Forget snow; bring on spring!

Opening Day is March 31!

Anybody remember these Detroit Tigers? I know Cortney Piper, Danny Sharp, Dean Harned, Bob Martin, David Romas, Kurt Pickering, Grant Rosenberg and Thomas Magnum do.

Glory days...they'll pass you by, glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye...

(Has it really been 30 years??!!)

'Bless you boys!'

Bless you boys!

The Detroit Tigers have evened the ALCS at 2 games apiece. Man, this is shaping up to be a classic.

Yes, your humble servant is somewhat divided. Detroit and the BoSox are two of my three favorite MLB teams. (The third -- the ATL -- has already been eliminated.)

But, I'm pulling for the Tigers in this series. One, I've loved them longer. Two, the BoSox won it all in 2004 and 2007. The last time the Tigers won the Series was 29 years ago. (By the way, I've got that entire Series on DVD to watch in winter.)

So, I'll be for the AL in the World Series regardless.

No doubt, my buddies Thomas, David, Dave, Ed, Jim, Robbie, Mike (no, not Hermann) and Jed (and, somewhere, Sam Malone) are boosting the BoSox.

Over in the NL, buddies Drew and Nick are cheering on the Cards, and Spencer, Ken and Roy (and maybe Bob) are dreaming for Dodger domination.

But, since my blood runs orange in so many ways, I am pulling for the Old English D this week. So, too, are pals David and Jen, Cortney, Danny, Grant, Matthew (no, not Shelton) and Mike (no, not Hermann).

"Bless you boys!"

Bonus points to anyone who knows who uttered the above phrase. (And it isn't who you think.)

A few minutes with Jakey Rooney

Ferndale, Mich. -- Have you ever wondered why people bother to go to the ballpark and don't bother to watch the ballgame? I have.

I did yesterday while taking in a Tigers game at Comerica Park.

Cheers. Chuckles. Cacophony. Chaos.

An entire row of tween girls left in the second inning and didn't return until the eighth. That was the good part, come to think about it.

A man who was old enough to know better audibly kept trying to decide whether to ride the carousel or the Ferris wheel. Guess he called an audible when he got there.

A few rows in front of us, a group kept gabbing about somebody's birthday, singing and standing while blocking my view of home plate.

"Seriously?" I said. "I have a birthday every year."

It is a free country, in theory, but why would one pay good money to NOT watch the game? (Jets fans need not answer.)

Maybe I am not the best barometer. I keep score. Rap music is repugnant. The only wave I want to see is from the Fox Sports Detroit girls.

I had just about had enough, loudly lamenting the HDTV receiver and my recliner, when Alex Aliva went deep with what proved to be the game winner.

"You know," I said, looking down on the green field of glory, "I carry on and complain, and yet I love this damned ol' game."

It's so good, in fact, that I wished these folks had watched.

Mabe in Motown

Ferndale, Mich. -- So, in a span of 20 minutes, I bought a Detroit Tigers jacket, a Jack Lord "Hawaii Five-O" bust and a book called "Elvis Died For Somebody's Sins (But Not Mine)."

That's the way Mabester rolls in Motown.

Fall has arrived in Ferndale. The temperature dropped to a frosty 48 last night. Today was terrific. Sixty-seven and sunny. Super.

I ducked into a quirky bookstore in Birmingham. Tomes were tossed to and fro, piles and piles, rows and rows. It was my kind of joint.

I was hunting "A Confederacy of Dunces" but found the Elvis book instead. Had to buy it. It's by a cat called Mick Farren. Ever heard of him?

"Within these pages you'll meet the likes of Frank Zappa, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry and Gore Vidal, and steam open correspondence between the author and Pete Townshend," writes Charles Shaar Murray in the forward. "And, much more importantly, you're about to go one-on-one with a world class raconteur..."

How can one resist that?

So, Tennessee lost to Oregon and the Tigers lost to the Royals. As Luther H. Gillis, private eye, might say, "Who cares!"

I am on vacation. Plus, that just means the Tigs will win tomorrow. See ya at Comerica Park!

Grand ol' game delivers again

Baseball is an old friend, a comfortable companion, here for six months or so, if I need it.

