by Mitch Albom | Oct 5, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
This said it all: Frank Tanana darting off the mound, scooping up the ball, turning to first baseman Darrell Evans and — with a lollipop smile already on his face — flipping it underhand for the final out.
One, two, three, leap!
Happy ending.
“Whenever I think of this game from now on,” Evans said, champagne soaking his face, after the Tigers had beaten Toronto, 1-0, to capture the American League East, “that’s the moment I’m going to see. Frank coming towards me, the ball in his hand, his eyes as big as saucers. . . . Oh, man. Oh man. I’ll never forget that.”
by Mitch Albom | Oct 4, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
I must be honest. I do not enjoy picking scabs. Usually they bleed, and then you have to get a Band-Aid. So, to avoid what I consider an unpleasant and unfair labor task, I have gone on strike.
Yes. On strike. Hey. If the NFL players can do it, so can I. This week’s predictions column of these so-called “scab games” is being written instead by my stand-in, a very capable stand- in, I might add. His name is Vince. Say hello, Vince. Vince says hello. Actually he just sort of grunted.
Let me tell you about Vince.
by Mitch Albom | Oct 4, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
The crack of the bat sent them all in motion, three Tigers base runners, one ground ball, 12 innings and a Detroit fairy tale hanging in the balance. What a story in those six moving feet! What a magnificent tale, an all-afternoon adventure, a baseball game played like one of those old serial movies, where danger lurks at every turn and all you know is the heroes prevail at the end.
by Mitch Albom | Oct 3, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
It was somewhere in the middle of the eighth inning Friday night, with the wind whipping cold and blowing dangerously out to right, when every Tiger fan inside this sold-out Tiger Stadium closed his eyes and prayed.
“The bullpen?” the fans whispered. “Please. Not the bullpen. Anything but the bullpen.”
by Mitch Albom | Oct 2, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
I would like to welcome each and every out-of-town journalist who has come for this weekend’s big Tigers-Blue Jays series. Unfortunately, that would really run up my phone bill. So instead, I offer a gift: a personalized MAP-TO-THE-STARS of the Tigers clubhouse. After all, we don’t want you walking into the showers.
by Mitch Albom | Oct 2, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
Pretty soon, I expect to find the AL East title selling at a garage sale for $1.39.
Does anybody want this thing? Detroit loses. Toronto loses. Detroit wins. Toronto loses. Detroit loses. Toronto loses. Are we sure this is the homestretch? Geez. When the going gets tough, the tough wait for the weekend.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 30, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
The small comeback story sits inside the big comeback story. Frank Tanana was throwing so badly two weeks ago Sparky Anderson took the ball away from him. No one knew when he would pitch again. Yet, there he was Tuesday night, pitching again, pitching well, allowing just three hits in eight innings. And winning — his first win in seven weeks. Seven weeks? Bad to good. The small comeback story.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 29, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
TORONTO — Oh, if home runs could talk! What might this one have said — this ninth-inning speedball that exploded off Kirk Gibson’s bat and sailed gloriously over the right field wall, tied the game, silenced the crowd, landed in the Blue Jays’...
by Mitch Albom | Sep 28, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
TORONTO — Oh, if home runs could talk! What might this one have said — this ninth-inning speedball that exploded off Kirk Gibson’s bat and sailed gloriously over the right field wall, tied the game, silenced the crowd, landed in the Blue Jays’...
by Mitch Albom | Sep 27, 1987 | Detroit Free Press
TORONTO — The post-game food sat in silver trays, warm and untouched. Tigers moved quickly around the clubhouse, tugging their ties, eyeing the exits, hoping to escape without comment. What was there to say?
The ghosts that have taken over this American League East race had kissed Toronto and spat at Detroit, deciding that only the worst possible ninth-inning nightmares would suffice. And words certainly weren’t going to stop them. Not if five pitchers, nine runs, 11 hits and a grand slam wouldn’t.
