It’S All Over Twins Take Playoffs In 9-5 Win Sad Faces Are The Signature Of Defeat
One by one, they took their last at-bats of summer. Darrell Evans said goodby with a fly to right field, and Alan Trammell signed off with a hard line drive to shortstop . . .
CAN EVANS, TIGERS RISE FROM DIRT?
He was on his knees, sunk in the dirt, the weight of the Tigers’ season seemingly on his shoulders. What had he done? Darrell Evans? The veteran, the leader, the symbol of the Tigers’ experience . . . had been picked off at third base, caught in a mistake,...
That’S The Way! Sheridan Changes Into Tigers Hero
The game, the playoffs — the season, really — had all come down to this:
bottom of the eighth, Tigers losing, the October wind blowing mean and hard.
And who was at the plate? Clark Kent.
All right. Pat Sheridan. What’s the difference? Unlikely heroes? The Tigers’ No. 9 hitter? Tall, skinny, glasses? That Pat Sheridan? Wait. Give him a phone booth. Turn your back. “What’s he gonna do?” you ask. “Hit a home run?”
Whack.
Can Man From ‘A-Team’ Help Rescue Our Team?
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is why I was on the phone all day Friday, frantically calling Los Angeles. I was searching for the one man who could turn the tide in these American League playoffs, the one man who could give the edge back to the Detroit Tigers.
I was searching for . . . George Peppard.
But wait. Let me explain. It all began with today’s starting pitcher, Walt Terrell, a man I admire for his strength, guts, and the way he balances a chicken wing and a beer while reading the newspaper.
TWINS’ MESSAGE TO MORRIS: TIME TO HIT THE ROAD, JACK
MINNEAPOLIS — He stood alone on the mound, glaring at the hitters, the roar of 55,245 frenzied fans ringing in his ears. Up came his leg, back went his arm, with a whiplash twist the ball was coming home. . . . Coming home. That was the theme, wasn’t it?...
A Rude Greeting For Morris
MINNEAPOLIS — He stood alone on the mound, glaring at the hitters, the roar of 55,245 frenzied fans ringing in his ears. Up came his leg, back went his arm, with a whiplash twist the ball was coming home. . . .
Coming home. That was the theme, wasn’t it? Jack Morris was coming home. He grew up here. Across the river. He was pitching Thursday night at the Metrodome before his parents, uncles, aunts, cousins. . . .
“BIG DEAL!” the sellout crowd seemed to roar. Tonight he was the enemy. Tar him.
FAMILIAR NIGHTMARE: HERNANDEZ ON MOUND
MINNEAPOLIS — And then, the nightmare walked out of the bullpen. The score was tied, 5-5, the bases full of Minnesota Twins, the Metrodome simply insane, gone, roaring with so much noise it bounced off the bubble roof and back onto the heads of 53,269 screaming...
TWIN DEBATE BRINGS OUT TWO MINDS
This is the truth, so help me. I called a sports columnist for the Minneapolis newspaper Monday and suggested we do a “dueling columns” thing on who would win this American League playoff — the Tigers or the Twins? And he said, well, it was a good...
We’Ll Never Wash These Tigers Out Of Our Hair
When I awoke Monday morning, I pushed a hand through my hair, only to feel something sticky and hard, like straw dipped in molasses.
How weird, I thought.
Dried champagne.
It was not meant for me, that champagne. I was merely caught in the crossfire at Tiger Stadium, a bubbly explosion between one player (Mike Heath) and another (Frank Tanana). Not my champagne, not my celebration, and yet part of it had stuck to me overnight; and, in a certain way, part of me had stuck back.
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