  Blessyouboys Member Username: Blessyouboys Post Number: 495 Registered: 07-2005 Posted From: 69.209.171.74 |
If you're out there, go ahead and post the big story on the Tigers--Currently on the front page www.espn.com | ||
Susanarosa Member Username: Susanarosa Post Number: 966 Registered: 11-2003 Posted From: 70.236.163.239 |
If anyone asks, you didn't get it from me.  Editor's note: This story appears in the latest edition of ESPN The Magazine. To subscribe, please click here. It's a fireworks night at Comerica Park, in a summer of fireworks for the Tigers. First pitch is a few hours away, but Jim Leyland is already lighting up the clubhouse. "Heyyy, Pudgie!" Leyland shouts cheerfully as Ivan Rodriguez comes through the door. "Heyy, you're not playing tonight!" Rodriguez stops. Leyland does not. "Take a day off!" the skipper continues happily. "I know you don't like it, but you've been wanting to manage all year!" The All-Star catcher looks at Leyland, who walks toward him and gently extends a hand. Aware now that a couple of reporters are watching, Leyland lowers his voice and explains to Rodriguez, who is nursing some bruises, that he might benefit from another day of rest. Rodriguez smiles, nods. The Tigers are dressing, and Leyland works the room, greeting some, teasing others. He zeros in on rookie reliever Joel Zumaya. "Heyyy, Zumaya! Nice tattoo!" Zumaya grins; the players are loving it. The 61-year-old Leyland jabs them with humor, but it quickly becomes evident that what he's really doing is taking their temperature -- collectively, individually -- and doling out treatment. A dose of implied confidence for Zumaya. A dab of acknowledgment for eager-to-please outfielder Curtis Granderson. An emotional ice pack for I-Rod, who says, "The manager I have, this man, is unbelievable." The Tigers were 20 games under .500 last year, 43-119 three years ago. But walking through their clubhouse on a Friday night in late June, you don't get the sense that they're impressed with how far they've come. You get the feeling that this is a bunch of guys who have discovered as a group that they can really play. Leyland, who burned out as a manager seven years ago, has rediscovered his passion and intensity, and he's passing it on. Their powerful arms and timely bats are only part of what has transformed these Tigers. And it's not just the mountains of Big League Chew the pitchers stuff into their mouths when the team needs a rally -- a superstition started by lefty Nate Robertson on May 30. It's their mind-set. As Granderson scrawls under the bill of his cap: Don't think. Have fun. It's the first morning of spring training at Tigertown in Lakeland, Fla., and 41-year-old Kenny Rogers is hitting the dirt like a goalie. He's rolling in the infield grass and sprinting to cover first base. The drill is PFP -- pitcher's fielding practice. It's generally regarded as a chore akin to taking out the garbage. But Rogers attacks it, so everyone else does too. The adrenaline level rises. "We can't let a veteran make us look bad," 23-year-old Jeremy Bonderman says to himself. From an adjacent field, first baseman Chris Shelton notices the intensity: They're moving at game speed. Leyland likes what he sees, likes the feel of it. He turns to his coaches. "I don't know how we'll do," he says. "But we're going to have a fun year." For a time, that's no sure thing. Following a loss to the White Sox in mid-April, a week before he would publicly rip the team for lack of focus, Leyland sends the most important message of all. During the game, a veteran, unhappy with what he's being told, abruptly walks away from a coach. Leyland notices, and he's furious. Just as he did in 1991, when as manager of the Pirates he got in Barry Bonds' face, Leyland explodes. "I don't care who you are!" he barks in the clubhouse afterward, in full view of the players. "You are not going to treat other people on the team like that! That ain't the way we do it around here! As long as I'm here, that's not the way it's going to be! We're not going to point fingers! We're all in this together!" When Leyland finishes, silence fills the room. Some Tigers make eye contact: Wow. "If he doesn't squash that situation in that moment," one player says later, "then I think we go right back to being what we were before." It's April 20, and the Tigers are three games into the kind of West Coast trip that used to crush them. Down two runs in the ninth, they're on the verge of losing the game and the series in Oakland. But they rap out four straight hits, and the game is tied. Now 29-year-old Brandon Inge, who as a sixth-year survivor of the worst Detroit teams is the Tiger with the longest continuous tenure, comes to the plate. He takes a strike from reliever Justin Duchscherer, hacks at another, and it's O-and-2. Hits have been scarce for the free-swinging third baseman, but he's determined to win this battle. Inge fouls off a pitch. And another. And four more. The count is 1-and-2. Inge looks out at Duchscherer and sees frustration and weariness begin to seep into the pitcher's face. "By the fifth or sixth pitch of the at-bat," Inge recalls, "he had thrown all of his pitches." Inge takes another ball, then fouls off another pitch. He's locked in, but he hears the shouts from the Detroit dugout getting louder. Duchscherer throws the 12th pitch of the at-bat; Inge fouls it off. Pitch 13: foul. His teammates are screaming