I haven't watched much of it this year. Work and other pursuits have kept me busy. Jenn and I did catch a minor league game in Chattanooga with my friend Kurt a couple of months ago.

This afternoon I was trying to ignore a migraine when I got an email from my buddy David, a Detroit Tigers fan from Ferndale, Mich. He told me Tigers manager Jim Leyland had been thrown out of this afternoon's game against the Indians. The Tigers were looking to sweep the Tribe.

"I'll go turn it on," I replied.

And I did.

Baseball's leisurely pace -- it is not boring if you know its rules and strategy -- is part of its endless appeal. I scanned the headlines, surfed the Web, even listened to part of a Charlie Rose broadcast on Bloomberg Radio, all while the Tigers and Indians maneuvered in Motown, and I missed nothing. It helps that the Tigers' TV talent do their jobs well.

The game see-sawed a bit. Cleveland by a run. Tie. Tigers by a run. Tie. So forth.

I thought Detroit had it won in the bottom of the ninth when Austin Jackson hit a triple -- the best offensive play in the game -- with nobody out. Wrong. The Tigers offense couldn't move him 90 feet.

Free baseball ensued.

And everything imploded for the Old English D. The Indians scored three runs in the top of the 10th. Fans headed to the exits. That seemed to be that.

I came close to switching the TV to a DVR-recorded broadcast of today's "Face the Nation." Then I remembered the time my dad and I left Neyland Stadium with three minutes or so to go in the 2002 edition of the UT/Georgia football game.

Tennessee took the lead and lost it -- and the game -- in a span of two minutes we didn't see. I vowed then and there I'd never leave a sporting event early again. Maybe I would make an exception for life-threatening situations. Maybe.

Sure enough, I was rewarded for my patience.

The Tigers scored five runs in the bottom of the 10th, the last two on a majestic, super, joyful walk-off home run by Miguel Cabrera. For a second or two, it felt like the postseason -- The Shot Heard Round the World and Kirk Gibson's gimpy trot around the bases in '88 and Magglio Ordonez's '06 miracle shot in the ALCS all rolled into one.

I didn't jump up and down. But I grinned. And grinned. And grinned some more. Felt like anything was possible.

For a minute, I didn't think about datelines and deadlines, deadly shots in Wisconsin and Colorado or civil war in Syria. For a minute there, I was a kid again, and all was right with the world.

Exhibit A as to why baseball is the greatest game of them all. Don't tell me otherwise. Don't talk about football or basketball or golf or The Olympics. I'm not buying it.

Not today.

Fun in Ferndale

Ferndale, Mich. -- So, our three day weekend comes to a close.

Big blur, super short, too little time. But, then again, that's the way of it, right? We work too much and play too little, all in the name of some passe Protestant ethic.

To hell with that.

But, we've had a blast. At left, you'll see Jennifer and me with Robert Washington, Elvis Tribute Artist extraordinaire, the highlight of our stop Saturday at the annual Michigan ElvisFest. Fabulous. Hear him here.

We are here, too, to see friends David and Jennifer. I have been heading here, or they have done the opposite, since 1999. They live in Ferndale, this funky, freaky, fantastic foxhole north of Detroit.

This afternoon, we watched the Tigers tame the Orioles via the televisions at Rosie O'Grady's bar. Then we went shopping. I bought three or four books at The Library bookstore -- John Cheever, James Agee, a "Hawaii Five-O" paperback from '68, and Ernie Harwell's early autobiography. (Then I dropped a C-note at a vintage clothing store. Groovy, baby!)

Speaking of the late, great Mr. Harwell, we saw the play "Ernie" at the City Theatre in downtown Detroit on Saturday night. I laughed. I cried. I lamented a long-gone era. Mitch Albom wrote the play. Perfectly poignant.

Before the show, we drove by a fenced-in lot, all that remains of beloved Tiger Stadium. I don't care how cool Comerica Park may be (and it is cool), it will never match the magic of the long-gone cathedral at The Corner. Not a chance.

This weekend was much-needed medicine. I've felt like hell for two weeks. So has Jenn. We needed a grin. We needed old friends.

Every time I come to Ferndale, I get caught up in its bohemian beauty, in its quirky charm, in its ethos.

