Mark Fidrych

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, The bell tolls for Mark Fidrych, The Bird, dead from a mishap while working underneath a truck on his Massachusetts farm, at the age of 54. One great year, and a slew of comebacks. The bird will be remember for his boundless joy, and maybe as the first example of the Sports Illutrated "cover jinx."I hope he had the time of his life.

All too brief.

That's the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Mark Fidrych's time at the top. One beautiful summer... the summer of America's Bicentennal... that glorious time when excesses were at their peak. Hard to remember now, and certainly not PC to talk about it, 1976 was one of those years we thought about when, later in life, we lectured our kids how to behave.

And certainly, we hid the memories of how we spent our spare time. Hedonism was in full swing. Recreational substances were still something people shared as a communal experience. It had not yet become a vehicle for quick cash. Sex was plentiful, easy to get, and aside from pregnancy, led to no medical complications that couldn't be solved with penicillin.

Mark Fidrych on the cover of "Sports Illustrated" June 6, 1977. Was he the first example of the SI cover jinx?

1976 seems like another time. It was another time. Closing my eyes, I can taste the biscuits at Busler's on St Joe, and the chicken from the Farmer's Daughter. In my mind, I can negotiate the tight crowds at Washington Square, and feel the thumping disco beat on Funky's dance floor. Traffic jams on Outer Division, bikinis and beach balls at Kramer's Lake, steaks at F's and the whole menu at Das Kolker Haus.

In Cincinnati, the Big Red Machine was rewriting the record books and personifying how to play the game. They would sweep the World Series from the Yankees, who had run away from the pack in the American League East. And on TV, Saturday afternoon was for Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek with the Game of the Week. In that summer of 1976, we saw more and more of the Detroit Tigers, and the rookie who bore no small resemblance to a famous feathered Muppet. It was the summer we would come to know "The Bird," Mark Fidrych.

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Mark Fydrich was working at a gas statioin for 2.00 an hour when he was signed by a Tigers scout. e acted like we wished all plyers would... like he was SO happy just to be there. He did look like a big happy bird, gangly, wobbly, arms flailing, and bursting with joy. Lots of players were happy, but he was infectious. He sprinted onto the field. He sang and smiled. He talked to the ball, played to the crowd, and reveled in that dream so common to young boys. Somehow we knew what he meant. And in Evansville, we saw him as one of our own. His 4-1 record and 1.59 ERA the previous year for the Evansville Triplets (the Tigers' AAA afilliate) were indicators of his potential.

"Yes," said Mark Fydrich, "it's just as much fun as we all imagined it would be." He was having the time of his life, and wanted us all to share in it. In his first start, he threw a two-hitter. He was one of only two pitchers to ever start an All-Star game as a rookie. Of his 29 starts, he pitched 24 complete games. His ERA was a league-best 2.34, and he was the American League Rookie Of The Year.

Of course, the fans loved him. They flocked to Tiger Stadium in droves on days he was slated to pitch. A post-season analysis by the Wall Street Journal estimated that he was personally responsible for something in the neighborhood of one million dollars of revenue for the Tigers.

The next question should be obvious: Was this the start of the Sports Illustrated cover jinx? The preseason 1977 issue featured a cover shot of Fidrych and his Sesame Street namesake.

And then, it all went to hell.

Warming up in the outfield before a spring training game, Fidrych tore the cartilage his knee. He came back, but finished the year only 6-4. He spent most of the next year on the disabled list, and managed only fifteen innnings in 1979, with an ERA of 10.43.

Ouch.

The Tigers released him after a mostly unemorable 1980 season. He was picked up by the Red Sox and spent time in the minors, including return stints with the Triplets in 1980 and 81 (12-10, 4.68 ERA) before retiring in 1983.

Mark Fidrych had mounds of courage, the kind of courage which made him able to launch comeback after comeback when the injuries mounted. in a brilliant column, Tom Gage of the Detroit News recalls Fidrych's last fleeting brush with glory in his final major league season of 1980.

After baseball he went home to Massachusetts, and worked on his farm. By all accounts, he continued to embrace life, and didn't dwell on thoughts of what might have been. For thar alone, he was an incredible figure.

Then again, screw him, he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK

Skip Caray

What's WRONG? At CLUB DEAD, the bell tolls for Skip Caray. Caray, Atlanta Braves broadcaster for 33 years, dies in his sleep at 68. The South loses another broadcasting legend. And the American sprit loses another link to the days before baseball became just another string of digits on some corporate ledger sheet.

I can't say I know a lot about Skip Caray, apart from his royal parentage: son of Harry, father of Chip. I am impressed by the almost universal outporing of love and admiration from his peers. He must have been a remarkable person to inspire such devotion.

And there were the stories you didn't hear. In this age, every parking ticket is fodder for the talk shows. If we're allowed to judge someone by a lack of baggage, then Skip Caray passes with flying colors.

He was direct and on point. No razzle-dazzle announcer games required. Forget the lights and sound effects. He broadcast the game. It was the star. He was helping bring the pagaentry without becoming a member of the performing company.

Skip Caray began broadasting for the Braves a million years ago. Okay, it just seems that long ago. Cue the flowing harp sfx indicating memories of another time. It was less than a year after Hank Aaron passed Babe Ruth as baseball's home run king, and just a few months after President Nixon resigned from office rather than face impeachment proceedings. Gas was fifty cents a gallon then, and Skip Caray was there.

He was there in satellite TV's infancy when thanks to WTBS, the Braves became America's team. For a great many Braves fans, he's been there their whole life. He's all they've ever known.

And another piece of history passes from us.

Storytelling has always been the hallmark of the well-seasoned Southerner. So from Dizzy Dean, with his Arkansas wit, and Tennessee native Russ Hodges ("The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!") until today, the South has been blessed with an abundance of great sports broadcasters. John Ward (Tennessee) and Cawood Ledford (Kentucky) come to mind at once, as does Woody Durham (North Carolina) and Bob Harris (Duke).

Mel Allen grew up in Alabama and spent time calling Alabama football before joing the New York Yankees for a long and stellar career. Eli Gold hails from Brooklyn, but had enough sense to come be the voice of the Alabama Crimson Tide and NASCAR's Motor Racing Network.

Folks in Georgia are fortunate: They still have Larry Munson to enjoy, although his health is such that he only broadcasts home games now.

Skip Carey honored his father Harry by the way he lived his life. He never depended on his father's name but he always treasured it. Now his own son Chip carries on the Atlanta Braves family tradition. Stat geeks probably already know that they are the only three generation broadcasters to work the same game. Actually, they they did it twice, one in baseball and once in basketball. That's nice way to build a legacy.

On the other had, screw him; he's dead. Let's go look for crocodiles.

StevenK