for him now. Inge takes pitch No. 14 for ball three. And finally, pitch No. 15: ball four. The at-bat, Leyland would say later, lasted "one-and-a-half Marlboros." Granderson works another walk to force in the lead run, the Tigers hold on, and they take six out of nine on the coast. It's June 6, and the Tigers have just lost five of seven at home to the Yankees and Red Sox. The experts have all been expecting this, and here it is: the collapse. The Tigers take a 3-1 lead into the bottom of the eighth against the White Sox -- and get their guts ripped out. Alex Cintron blasts a three-run homer, and Bobby Jenks closes out Detroit in the ninth. Some of the shell-shocked Tigers linger in the dugout, watching the White Sox celebrate. Leyland is having none of it. He does something virtually unheard of in the major leagues: He chases his players out of the dugout. "Let's go," he says. "Relax. We'll come back tomorrow." They do. And they win 11 of their next 14. Now it's June 24, and the Tigers are 4925, a half game up in the AL Central. As the players prepare for the Cardinals, a TV in the home clubhouse flashes a score from the South Side of Chicago. "Can you believe the White Sox, a friggin' grand slam," one player says. But somebody has already changed the channel. It's Zumaya, who wants to watch Mexico, his team of choice, in the World Cup. "Let's go Ar-gen-ti-na," Justin Verlander sings out from his locker. "Verlander's going to get puh-unched," Zumaya answers, mimicking the cadence. These two men, Zumaya and Verlander, may have the best pure arms in baseball. While they seem like polar opposites -- the 21-year-old Zumaya is from just north of the Mexican border, in San Diego County; the 23-year-old Verlander hails from rural Goochland County, Va. -- they're comfortable enough to bust each other's chops. Before heading out to the field, Verlander walks by Zumaya, who's planted in front of a big-screen TV, and pats him on the shoulder. Zumaya, a former 11th-round draft pick who throws upward of 100 mph, is to the '06 Tigers what Mariano Rivera was to the '96 Yankees: a dominant setup man. His fastball is so powerful, so heavy, says backup catcher Vance Wilson, "it feels like you're catching a bowling ball." An umpire has told Wilson he can't see Zumaya's pitches well enough to determine balls and strikes. Verlander, meanwhile, is a budding ace, with a record of 10-4 through June. Even the rare hitters who reach base against him mutter under their breath about his fastball, which also lights up the gun in the mid-to-high 90s. Tonight, Kenny Rogers gets the start. Comerica Park is packed, fans hanging over the railing in right-centerfield. David Eckstein opens the game by hitting a chopper to the right of the mound. Rogers dives for the ball, gloves it, rolls and throws to first, just like in PFP. A roar comes from the stands, full-throated, deafening. Leyland paces in the dugout, gesturing constantly to his fielders, his coaches, his baserunners, clapping between pitches when the Tigers bat. And they're grinding it, every plate appearance a scrap. Twice the Tigers fall behind, twice they catch up. They sweep the Cardinals. They crush the National League. They're the best team in baseball. What's it all mean? They're not worried about that yet. The Tigers are adhering to their manager's code of conduct, and abiding by the mantra under the bill of Granderson's cap. Don't think. Have fun. Buster Olney is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. | ||
Blessyouboys Member Username: Blessyouboys Post Number: 496 Registered: 07-2005 Posted From: 69.209.171.74 |
Thanks so much! Ask and you shall receive, awesome. | ||
Jerome81 Member Username: Jerome81 Post Number: 1037 Registered: 11-2003 Posted From: 64.142.86.133 |
You didn't get the second part from me.... Editor's note: This story appears in the latest edition of ESPN The Magazine. To subscribe, please click here. 'Everything tastes better' Chris Chelios always times his hits perfectly. The Red Wings defenseman opened his second Cheli's Chili Bar this year, across the street from Comerica Park. Like the Tigers, the place has been rocking all season -- never more so than on a weekend night in late June with the Cardinals in town. The tent outside holds 200 festive fans, and the waiting list for a table inside is 30 deep. The joint's manager, David Starzyk, darts upstairs and swings open a door to the rooftop bar. The ballpark lights throw the party into relief. Vibrations from the patrons make the beer ripple in the chilled glasses. Starzyk extends his arms into the air and says, "You can feel the game up here!" You can feel the game everywhere. And all Tigers fans can tell you when they realized this season would be different. They remember the moment like a first kiss. Says Darryl Dawson, a 50-year-old parking lot attendant: "I knew when they were 3-0." Erin Martin, a 19-year-old waitress at Hooters, remembers watching on TV with her dad as the Tigers crushed the Cubs on Father's Day and thinking, "Hey, this is a surprise." For the big, smiling, toque-wearing executive chef of Comerica Park, 46-year-old Mark Szubeczak, it's all in the attitude of the customers: "People call me to the table to tell me how much they love the asiago bread. Before, it was always a complaint. Now, everything tastes better." Lovin' the Tigers They're hanging on the fences now, the Tigers fans. They jump up on a short