Season Has Been a Bear for Tigers

Sparky Anderson stepped out of the shower, spotted an old acquaintance, shook his head sadly and said: “If I live through this season, you’ll know I’m tough.”

It was a Friday night in Anaheim, and Commander Whitehead had just seen his Detroit Tigers mess up a game with the Angels. The center fielder overran a ball, the catcher let a throw roll away, the third baseman made a wild peg to first base and the relief pitcher turned a 6-2 win into a 7-6 loss, all in one hysterical ninth inning.

Baseball’s best team had turned into the Bad News Bears.

“In 32 years, I ain’t never seen nothing like this,” Anderson said. “Never in my career have I seen a team do this. No place.”

Within a span of 15 games, the Tigers had blown a two-run lead in the eighth inning, a two-run lead in the ninth, two three-run leads in the ninth and a four-run lead in the ninth. “And we’re 8-7!” Anderson howled. “We win those games, we’re right up Toronto’s (synonym for donkey).”

Incredibly, the guilty party in all five giveaways was Willie Hernandez, the left-handed relief pitcher. This is the guy who won the American League’s Cy Young and Most Valuable Player awards in 1984 and before the World Series was over was pressing for a spectacular new contract, one that would pay him what he was worth.

This is the same guy who in his seven previous seasons in the majors had piled up a spectacular 27 saves.

Lance Parrish, his catcher, said of Hernandez after Friday’s game: “He’s having a frustrating time. I don’t think even he knows what’s wrong. He’ll just keep showing up every day, just like everybody else, hoping that things will turn around.”

Things do have a way of turning around. In 1975, Detroit lost the season opener to Baltimore, 10-0, and went on to lose 102 games. In 1984, the Tigers won 35 of their first 40 games and wound up winning 111 games in all, including seven of eight in the playoffs and World Series.

Last year was a long year in Detroit. No matter how far ahead the Tigers pulled, there always seemed to be months to go before they could put the thing on ice. As late as August, Sparky Anderson was pointing out to a center-field flagpole and saying: “See that? That’s where they’ll hang me if I blow this thing.”

Media coverage became so concentrated that the Tigers spent half their time telling their life stories. There was Parrish, the strapping son of an L.A. cop; Kirk Gibson, the volatile ex-Michigan State football player; Chet Lemon, the gentle soul who converted teammate Lou Whitaker to Jehovah’s Witnesses. There was even Rusty Kuntz, the sweetheart of Paso Robles, Calif., who drove in the game-winning run in the final game of the World Series with a sacrifice fly to the second baseman, then received a parade in his home town.

By the end of the season, Detroiters knew more about the ballplayers than Rona Barrett knew about Cher. One newspaper ran a full page of facts that included Darrell Evans’ recipe for tacos, third-base coach Alex Grammas’ favorite golf club (“The driver. I can hit it 240 yards.”), pitcher Bill Scherrer’s thoughts on not owning a pet (“They have to die someday, and I don’t want to see anything die.”), catcher Dwight Lowry’s person he’d most like to meet (“I’d like to meet Elijah, the prophet. I’d ask him to explain life to me.”), pitcher Dan Petry’s advice for making ice cream (“The important thing is not to get electrocuted when you plug it in.”) and catcher-infielder Marty Castillo’s Most Scared I’ve Ever Been (“Kansas City. All the players started throwing grasshoppers on me. I can’t stand grasshoppers. They were in my clothes, in my shoes ... I was terrified.”). They lived through the season, so you know they were tough.

The same team went to spring training four months later, dreaming of dynasties. One of the worst habits in America is the anticipation of dynasties by athletes--and by fans of athletes--whose string of championships rests at one in a row.

“You take the team we had last year and the team we had this April--no comparison,” Anderson said. “We should have been better this year. I’m serious. Better!”

So, what don’t the Tigers have now that they had then?

They don’t have Milt Wilcox, the Marquis de Cortisone, who sacrificed his arm, his health and possibly his career to win 17 games. They don’t have Ruppert Jones, who wanted guaranteed playing time built into his contract, and ran off to hit homers in California when he didn’t get it. And they don’t have Roger Craig, Sparky’s pitching coach and co-pilot, who wanted to spend more time riding horses on his ranch near San Diego and less time riding buses from airports to hotels to stadiums.

“Aw, we’ve still got the people it takes to win,” Anderson said. “We just ain’t doing it. It’s scary how good we should be and how bad we’re playing.”

Not as scary as Kansas City grasshoppers, but close.