Now I must return to tea party-tinged Tennessee. I will be honest. The thought depresses the hell out of me.

So it goes. Life is good.

We have enjoyed these two days. I have gotten all shook up and basked in beer and baseball and bell bottoms and the beauty of time spent with friends.

But here is the best part:

We'll be back.

So I got to drive a Porsche Boxster yesterday...

I won't lie. When I floored it going down Edgemoor Road by Centennial Golf Course in Oak Ridge, I felt a little like Thomas Magnum, p.i. (Yeah, I know Magnum drove a Ferrari 308, but still. At least I had on a Tigers cap.)

The Lost Weekend

Well, it wasn't perfect.

You've already read about my Thursday. Friday morning I was standing in Kroger by 11 to grab grub for the weekend. Jimmy, the guy at the counter, recognized my name. He said some nice things about the Shopper.

"You're a busy man."

"Well, I'm just glad to have a couple of days off."

"Did the Tigers win their opening game?" he asked, noticing the Old English D on my jacket.

"Nope," I said. "They lost to the Yankees."

"Oh, no."

"Well," I said, "that's nothing new."

Friday afternoon, Ken Lay regaled me with stories of being "Kenny the clubhouse boy" for the old Knoxville Sox.

We began watching games at 1 p.m. and didn't stop until 1 a.m. Twelve straight hours of the national pastime. It's a personal best. Hey, don't laugh. This is my vacation!

The Sox stunk up the joint in Arlington. Bard was bad. It was ugly.

Ken and I welcomed Saturday with the velvet voice of Vin Scully.

"He's still got it," Ken says. "He didn't slip at all."

Later that day, I got up early -- well, early for a guy who didn't get to bed until 3:30 -- waiting for the AT&T tech who didn't arrive until mid-afternoon. Got him squared away just in time to see the Braves get nipped by the Nats and the Tigers get yanked by the Yankees.

Pal Mike Hermann showed up in time to see the Sox stink it up again. But, the steak was good and we found our chuckle for the night, about the batter hitting in the No. 2 hole.

John Lackey was even worse than Jon Lester. We didn't even have the distraction of the two girls who sat behind home plate during the opener. Mike did a dead on Jerry Remy impression. That helped. Some.

This afternoon, I fell asleep while Clay Buchholz served up four solo homers en route to a 5-1 loss to Texas. Swept on opening weekend. Say it ain't so!

There are a few bright spots amid the falling Red Sox sky. Yo, Adrian, for one. The kid can hit. Here's what Dan Shaughnessy says about him.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I did switch it over to CBS long enough to see Connecticut stave off a Kentucky comeback. Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Tonight I'm watching "The Kennedys" on ReelzChannel to see what all the fuss is about. Have had enough baseball -- at least until tomorrow night.

It may have been a Lost Weekend, but at least we had some laughs.

Godspeed, Sparky

Godspeed to Sparky Anderson, former manager of the Cincinnati Reds and Detroit Tigers, who passed away today from complications due to dementia.

I am not qualified to write about one of my childhood favorites, so I'll link you to the incomparable Hal McCoy, retired sports writer for the Dayton Daily News.

His thoughts are here

I will share this much: Sparky was so popular he even appeared on the hit TV series "WKRP in Cincinnati" as himself. He was supposed to be taking part in a live call-in show.

Hilarious scene:

CALLER: Sparky?
SPARKY: Yeah!
CALLER: How ya doin'?
SPARKY: Good.
CALLER: That's good. (Pause) Well, see ya!

That rerun happened to be playing the night I visited Tiger Stadium for the first and last time in 1999. We took it as an omen. Yes, the woeful Tigers beat the Baltimore Orioles later that day.

Rest in Peace, Sparky.

'It'll break your heart'

When Alexi Casilla hit the winning RBI single last night to take the Minnesota Twins to the playoffs, I thought about Bart Giamatti.

The late, great former commissioner of our national game once said that baseball is designed to break your heart. Thus it is with me and a bunch of folks in Motown this morning.

