During the summer of 1976 I celebrated my tenth birthday. That same summer, Jimmy Carter won the democratic nomination for president, Nadia was scoring perfect tens in the summer Olympics, a hostage situation in Uganda prompted Israel to stage a raid on the Entebbe Airport, the Son of Sam was terrorizing New York City, Legionnaires’ disease killed 29 people at a convention in Philadelphia, and Viking 2 entered orbit around Mars. However, as a ten-year old that loved baseball, the most important thing to me that summer was the fact that Mark “The Bird” Fidrych was on the mound for the Detroit Tigers.
Mark Fidrych was relatively unknown at the start of the 1976 baseball season. He didn’t make his first start until late May – and that was only because the scheduled starting pitcher had the flu. In that game, Fidrych threw seven no-hit innings, winning the game 2-1. That season, he went on to win 19 games, lead the league in ERA, and serve as the starting pitcher for the American League in the All-Star Game. But, it wasn’t just his success as a pitcher that catapulted him to fame, it was his entire persona. He was tall and lanky with a mop of curly blonde hair. People thought he resembled Big Bird on Sesame Street, earning him his nickname, “the Bird”. He also, among other things, talked to the baseball, strutted wildly around the mound, and insisted that some baseballs “had hits in them.” His antics captured the imagination of baseball fans everywhere.
Fidrych also captured the imagination of my grandfather. My grandfather was born and raised on a farm in a small town in western Michigan. He had a thick head of white hair that he often topped with a fedora. His given name was James Lawrence, but everybody called him Bob. His vocabulary was often sprinkled with a foul word or four. He possessed a mischievous sense of humor. And, he enjoyed baseball.
I have several memories of my grandfather at Tiger Stadium. Most vivid is the final trip he made with us to Tiger Stadium. In his eighties, his boyish excitement was still evident. He ate a slice of pizza, reporting that it was the first time he had ever eaten pizza in his life. He got a kick out of watching two women seated near the Tiger bullpen. And, he had some choice words for a couple of obnoxious teenagers that repeatedly kicked the back of his seat. That boy-like splendor was often noticeable in my grandfather when he was at the ballpark. I remember how animated my grandfather was during a game in which the Tigers were playing the Chicago White Sox. He yelped, “Willllllburrrrr, Willlllburrrrr, Willlllburrr” in a booming voice, at Wilbur Wood, a pitcher for the Sox. My grandfather shouted at Wilbur for one reason only. It was simply fun to yelp the name Wilbur.
As the 1976 season neared an end my grandfather made two ill-fated attempts to witness the magic of “The Bird” first hand. He decided that we needed to make a trip to Tiger Stadium on a day that Fidrych was scheduled to pitch. As luck would have it, we made that trip on the third of September. It was a beautiful night, and on the way into the stadium my grandfather bought my brother and I large “The Bird is the Word” buttons from a street vendor. We proudly wore our buttons into the stadium, displaying the cartoon-like drawing of Fidrych as part man, part Big Bird. Fidrych pitched just three and two-thirds innings. The Tigers lost that game to the Brewers 11-2.
Disappointed by that trip, my grandfather had another idea. Mark Fidrych and Mickey Stanley, were scheduled to appear at a local department store (Rogers) to sign autographs for fans. My grandfather made plans with my father to take my brother and me to the event. We arrived early, but we were still 200 people or so from the front of the line. If we were patient, we would eventually get an autograph from Fidrych. My grandfather and father, however, could tell that we would need more than patience. As the line of fans grew in number, the event organizers snaked the line back and forth in an effort to contain the crowd. This was problematic because they were weaving line without stanchions, barriers, or ropes. When the doors opened, the crowd moved forward in one big mass. We waited for two or three hours and never moved from our spot. The difficult decision was made to take my brother and I home. I did what any disappointed ten year old girl might do – I cried. Not just a little. I cried for the duration of the thirty minute trip home.
I wish I could go back in time and do that car ride over. Instead of tears, I would have said, “Thank you for trying Grandpa.” But, at ten, I was not yet mature enough for that type of response. Time passes. It is no longer the fact that you did not get an autograph that makes you want to cry, but rather it is the fact that you are not sure you EVER told you grandpa thank you. Not even when you were older and had gained the maturity to do so.
And this is life…so things happen. Eventually, everyone that waited it out at Rogers Plaza got an autograph. Wilbur Wood was seriously injured in a game at Tiger Stadium in 1976. He pitched again, but was not able to regain the level of mastery he had prior to the injury. Mark Fidrych never again matched the glory he had achieved in 1976. My grandfather eventually passed away. And me, well, I learned a lot about life that summer of 1976 – I just didn’t realize it until about 1991.