brick wall out on Adams Street beyond the center field gates, dangle their arms through the metal bars and climb up to catch a glimpse of the outfield, or the scoreboard, or maybe the blonde in the stiletto heels and the short denim skirt. Three of the men are wearing tuxes. They ducked out of a wedding reception for a smoke, then one said to the others, "Let's go to the ballpark." And now here they are, hangin'. "If they win the World Series," says 26-year-old Mike Sternberg, who was 13 the last time the Tigers had a winning season, "I'm getting the Old English D tattooed on my left arm." A cop idles in his cruiser, only steps away, with his windows rolled down. He's loitering, peering through the gates for the score. Sometimes he works security in the dugout, watching the fans, watching the players. "Morale is different," the cop says. "Last year you could tell they didn't give a s. Now the players are more attentive, especially in the bullpen." Inside the gates, the concourse is mobbed, and 70-year-old Amzie Griffin is selling programs as fast as he can. He claims he knew the Tigers were on the verge of something big last year. "Young man," he says, "if you have a nose for sports, you can feel things." A new lease on life The sun sets. The Tigers fall behind the Cards 6-4. A man named Antonio stands outside the ballpark gates, holding out a plastic cup. Antonio is homeless. But he too has a turning point. He went to a Comerica Park job fair in June and came away with a position in concessions, where the lines are endless. He says he starts next week. Enjoying every last minute Out on Woodward Avenue, down the block from the park, a cab idles curbside. Daryl Davis sits inside, with the game on the radio. "Forty-two thousand people here," he says. "When's the last time you seen that? Not since I've been here." The moment he knew? "When we got the new coach," he says. "We was rock bottom. Only place to go was up. But I am surprised." Proud, too. Davis brought his 11-year-old son, Irick, along for tonight's shift. "I wanted him to see this," Daryl says. Together, they look through the windshield at a big screen in front of the Hockeytown Cafe. The Tigers have three outs to go, but no one has left. That's different, as well. Inside the bar, fans sip beers and watch the flatscreens. Curtis Granderson gets on base with an infield single. Marcus Thames is up. Tying run. The bartender stops chopping lemons, holding his knife just above the rinds. Cigarettes drop to the ashtrays. Conversations die. Through the window, the stadium lights shine on the fans along the top of the upper deck, making silhouettes. They look like paper dolls, all in a row. Then their arms go up, all together, and there's an explosion of cheers. Home run! Game tied! The bartender fist-pumps. A dad lifts his little boy, who does a somersault in his arms. Everyone drinks. Back inside the park, in the 10th, Granderson gets on again with a walk, and then Placido Polanco drives a pitch into the gap. A roar chases Granderson all the way home. Fans dance in the bleachers. One yells out, to no one in particular: "These are the Detroit Tigers?!" A stranger in the next row replies, "Yeah! Weird, huh?" They stand there, the two strangers. They watch a truck drive onto the field. "What's that?" one asks. "It's the fireworks," says the other. The Tigers have done this for years on weekend nights. But a lot of these guys didn't know. They look around, check the time. Fans used to rush out of the park, afraid of finding their car stereos stolen, or worse. But tonight, well, maybe tonight they'll stay. Eric Adelson is a staff writer for ESPN The Magazine. http://insider.espn.go.com/mlb /insider/news/story?id=2510913 | ||
Jerome81 Member Username: Jerome81 Post Number: 1038 Registered: 11-2003 Posted From: 64.142.86.133 |
BTW, I like part 2, except for the "car stereos stolen, or worse" comment. Was that really F'n necessary? Come on... | ||
Focusonthed Member Username: Focusonthed Post Number: 328 Registered: 02-2006 Posted From: 24.192.25.47 |
Truth hurts, and it was the truth a few years back. We just had a post fairly recently where a poster insisted anyone that parked in Brush Park for a Tigers game deserved whatever happened to their car, since that was the rule of the streets, or whatever. | ||
Machoken Member Username: Machoken Post Number: 1378 Registered: 10-2003 Posted From: 207.145.38.104 |
But you aren't supposed to listen to them, and especially not repeat what they say. That just encourages them. | ||
Susanarosa Member Username: Susanarosa Post Number: 967 Registered: 11-2003 Posted From: 208.39.170.90 |
Then there's the fact hat a friend of mine had his car stero stolen during a game a couple months ago... Thanks for hooking them up with the second part Jerome. | ||
Rustic Member Username: Rustic Post Number: 2638 Registered: 10-2003 Posted From: 128.36.14.165 |
hey ... could have been worse ... they mighta picked up on this anecdote: Sub-machine gun stolen while West Bloomfield officer attends Tigers game | ||
Focusonthed Member Username: Focusonthed Post Number: 329 Registered: 02-2006 Posted From: 209.220.229.254 |
Interesting, indeed. | ||
Mackinaw Member Username: Mackinaw Post Number: 1848 Registered: 02-2005 Posted From: 69.221.37.93 |
Yeah Rustic, but that cop was an IDIOT. Those are some great stories. Hopefully people will read it and understand what is going on with this team. |