The Tigers blew the 7-game lead it held on Sept. 7 while the Twins went on a tear. As it dwindled to three games, then two, then one, then the tie -- forcing last night's play-in game -- I could feel the sickening feeling in my gut, trying to keep my hopes alive, but knowing somehow that it was over.

I'll say this, though. Yesterday's game was a classic.

The Tigers jumped out to a 3-0 lead. The Twins scored one on an error. Back and forth it went. Tie game. Free baseball, as they call it, into the 10th inning, and the 11th, and the 12th.

I talked to J.M. on the phone for the last few frames, telling him not to react too quickly, since my satellite feed is a bit behind his cable broadcast. Dustin Mynatt texted his fear that the Tigers had blown too many chances. Mike Hermann said at least he'd be in Minnesota for a playoff game.

I can't believe I'm getting ready to type this, but I hope the Yankees win -- this series anyway.

So now it's off to root for Boston, with or without Heidi Watney, and look in on the National League from time to time.

But as I turned off my TV last night, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, I remembered the Renaissance poet who knew so much about our perfect pastime, and marveled over the fact that this little boy's game can still break my heart.

The best vacation I ever had...

Motown made the news a lot last year.

Not the kind of press you want, though. Most of it was bad.

Hell, bad isn't the word. The American auto industry is all but invisible. Ford, General Motors, Chrysler -- they all went to Congress, hat in hand, looking for relief. Congress told them to drop dead.

Detroit's crook of a mayor, Kwame Kilpatrick, was thrown in jail. The baseball team, my beloved Tigers, flopped, in spite of its All-Star lineup, and finished dead last in its division. The football team, the Lions, didn't win a single game.

But, you know something? The best vacation I ever had happened in Detroit, two summers ago, when time seemed to stop. Pull up a chair. Let me tell you about it.

I have been venturing up to Michigan since the late 1990s. Baseball, the last dance at Tiger Stadium, first drew me to Motown. We came to say good-bye, to hang out with my friends David Romas and Jennifer Bondy, to pay homage to that grand cathedral at The Corner.

Flash forward to August 2007. I hadn't taken any time off all year. Well, other than sick leave to pass kidney stones. That doesn't count.

Looking to escape the 100-degree heat on Rocky Top, I e-mailed David.

"Hey," I said. "My favorite singer is coming to Ann Arbor. Let's take in a Tigers game and go see her sing."

"OK," David said.

I flew up early on a Sunday morning. David picked me up at the airport. The temperature was 73 degrees. In Knoxville the day before, the thermometer read 102.

We ate lunch at a bar across the street from Comerica Park. The Tigers were playing Oakland that afternoon. We saw a win, my first at Detroit's new park, my first in six tries.

Monday night we headed to the University of Michigan campus. We ate dinner at a cool joint. We sat on the sidewalk. I watched the girls go by and enjoyed the sunset. What a night.

Then Robinella wowed the crowd at The Ark. I worked up the courage to say hello, something a star-struck fan had never been able to do down in the Old City. She gave me a hug and I floated back to the car. Picture perfect. The world made perfect sense.

I woke up that next morning, took a glass of orange juice and a bagel out on David and Jen's back patio, and ate breakfast in the morning sun. Sixty-eight degrees. I could feel the wind on my face. Picture perfect.

I wrote some of my best pieces to date during that trip. My boss liked them so much she devoted an entire page to them in our newspaper.

That Wednesday I flew home to Halls, relaxed and rejuvenated, ready to face the reality of autumn.

It was picture perfect, the best vacation I ever had, in a city that always gets a bad rap.

Hang in there, Detroit. Like this great nation of ours, you'll make a comeback.

Any town that gives a guy his best trip in years all but deserves a break.

Major league wusses

The real story behind the New York Mets' vintage meltdown last night at Shea Stadium isn't the meltdown itself. (It's been that kind of season for the Mets, which blew a 3-run lead in the 9th last night to lose 8-6 to the Philadelphia Phillies.) No, the question -- submitted for your approval -- is why interim manager Jerry Manuel didn't let starter Johan Santana (who'd been brilliant through 8 innings) complete the game?

And that leads to an even bigger question: when did major league pitchers become such wusses?

OK, I'm not a major league pitcher. But, I am something of a historian. And history tells me that this wasn't always the case in our national game.

