Performer: Robbie Robertson
Songwriter: Robbie Robertson
Original Release: Robbie Robertson
Year: 1987
Definitive Version: None.
Over the course of this here blog, I hope that if I’ve done nothing else aside from exposing you to outstanding songs with which you weren’t familiar, I’ve shown my willingness to expose myself for the fool I am. I certainly have had my share of bad behavior that makes me look back and wonder not what was I thinking, but was I even thinking at all? At least most of the time I can say I learned from it and didn’t repeat the moronocy. This is another of those stories.
Soon after Dave and I started doing things together—mandates, if you will—in the summer of 1990, Dave suggested a doubleheader of sorts. We’d hit Lansing for a card show in the afternoon and then Detroit for a game that night. Sounds good. What could possibly go wrong?
The card show on this dreary, overcast July day was outside. It might even have been at the state fairgrounds, I don’t remember. The draw was an appearance by Cecil Fielder.
Now, Cecil was THE MAN. As I mentioned, I outbid everyone in the Flint Rotball League for the Japan league refugee, and Fielder repaid my faith by carrying my beloved Wonkas to the front of the pack through his league-leading homers and RBI.
As was usual, Dave and I didn’t pay the fee for an autograph. (It might have been $5—a lot then but a pittance now for a local hero and MVP candidate.) Instead we hung out outside the tent where Cecil was signing to catch a glimpse. When Cecil left, Dave got a handshake, and his hand was swallowed by Cecil’s. The man was as huge as his contribution to my bid for Rotball glory.
Sated, we also headed to Detroit. The clouds hung low, and it misted a bit, although the game, as I recall, never was delayed.
The Tigers were playing the Texas Rangers, and the legendary Nolan Ryan started for the Rangers. Ryan was pursuing 300 wins, although he was three away by this particular game, so we had no chance to witness history. That being the case, plenty of good seats were available, so Dave and I bought tickets way up on the first base side and moved down as the game progressed. That became our Tiger Stadium routine.
The Rangers took an early lead, and the game proceeded at a leisurely pace. Ryan left early, still with the lead, and my focus turned to the end of the game.
A huge key to the Wonka’s success that year aside from Fielder was that one of my cheapy relievers at the end of the draft was Kenny Rogers, who was the Rangers’ set-up man. My thinking for the last relievers to fill out my staff was get set-up guys who might get a save here or there but step in if the closer gets hurt.
Well, just like I drew it up on a notebook in The Flint Journal breakroom, Jeff Russell, the Rangers’ closer, went down with an arm injury, and Rogers stepped in. It was anything but a sure thing, and it seemed that Rogers was just one bad outing from losing the opportunity (and me losing a crucial second saves guy).
As the innings piled up, I started thinking that this was a golden opportunity for Rogers to tally another save. Unfortunately, to start the ninth, the Rangers kept reliever Jamie Moyer in. I stewed. Oh … come on guys! This is a save opportunity here. You gotta bring in the (new) closer!
Moyer got the first batter but then walked the next. With the tying run at the plate, manager Bobby Valentine brought in Rogers. YES! YES! YES! Rogers struck out the next batter, and the Wonkas were one out away from adding a save to the totals.
But it had been no 1-2-3 K. Rogers was struggling with his command, and he walked the next batter, who represented the tying run, putting runners on first and second. Brad Arnsberg was warming up in the bullpen, but Rogers stayed in. He promptly uncorked a wild pitch, moving the tying run into scoring position. At that point, Valentine had seen enough and pulled Rogers for Arnsberg.
What happened next will live forever in Tiger Stadium lore, at least as far as Dave and I are concerned. An AP story that appeared in my work computer Monday said the pastoral quiet of Tiger Stadium was shattered by an unidentified man sitting in the box seats almost right behind home plate. According to eyewitnesses, he slammed his cap repeatedly on the chair in front of him whilst screaming the “f-word” at the top of his lungs, not once, not twice, but thrice.
Deplorable! Who would do such a thing in decent society? I might have been able to identify the ill-mannered lout in the mirror, but the AP report was sketchy on the details …
OK, it’s a fair cop, but society’s to blame. Rotball pressure had gotten to me, and faced with the prospect of a lost save and possibly the Rangers closer, I just lost it. I was chastised by a few fans around us, but I wasn’t asked to leave. Instead, I just slunk away at game’s end with my tail appropriately between my legs.
I felt bad about the lost save, but I felt worse that I ruined the day Dave and I had. I worried that he was wondering what sort of lunatic he had befriended. Dave, however, knew comedic gold when his pickaxe hit it. He might or might not have been the author of the aforementioned AP story, which quoted at length a Sadie Bluehair of Utica who seethed with righteous indignation at the unidentified man’s salty language.
All was forgiven, and I can promise you, it was never repeated. But a moment had been immortalized. From then on, when one of us started to get out of line, we’d invoke ol’ Sadie Bluehair, poised to report our bad behavior.
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