8801150962
DETROIT FREE PRESS
880405
Tuesday, April 05, 1988
METRO FINAL
1A
Photo Color and Photo CRAIG PORTER
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1988, Detroit Free Press
TRAMMELL DRIVES IN SUMMER
BASEBALL'S BACK, AND WE'RE YOUNG AGAIN
BOSTON -- Suddenly, summer.
With one swing of Alan Trammell's bat, sending a long fly ball over the
Fenway Park wall, everything old was new again: the hot dogs, the scorecards,
the razzing from the bleachers. Baseball, ladies and gentlemen. The kind that
counts.
Opening Day.
"The difference between doing what I did today and doing it on the last day
of spring training is, gosh, there's no explaining it!" gushed Trammell,
whose two-run homer in the 10th inning was the winning hit in the Tigers' 5-3
victory over the Red Sox. "I mean, in spring training, come the sixth or
seventh inning, I'm looking to go home."
Nobody was looking for home this day. On the contrary. They were home. Some
for the 10th time. Some for the fifth time. Some for the first time, which is
the best time of all. The big leagues.
Opening Day.
"How does it feel?" a reporter asked Detroit's Paul Gibson, a rookie
pitcher who, at 28, has waited 10 years in the minors for this one glorious
moment. "How does it feel to finally make an Opening Day? Did you have a
little tingle?"
"Big tingle," he said, grinning.
Big tingle.
Never mind that it was wet and cool and the mound was muddy. Never mind
that the Boston fans wore tan overcoats and carried umbrellas on this April
Monday. This was magic, the first slice of pie, the beginning of the alphabet.
You are either young on Opening Day or you died and nobody told you.
How many Tigers fans were in their offices back in Detroit, radios stashed
under the desk, earphones hidden under their palm? How many people came home
and turned on the 6 o'clock news, people who never turn on the 6 o'clock
news, because today there was news, there was baseball?
"It's nice to say you're trying your hardest in spring training and
la-de-da-de-da," said veteran Jack Morris, who pitched a strong opener
Monday, nine innings, and got the win, "but it's difficult for a guy to put
his whole heart into a game that doesn't mean a damn thing. It really is."
He leaned back, looking at his right shoulder, which was wrapped, as usual,
in post-game ice.
"Today," he said, smiling, "it was easy."
Easy? Heck. You could have watched this game twice. Here were Morris and
Roger Clemens, two of the best in the business, lasting the full nine innings,
each striking out the last man he faced. Here was Matt Nokes, cracking a
sixth-inning home run that landed on a fan's umbrella. Here was Chet Lemon in
right field -- right field? -- and newcomer Gary Pettis in center and Mike
Heath behind the plate. Here was Boston's Lee Smith, the savior, supposedly,
of the Red Sox bullpen, giving up Trammell's home run in the 10th inning and
losing his first Boston challenge.
"Great game, huh?" said Lemon afterward. Great game. And more. For it was
dipped in that Opening Day karma, a soft voice that coos: "Summer's coming.
Get the cooler ready." Corny? Overblown? Sure. Yet it is somehow still
comforting. We are all alive, for at least another year, another Opening Day.
Grab the kids. Grab the beer.
"It was everything an Opening Day was cracked up to be," said Don Heinkel,
another 28-year-old rookie pitcher selected for the Tigers just a few days
ago. "I've never even been to Fenway Park before. This was great!"
He gulped down a glass of milk and reached for more of the post-game
chicken and salad. For the first time, there was a bus waiting back to a
first-class hotel -- in Boston. Not Charlotte, not Memphis, not Tidewater.
"Food's a lot better in the major leagues, too, huh?" someone asked.
"It sure is," he said, between bites.
Beyond the game
It sure is. These are the moments that somehow lift baseball beyond its
limits, beyond its field, and into our psyche, our American souls. Scenes like
Sparky Anderson stuffing his pipe and saying "Oooh, this is my best club
ever" -- again! -- and Darrell Evans shaking hands with all his teammates
before the game, wishing them a good season.
Scenes like Frank Tanana, the veteran, and Heinkel, the rookie, missing
the bus, on purpose, walking to Fenway Park together, talking baseball, life.
Scenes like Jim Walewander, the irascible, young, punk-rock- loving
infielder, here in his first Opening Day, walking through the hotel lobby
looking, well . . . mature. A dark wool sport coat, gray slacks, real shoes.
"No combat boots this year," he said. "Sparky told me to leave them home."
"Where'd you get the jacket?"
"Sparky bought it for me last year. At this clothes store in Farmington.
And that coach from the Pistons, what's his name again?"
"Chuck Daly?"
"Yeah. He picked out the pants and shirt."
"And the tie?"
"My father's. I found it in his closet. Still had the tag on it. I said,
'Whoa, Dad, can I have this?"'
Off we go. The buses will be waiting. The fields will be waiting. This
will be a long Tiger season, full of stories and scenes and charm and wit and
agony, destiny, injury, ecstasy. But under it all, baseball, always baseball,
which began Monday in earnest, a long fly ball over the left field wall.
Suddenly, summer.
Big tingle.
CUTLINE
Winning Tigers pitcher Jack Morris congratulates Alan Trammell, whose
10th-inning home run won the season opener Monday in Boston.
Tigers manager Sparky Anderson, left, shakes hands with youngsters Monday
before his team's opening-day game in Boston's Fenway Park against the Red
Sox.
(METRO EDITION ONLY)
Tigers manager Sparky Anderson blows a bubble shortly before the start of his
team's game against the Boston Red Sox Monday.
OPENING DAY;BASEBALL;DTIGERS;SPT;COLUMN