The whole notion of a reliever (a pitcher who comes on in relief of the starting pitcher) is relatively new to baseball. Sparky Anderson was the first manager I know of to utilize relievers on a regular basis. The longtime Reds and Tigers skipper pulled pitchers so often, in fact, he became known as Captain Hook.

But once upon a time the starting pitcher was expected to go the full 9 innings. It's just what you did.


One of my heroes is former Tigers pitcher Mickey Lolich. He wasn't as flashy as the big stud of that rotation, the brilliant-but-troubled Denny McLain. McLain is the last 30-game winner in the majors. A fan favorite, McLain used to play organ in Motown nightspots after games and was something of a bohemian. (He also allegedly consorted with gamblers and has led something of a troubled life after baseball.)

But it was Lolich who carried Detroit to the 1968 world championship. Lolich started three times (three times!) in the 7-game World Series that year. He was a blue collar type of guy, had a slight paunch, and just went out there and won games, often with a "I'm just punching a time clock" mind-set. There was no closer. Lolich took care of bid'ness himself.

Mickey earned the win, and clinched the championship, in the classic seventh game. He's the hero of that series in my mind. Oh, and Lolich also had six hits and a 2-run homer in Game 2. (Yeah, they let AL pitchers hit then, too.)

Complete games were still common up into the 1990s, at least if Nolan Ryan was on the mound. Former Florida Marlins manager Jack McKeon brought the practice back into vogue a few years ago. His talented young guns took the team all the way to a World Series championship, and didn't seen to be phased by having to work the distance on a regular basis.

But it's become gospel in baseball to pull a starter after 100 pitches. Atlanta Braves manager Bobby Cox is a faithful disciple. You can just about set your watch to it.

I hear a lot of talk claiming that this practice keeps a pitcher's arm from giving out too early. But didn't Ryan pitch well into his 40s? And he still regularly threw no-hitters, too.

Seems to me that instead of cursing the bullpen, Mets fans should ask Manuel why he didn't let Santana finish what he started. The MLB should rethink its 100-pitch limit.

And big-league pitchers should quit being such wimps.

The last innocent summer

So how pathetic is this?

I'm curled up in my recliner, wearing PJs at noon, watching "Dark Shadows" and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm feeling better, but still not great, and so here I sit, watching this nonsense ("You can't kill me. I'm already dead!"), eating a kid's meal. After awhile, I'll turn the clan from Collinsport off and watch Justin Verlander and the Tigers stare down the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards.

Funny, but this is close to how I spent an entire summer, 15 years ago. Well, minus the migraines.

No, I didn't get headaches back then. Didn't really have a care in the world. That summer, the last innocent summer you might say, I slept late, read books, immersed myself in Dan Curtis's crazy dream each weekday morning at 11, and watched baseball in the balmy evenings.

Looking back, I guess it was a lonely summer, but it didn't feel that way then. I didn't have a point of reference to know any different.

I call it the last innocent summer, because soon after that I met this dark-haired girl, fell in love, and, well, life never has been quite the same.

But that summer, I cared about Fred McGriff coming over to Atlanta from Toronto. I lived and died with the Braves then, TBS, 7:35 p.m. Eastern, Skip and Pete, Don and Joe. Terry Pendleton at third. Dave Justice (damn him for taking Dale Murphy's place) in right, Marquis Grissom, Jeff Blauser, the Lemmer, Tom Glavine on the mound.

And, "Dark Shadows," my goodness. I knew more about Barnabas Collins than I did about the neighbors across the street. It's silly to think about now, the devotion that only a child can give to a TV show. Every now and then I'd get bored and watch a John Wayne western. "El Dorado," for about the 100th time. In the afternoons, I'd sit in the sun, and read books. I've forgotten what -- I'd graduated from the Hardy Boys by then -- but the titles are lost to time.

But the summer ended, as they always must. Then my dad sold his house, and I didn't get the Sci-Fi Channel and "Dark Shadows" anymore. I kept the Braves, but that fall I met that little dark-haired girl with the perfect teeth, and my priorities changed, probably for the worst.

Now I'm 15 years older, but still watching baseball, immersed again in "Dark Shadows" (thank you, Netflix), am madly in love with several dark-haired girls.

