'll begin talking about a challenge to 35-5. Soon. Not just yet, but I look forward to it.

The Importance of Being Earnest in Wardrobe Selection

This morning, I was watching a Spring Training contest between the Dodgers and the Brewers. In case you were wondering, Jerry Hairston made several sparkling defensive plays, and Chris Capuano looked pretty good on the hill. Enough about that. I'm not here to provide commentary on teams from LA or Milwaukee, for sobbing out loud. You know as well as I do that I train my myopic eyes on the Detroit Tigers 90% of the time.

Anyhoo, my point is that while watching said game, I noticed a couple fans in the stands. There were two guys sitting next to each other, one with a Detroit Tigers shirt on, and the other wearing a New York Yankees tee. This made me smile, because when I attend a contest that does not feature the Detroit Tigers, I too feel the need to wear Tigers gear to proclaim my allegiance. These blokes felt the same way, and I got quite a kick out of it. At least, I projected my feelings onto them, and assumed they also sport team gear in an effort to shout team loyalty and pride.

Last season, I went to a Brewers game in Milwaukee. They happened to be playing the Dodgers then, too. What a quirkly little coincidence. Not really. Back to my intended anecdote. In the bottom of the fourth, Ryan Braun hit a home run to left-center to break up Ted Lilly's no hitter. My husband and his family were cheering and generally going bonkers (although none of them can be called baseball fans), and a guy in the row in front of us turned around and went down the line giving raucous high fives, until he came to me and my Tigers shirt. He stopped cold and turned around. That's right, buster, I'm not here rooting for the stinking Milwaukee Brewers, the most loathsome team in all of MLB. Matt Kemp, baby! Ha.

An extremely fortuitous event occurred before that game. The Brewers stadium is not right downtown. It lies to the south. Due to this relative abundance of space, the Brewers have always boasted their very own parking lot for games. When they tore down old County Stadium, the site became the parking lot for Miller Park. There is even a metal plate memorializing the former home plate. Quaint. Benefitting from bounteous parking, Brewers fans are known for tailgating with their Polish sausages, Bratwurst, and other greasy, cased meat products. Gross. I am a vegetarian, and avoid such gastronomic pollution like the plague.

We were walking past some of the barbecuing revelers, when a guy stopped me. He had noticed my Tiger shirt, and asked me if whether was a Tigers fan. I answered in the decided affirmative. Apparently doubting my knowledge and devotion, he immediately asked me who won the 1945 World Series. I answered correctly, and he queried me as to who the Tigers faced. I knew that too, so I guess I passed his litmus test. We then fell into easy conversation. He happened to be listening to the Tigers game on his radio at that very moment. I listened and chatted for a few more moments, enjoying the Tiger solidarity before the Brewers/Dodgers tilt.

So you see, as a direct result of my wisdom in apparel choice, I got to chat it up with a fellow fan, hear the score of the REAL game, and remind a Brewers fan that I don't roll with his club. A very successful night in all, even if the Brewers did win. In the interest of full disclosure, the Brewers also turned a triple play that night, which I truly relished as a fan of the game, but lamented because the wrong team turned it.

Brandon Inge, Usurper of Spring Training Headlines

Why is Brandon Inge dominating Spring Training headlines? I may have to retire to Bedlam. First, media are all atwitter (see what I did there?) over Inge showing up "on time" to camp instead of early. Spare me. Aren't there enough real story lines in Lakeland?

Now, when Inge finally speaks to media after today's first full squad workout, he says a few things that perturb me just a wee bit. I didn't hear the remarks in person, so I may be applying connotations improperly, but...

Jason Beck posted the following quotes on his blog:

On the Tigers’ decision: “It’s pretty simple for me, actually, if you think about it. Put yourself in a general manager’s position and not think as a player. I put myself in Mr. Dombrowski’s position and tried to figure out what I would do if I was in his shoes, and I respect that he’s going to go with Miggy. Miggy thinks he can do it at third. He’s going to go with him, and I respect that, because he’s sticking with his guys. Miggy’s done a lot to help the team. He’s a big part of the team, so he’s sticking behind him, showing faith in him that he can play third. And I appreciate that.”

Um, Miggy thinks he can do it at third? And Dombrowski is showing faith in him that he can play? sticking behind him?

These statements make it sound to me like Inge doesn't have much faith himself that Miggy can play third. It sounds to me like he thinks HE IS A VALID FREAKING ALTERNATIVE TO MIGGY AT THIRD.

You know what the problem is? Inge is quite simply full of delusions. He really believes he belongs in the lineup on a full-time basis. He thinks he's more than just a utility guy, which is what his career really should have been. These are the things that make me certifiable.

So here we are, reading article after article about Brandon Inge of all players, instead of things like how Brennan Boesch is doing, how Austin Jackson is eliminating his leg kick, how many grounders Cabrera booted at third today, and how many pounds over 350 Prince Fielder is. THE IMPORTANT THINGS!

So, please, do everyone a favor, and let ALL OF US stop talking about Brandon Inge. Let's just agree to leave him alone. Let him go about his merry way taking reps at second base. I don't want a daily update on his athleticism and grit. I don't want to know about Brandon's latest hideous tattoo. I'm don't want to hear about some feel good story of him beating the odds to earn playing time at second. You do realize he'd be taking playing time from a more competent Ramon Santiago, right?

Ok then. Stop the madness. Save my sanity. Preserve rationality for us all.