In memory of Mark "The Bird" Fidrych
I wanted to write this post earlier, but for a variety of reasons (most of them associated with a schedule that revolves around work and family) I haven't gotten to it until now.
I was greatly saddened a few weeks ago to hear of Mark "the Bird" Fidrych's tragic death. I remember the Bird's magic summer of '76, because that's the year I became interested in baseball. It was largely due to the exuberance and individuality of Mark Fidrych. He was one of a kind, and I don't know if we'll ever see a player quite like Fidrych.
I lived in Detroit from 1973 to 1979, so I was there to experience the Bird. I, along with other kids on my block, mimicked all of Fidrych's oddball traits: running to the mound at the beginning of an inning (and running off the field after the third out), smoothing the mound, talking to the ball, and the Bird's herky-jerky pitching motion. I distinctly remember talking to a tennis ball (and telling it where to go in a way that I imagined the Bird would do it), winding up like Fidrych, and throwing the ball against our garage door.
I became a big fan of the Tigers that summer of '76. My parents took me to a game against the Cleveland Indians (lower deck box seats, third base side) and I remember watching Bill Freehan warm up the pitcher in the bullpen (who wasn't Fidrych, by the way. I can't remember who started the game). I had the same reaction so many other kids have the first time they see a major league game. Walking up the ramp to the stands, I was overcome by the lushness of emerald green of the field. My mom bought me the 1976 Tigers yearbook, with its cover draped in Bicentennial red, white and blue (and featuring a photo of Milt May, Rusty Staub, and Dave Roberts amiably chatting in a circle in the Tigers' locker room). Players like Freehan, Staub, Ron LeFlore, Ben Oglivie, and Jason Thompson also became my heroes, thanks to the door opened for me by that the goofy, curly-haired pitcher.
Because of Mark Fidrych, I became a passionate Tiger follower, and a life-long baseball fan. Rest in peace, Bird.
I was greatly saddened a few weeks ago to hear of Mark "the Bird" Fidrych's tragic death. I remember the Bird's magic summer of '76, because that's the year I became interested in baseball. It was largely due to the exuberance and individuality of Mark Fidrych. He was one of a kind, and I don't know if we'll ever see a player quite like Fidrych.
I lived in Detroit from 1973 to 1979, so I was there to experience the Bird. I, along with other kids on my block, mimicked all of Fidrych's oddball traits: running to the mound at the beginning of an inning (and running off the field after the third out), smoothing the mound, talking to the ball, and the Bird's herky-jerky pitching motion. I distinctly remember talking to a tennis ball (and telling it where to go in a way that I imagined the Bird would do it), winding up like Fidrych, and throwing the ball against our garage door.
I became a big fan of the Tigers that summer of '76. My parents took me to a game against the Cleveland Indians (lower deck box seats, third base side) and I remember watching Bill Freehan warm up the pitcher in the bullpen (who wasn't Fidrych, by the way. I can't remember who started the game). I had the same reaction so many other kids have the first time they see a major league game. Walking up the ramp to the stands, I was overcome by the lushness of emerald green of the field. My mom bought me the 1976 Tigers yearbook, with its cover draped in Bicentennial red, white and blue (and featuring a photo of Milt May, Rusty Staub, and Dave Roberts amiably chatting in a circle in the Tigers' locker room). Players like Freehan, Staub, Ron LeFlore, Ben Oglivie, and Jason Thompson also became my heroes, thanks to the door opened for me by that the goofy, curly-haired pitcher.
Because of Mark Fidrych, I became a passionate Tiger follower, and a life-long baseball fan. Rest in peace, Bird.
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