What is it they say about the more things change...?

There used to be a ballpark

And there used to be a ballpark
Where the field was warm and green
And the people played their crazy game
With a joy I'd never seen.
And the air was such a wonder
From the hot dogs and the beer
Yes, there used to be a ballpark, right here.

-- Frank Sinatra, "There Used to be a Ballpark Here," 1973

The gaping hole in the side of old Tiger Stadium this morning has nothing on the gaping hole in my heart.

I finally made it to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull in the late summer of 1999. It was the last year for baseball at the beloved ol' stadium in Detroit. Me and a buddy from Halls, Drew Weaver, made the 8-hour trek to Motown to say good-bye.

The Tigers were awful that year, as they so often were from 1988 to 2005. But, on this magical Saturday afternoon, they beat the Baltimore Orioles. I've forgotten the score. Cal Ripken Jr. wasn't playing that day, but he brought the lineup to home plate before the game.

It was a special moment in several ways. That game marked the beginning of my enduring friendship with two special pals, Michigan native and "Magnum, p.i." guru David Romas and his wife, Jennifer Bondy. It was also my first -- and only -- visit to the grand ol' girl that was Tiger Stadium. The last home game at the Corner was played that September; the Tigers moved to big new Comerica Park downtown the following year.

We were the last fans to file out of the stadium that Saturday night. We stayed and stayed, not wanting to say good-bye.

I looked out over that green field, thinking about Cobb and Kell, Kaline and Cash, Lolich and McLain, Tram and Sweet Lou. I looked up at Ernie Harwell's broadcast booth and wondered if he'd go to the new park. (He did, finally retiring in 2002.)

I thought about Tom Selleck, who for all practical purposes introduced me to the Tigers through Thomas Magnum in the '80s. And I knew with all my heart that I'd never step into another park quite like this one.

Several groups tried to save the stadium over the last 8 years. Meanwhile, she sat and rotted, cracking at the seams -- sad, lonely, neglected. The wrecking crew tore a big hole in her side yesterday. Looking at the pictures on the internet made me want to throw up.

A group is still frantically working to save the field, the dugouts, 3,000 seats and Ernie's booth. I don't know. From what I understand, it hinges on government money, so I'm not going to hold my breath.

But generations of Michiganders -- and even a Tigers fan from Tennessee -- will forever have their memories. I'll never forget that Saturday at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull for the rest of my days.

"Yes," Sinatra sang, "there used to be ballpark right here..."

Scully, Dodgers chase away the Braves and Tigers blues

One of the simplest pleasures of life has to be listening to Vin Scully call a baseball game.

What a strange, frustrating season this has been. The star-studded Tigers have imploded. The Braves can't figure out how to win on the road. The Smokies aren't even worth mentioning.

So, I've found myself drawn to Dodger games, mainly because of the team's longtime, velvet-voiced announcer. (Just to give the uninitiated an idea of how long he's been around, Scully was calling games when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn.)

It works out rather nicely. When Los Angeles is playing at Chavez Ravine, or in Pacific time, the games begin around 10 on the East Coast -- usually about the time I get home or have a chance to unwind long enough to watch. They aren't that great, but they aren't bad.

Best part is I don't much care what happens. It's baseball. More to the point, it's Vin Scully calling a baseball game. That's enough.

Put the game on last night after work. Sat on the couch awhile and chilled out.

The Dodgers were playing at San Diego, a place I have to visit someday. The crafty right-hander Greg Maddux was on the mound for the Friars. The kid pitching for Los Angeles, Clayton Kershaw, had a sweet curve and a wicked, if sometimes wild, fastball.

Maddux, by the way, has been pitching longer than Kershaw has been alive.

I lost myself in the cadence of Scully's delivery, finally giving up on the game to make a few phone calls before bed. The Los Angeles Times tells me this morning that Russell Martin was the hero in the Dodgers' 7-2 victory.

Hearing Vin Scully, though, reminds me how much I still love this child's game, even when my boys of summer ain't doing so hot.

April's a long, long time...

It's starting early.

Came home from work last night and flipped on the TV. Basketball here, steroids news there, blah, blah, blah. Even TCM let me down.

