Farewell to the Bird

I was shocked and enormously saddened today to hear of the death of Mark "The Bird" Fidrych. He was only 54, and was an integral part of my teenage years of baseball fandom.

In 1976, when I was 15, the Detroit Tigers, my favorite team, were terrible. The season had no promise, other than the start of leadoff hitter Ron LeFlore, who had a thirty-game hitting streak. The 25th man on the roster was Fidrych, who no one seemed to know anything about. He didn't get his first start until May.

By mid-summer he was a nationwide phenomenon. He was good--he ended the season with a 19-9 win-loss record, with an ERA of 2.35 (I know these figures off the top of my head, while I would have a hard time telling you who was in last year's playoffs). But what made him famous was his behavior on the mound. A tall, lanky kid of 22 with a mop of hair, Fidrych was a one-man zysygy. He talked to himself, his hands fluttered as if he was conducting an orchestra, and he did his own groundskeeping, smoothing out the dirt on the mound as if he were puttering in his own garden.

In that year's All-Star game, Fidrych started (so did LeFlore and fellow Tiger Rusty Staub, quite a coup for a last-place team). He was named Rookie of the Year, and the future looked bright. But of course an injury took it's toll. He only started a few more games after that season, and was done by the age of 25. It wasn't long before he was back in his native Massachusetts, working at a gas station. Looking back, it seems that his career would have to be comet-like, due to its magical nature.

I get very nostalgic thinking about him. In those days I used to listen to Tiger night games on the radio while laying in bed, especially the games he pitched (attendance skyrocketed at his games, on the road as well as home). What's more, in those days pitchers lasted the whole game. I distinctly remember games where Fidrych lasted past nine innings (a particularly vivid memory is his victory over Oakland in which he pitched 13 innings--unheard of today). There's nothing more boring that somebody saying how those were the good old days, but when I think of old Tigers it makes me think of my grandparents and everything else that was good about my teen years (and there was a lot that was bad). Unfortunately, I never got to see him pitch him in person.

So rest in peace, Bird. There will never be another like you.