You can't grow up in Detroit and not love the Tigers, even when they stink to high heaven.
I was lucky enough to grow up during an era when I experienced them winning the World Series in 1968 and again in 1984. The interim years were still fun, because my best friend Reetz and I were teenagers with serious crushes on half the team, with our hearts belonging mostly to Tom Veryzer.
But midway between pennants, we were mesmerized by a Massachusetts pitcher who took Detroit (and baseball in general) by storm. Mark "The Bird" Fidrych was an unassuming, quirky dude who talked to the baseball and groomed the mound between batters.
And he won games, despite the oppressive fan and media attention. You
couldn't go anywhere in town without hearing the refrains of Bird, Bird, Bird, The Bird is the Word...
When I heard of his untimely death today, my adult heart ached for the senseless loss, for his pain and that of his family. And my inner teenager pulled out her old Tiger albums filled with yellowing pictures and wept for one of her super heroes.
But I also smiled thinking of all the joy he brought me and to so many people doing what he loved, being himself. We should all have such brief, shining moments. I'm glad to have been around to witness his.
I still have my Mark Fidrych autographed baseball
God bless you, Mark. You'll always be The Word! Rest in peace.
Related article: State rules Mark Fidrych's death an accident.
1985 interview courtesy of Media Burn Archive:
I'm a writer at large, located in Burbank, Calif., on the lookout for kitschy stories to share. My interests include cemeteries, local history, pets and other critters, and random shiny things that catch my attention. Thank you for choosing to spend a part of your online day here!
