The Bird Game

I don't know how many Tiger fans remember this date, although I'm sure many do: June 28, 1976. Fifty years ago today. I call it the Bird game: it was the game which shot Mark Fidrych to national fame. I watched it as a sixteen year old, and it is (outside of World Series wins, and then only arguably) my favorite Tigers' game.

Rookie Mark Fidrych, nicknamed the Bird, threw a complete game 5-1 victory over the New York Yankees in a nationally televised Monday night contest. My son found a copy of the event on a VHS tape at a rummage sale and picked it up. The tape was labeled simply, The Fidrych Game. We watched it the day before Memorial Day. Yes, I still have a tape player hooked up to my TV.

Fidrych was a character. He groomed the pitchers's mound, he talked to himself, he thanked the players behind him after good plays. He was certainly unique.

I was struck by how quickly the game was played: I counted typically only 8 - 9 seconds between pitches. That's how you're supposed to play: keep it moving. But far more than that was watching the simple, childlike excitement of the Bird as he pitched. He put on no airs, there was no bravado. He was not grandstanding. He was just playing baseball. And having fun at it.

Then the cheers after the last out were amazing. Tiger Stadium rocked with the chant, "We want Bird! We want Bird!" until he came out for the curtain call. The broad smile, the happiness on his face; he was just so sincere. You don't see that on athletes, and that's a shame. Games should be fun more than anything else, even, perhaps especially, at that level.

The chills still ran down down my spine years later, watching that game with my son. Detroit Tigers fans who never saw the Bird missed something that can't be found even on World Series championship teams. They missed the most deserving player ever to don the Old English D. He may even be the most deserving player ever to take the field in a Major League Baseball game. Fidrych loved the game, and the fans loved him for it.

Blatant Industrial Espionage

This morning I received a call from a customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, where I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish but he wasn't getting any cooperation from me regardless.

He needed some cables repaired and I told him to bring them in Monday or Tuesday but expect a two week return time because we're busy. "Why don't you teach me how to do repairs, Cosgriff? I might could help you out."

"I'm don't know that I can do that, Cloyce. I'd have to stay right with you at first and it would really just slow me down." Let me establish, quite bluntly, you don't want Cloyce fixing your stuff. Trust me.

"Well let me ask you this: what does it cost you to fix a cable? What's your actual cost?" 

I have to admit that I was a bit taken aback by such a question. It's, oh, what would you call it, impertinent, maybe? Still, it was Cloyce, something of a dingbat, and I held my temper. My response was rather pointed nonetheless. "I'm afraid that's privileged information, Cloyce."

He responded indignantly, "Man, you just don't want any competition do you, Cosgriff?"

Well, I won't lie. I don't really want competition, no. But I would accept it if it arose naturally because that's part of the working world. And it occurs to me this second that Cloyce competition might actually help me in the long run, once folks see what kind of work he does. Still, I ain't helping anyone learn to compete with me, and I'm especially not telling him my margins. What did he expect?

We'll see if he brings his cables by.

Not My Native Tongue

Late yesterday as I was getting off work, my next door neighbor and her young daughter were sitting on their porch. I waved and said, "Hi!"

"Hi!" the little girl responded. Then she, very excited, launched into full on Pebbles Flintstone. "Bada dadi dodi gadda gidda da nehhi blochta hehaw!" I could actually feel the confused expression growing on my face as she talked. 

Her mother then explained, "She said she got a pedal bike at her fourth birthday party and she's learning to ride it."

I looked back at the daughter. "Mommy and Daddy are teaching you to ride a bike?"

She began another run on sentence. "Yes! Haha bingo blah suppri didi haha no a aat ya ya!"

Mom said, "Yes they are, and it's fun, and one day I'll teach my baby sister to ride hers!"

"Good for you!" I told the girl.

I'm glad she's so happy, but I was most grateful for the translator. It's been decades since I had to speak toddler.

Buffaloed

Yesterday I returned home from a quick run to the local supermarket. As I sorted out my change, I found that I had been given, not an ordinary nickel, but a Buffalo nickel.

Buffalo nickels were minted between 1913 and 1938. This means that mine is between 88 and 113 years old. I can't say for sure, because it's so worn from use that the date has rubbed off. There's a lot of wear around the edge of the coin too.

I'm debating whether to find a coin shop to have it appraised. I'm not fooling myself into believing it might actually be worth something, but I did find a similarly worn one being listed on eBay for $2500.  No joke; the date is rubbed away on that one too, so there must be some way to determine when such things were issued no matter what.

Anyway, I've been buffaloed. It's far from earth shattering, yet still a rather neat thing to happen.

The Flutter of the Wings

I am currently reading Ronald Reagan's autobiography, An American Life. I've read a lot about the former President. I would guess about a dozen books so far, but never in (essentially) his own words until now. You would think a guy could only read so much about a figure or event without it all becoming a rehash, but different perspectives do offer deeper understandings, and I do admire the man. I'm truly enjoying the book.

Early on Reagan talks frankly about his father, Jack Reagan's, alcoholism and the troubles it caused his family. Yet the elder Reagan was finally able to conquer it late in life. A few years before his death he was able to quit cold turkey, returning to Church in the process. President Reagan was, with admiration for his father, one day relating the story to fellow actor Jimmy Cagney. Cagney thoughtfully responded, "He heard the flutter of the wings."

He heard the flutter of the wings. Damn but if that don't bring a lump to my throat.

People is People

I don't always know what to think of people. Okay, I typically know what to think of people. But as I'm trying to keep this blog G rated, or no worse than PG, I'll let that thought hang.

A man came into the old barn yesterday to buy a machine. I got it out, plugged it up, hit the on/off switch, and it ran. I let off the switch, put the unit into reverse, and hit the button again to show that it worked in both directions. You know, standard salesman procedure.

"Let me have that," he says, as he literally muscles me out of the way and tries the machine in forward and then reverse. All the while I stood and stared at him thinking, 'I just did that. Right in front of you. Why are you double checking me?'

Of course, maybe he knows people too.

Drain Snake Methodology

The other day I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.

At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."

He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."

Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.