I eventually threw in the Ken Burns documentary and watched the episode about the Black Sox scandal of 1919. But what I really wanted was a real, live game to watch.

April, and baseball, is a long, long time.

Unless I change my mind, I have my big 30th birthday bash planned. Well, I'll do the usual gathering of family and friends, but my big present to myself next March is going to be a trip to Florida, to spring training, and as many games as I can afford.

The Tigers play in Lakeland and the Braves hang out in Orlando at Disney's Wide World of Sports complex. Those should be easy enough.

Was hoping to get another UT baseball trip planned to somewhere fun, like Tallahassee, where Dewayne Lawson and I caught the Vols against the Seminoles last February. But the Big Orange isn't traveling this year until the SEC schedule. The best options there are Athens and Columbia.

My friend Kurt Pickering e-mailed a great little story the other day. Kurt is a longtime season ticket holder for the Nashville Sounds AAA club. When he moved 250 miles away to Georgia to take another job, Kurt renewed his tickets anyway.

He says he made it to exactly half of the team's home games during 2007 ("Thank God for weekend home stands.), a feat that puts me to shame. I'm often dissuaded from going to Kodak to see the Smokies because of the 20 minute drive.

Anyway, the Sounds are having a big bash for Kurt in January. He's been named that team's fan of the year. I'm planning to go. Nothing puts a smile on my face quicker than someone's insane passion for the game.

So the temperature is refusing to make up its mind, the dreary dregs of January and February loom before us, and the national game, and the fond promise of spring, is a long time coming.

Now I know why bears hibernate for the winter. This sucks.

The legend

What a sweet, wonderful victory was last night's makeup game with the Toronto Blue Jays. Left for dead, the Detroit Tigers rose Lazarus-like from the grave. And who was the savior this time?

Who else, but Maggs.

I don't know if this team will make the playoffs. It doesn't look likely. But what joy they've given us this year amid all of the injuries, all the disappointments.

A-Rod will win the MVP. We know how things go in the American League as far as those bastards are concerned. But every Tigers fan knows how much that long-haired right fielder has meant to this team.

There is a symmetry to baseball. The season begins, the days turn into months, then it ends. It appears in the spring, the world anew, and slips silently away into the chill of the fall.

I'll miss it when it's gone. The game has kept me company during this most difficult year. Kidney stones and palpable pain have dotted this season for me just as much as fly balls and home runs.

Last night, the Tigers secured for me a joy that the Bengals and Ravens couldn't have conjured up in a million years. When Maggs hit the walkoff, 2 RBI double, I was 7 years old again, oblivious to the harsh realities of the world. All that mattered were those two runs reaching the safety of home plate.

That joy, the ability to instantly transport one back to the innocent bliss of childhood, is why this is the greatest game of them all.

Baseball represents the best about this country, the small town, friendly neighbors, five and dime store, "aw shucks" America that Ronald Reagan insisted for eight glorious, illusionary years still existed somewhere in the amber waves of grain. Football is closer to what this country actually is -- big, expansive, violent, knock the other guy on his ass before he does the same to you.

The fact that football has replaced baseball as our national pastime should tell you quite a lot.

For me, I'll take the illusion, the black-and-white comfort of three strikes, three outs, three times three innings and that's all she wrote. I'll keep believing in my heart that Reagan's America really is out there somewhere, even if my head insists that it isn't.

When the legend becomes fact, print the legend, or so somebody once said. And, boy, do we ever need that legend now.

Up in Michigan

FERNDALE, Mich. -- I took my book on Paul Bryant's "Junction Boys" and sat in the 70-degree cool Michigan morning just after 9, remembering what it's like to go outside and not feel like you've just stepped into a toaster oven.

It gets hot here in Michigan. But the nights are cool and the humidity is nowhere near that of Knox Vegas.

My plane arrived at the Detroit metro airport about 10 a.m. yesterday, after a quick jaunt to Charlotte. We drove directly downtown, ate and made it to Comerica Park in time to see the Tigers take care of bid'ness 11-6 over the A's.

From there, we tooled over to Commerce to enjoy dinner at a pub. It was a nice enough evening, so we sat out on the patio of the place. It overlooks a golf course. The grounds are well-kempt and perfect. I split a barbecue chicken pizza with David Romas. His wife Jennifer snacked on nachos.

Tonight we're headed into enemy territory, Ann Arbor, home to those blasted Wolverines, to hear Robinella at The Ark, an old intimate theater in the Great Lake State's most famous college town. David says everybody from Bob Dylan to Natalie Merchant has played there at one point or another.

I'm supposed to be on vacation. But I can't stay away from the keyboard.

So it goes when your job is your life, or your life is your job, or however you say that...

Meeting Skip

ATLANTA, June 24 -- Forget the scoreboard.

Sometimes the cosmos, and the baseball gods, and whatever else you want to mention, all come together to create something really special. Something you talk about, laugh about for days afterwards.

Something you never forget.

Such it was tonight at Turner Field. And it had nothing to do with the game.

Nope, the baseball was forgettable. Atlanta lost a laugher 5-0 to the surging Detroit Tigers. About the only interesting thing on the field was impressive plays by Atlanta's Jeff Francoeur and Detroit's Carlos Guillen (AL player of the week, by the way).

But something happened before the game. Something I'll never forget.

We get to the ballpark early, as is my custom. I like parking before the horde arrives. I like to walk around the park, soak up the sounds.

An 8 p.m. start meant we hadn't eaten yet. So we ease over to the BBQ joint in the stadium -- only to find longtime Braves announcer Skip Caray signing autographs!

Skip has been my longtime connection to the Braves. I've spent more time with him and Pete Van Wieren than I have members of my family. He kept us chuckling when the team was losing 100 games a year. He kept us excited throughout all the championship runs in the '90s.

And there he was, friendly as can be, signing a publicity photo for the folks in line. I tried to think of what to say. How do you tell a guy thanks for nearly 30 years of memories?

Skip takes one look at my Braves Hawaiian shirt and says two words.

"Nice shirt."

I laugh -- you always do that with Skip -- thank him and tell him he's brought me many years of joy.

"I'm glad to hear that," Skip says.

He tells Drew Weaver (who addresses him as "Mr. Caray") to call him Skip -- then asks Drew if he has a military background. Drew wears a buzz cut and says "sir" a lot.

Drew says his dad is a Marine. Skip smiles and says "Good."

Off we go. I'm still on cloud nine. I don't think much about the game. I keep checking to see if Skip's autograph is OK.

It was something. The whole thing felt like one of those MasterCard commercials.

Braves parking pass: $10

Ticket to a Sunday night game: $39

Gas for the truck: $50

Meeting Skip Caray? Well, you know the answer to that one.

Priceless.

Where your riches lie

MACON, Ga. -- Friends and family.

That's where it's at, man. Don't let anybody tell you different.

Here in Macon, the home of Otis Redding and Atlantic soul, we're whiling away a Saturday night with Dewayne and Bridget -- and their new son Jacob. He's a sweet kid.

Jacob snores gently, in that cute newborn way, while we talk about high school, and college, and how the weather was. He's a cute kid; he takes after his mother.

We took in a Braves game on the way down I-75. Justin Verlander of the Tigers pitched a beauty. He mixes his fastball, change-up and curve to create the purest of baseball poetry. The Motown boys win 2-1 in a pitcher's duel for the ages. It's hot, but that gets lost in Verlander's art.

The guy beside us sports a Brooklyn Dodgers hat. He tells Drew where to find it. We chat baseball. He and his wife drove over from Aken, S.C. She's celebrating her birthday by rooting on her home state Tigers. She goes home happy.

Real reason for the trip is to see Jake. He's a dandy. Bridget says he's a good baby. Sleeps till nine, barely cries.

Life takes its turns. Folks come and go. A generation cometh and a generation passeth away.
But when the sun sets, like it did tonight on this red Georgia clay, all that matters is friends and family. Even baseball, that beautiful, wonderful first love, is just a game.

Take it for granted. Take the air you breathe, the sun, the moon, the freedom of America, for granted too. Act like it's ours by birthright.

But don't ever overlook family and friends. Therein lies your riches.

Just look in a newborn baby's eyes if you don't believe me.