So much more than another vacant lot in Detroit

A pre-Opening Day visit to Tiger Stadium for a story in 1991 allowed access to all kinds of places we'd never again get to -- like the visitor's bullpen.

I want to send out a quick word of thanks to two folks who linked to the post about Will and me trespassing, err, paying tribute to what remains of one of our favorite ballparks, Tiger Stadium.

Paul Lukas of the always amazing Uniwatch , who linked to us on Monday, which led to someone sending us to Craig Calcaterra of NBC Sports' Hardball Talk .

Together, they absolutely obliterated the previous daily hit record for the blog, kindly introducing us to a wide audience. I'm grateful.

And it also had me thinking about that great old stadium, and some of the adventures there that were told here long ago. I wanted to share some again in case any of those new visitors come back, and I'd love to hear their stories about what happened at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull.

First can only be one of my favorite baseball moments of all time, when we finally established contact with my favorite non-Met, Frank Thomas on what can only be descrbed as a magical, misty night.

I spent one of the best birthdays ever when colleague John Munson and I had the run of the entire stadium as crews prepared for Opening Day. We saw some amazing things that most fans never got to watch, and explored just about every inch of the ballpark.
I'm sure Dennis Eckerlsy was more graceful getting out of the visitor's bullpen.


Then I had one of my most memorable moments as a reporter on the field, interviewing Hall-of-Famers Frank Robinson and Jim Palmer, plus original Met Al Jackson in preparation for a story about Mickey Weston.

Andrew and I had a wonderful time in roaming around centerfield and getting tips from Tigers players and coaches.

We had some non-baseball adventures at the stadium, too. Kiss kicked off its 1996 reunion tour with a massive spectacle at Tiger Stadium that ended up being a little dangerous.

There were other memories, inclunding the first interleague game between the Mets and Tigers, and the day we met a number of Negro League stars and learned a valueable lesson.

Josh Pahigian listed Tiger Stadium as Place No. 68 in his
101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out and I used that opportunity to run some of my favorite photos of players we've seen play there over the years. The best part about Tiger Stadium was that you could get so close, especially in the bullpen area.

The James Earl Jones lines about baseball in Field of Dream were all true, especially the one about memories so thick that you practically have to swat them away. I thought about that as Will and I wandered around what to some people was a vacant lot at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull earlier this month. Truth be told, it is so much more.

Baseball place No. 29: McKechnie Field; Alternative place No. 29A: Chain of Lakes Park

For a state that didn’t have a major league team until 1993, Florida sure does have a lot of must-see baseball places.

Josh Pagihian keeps us on the Gulf Coast with McKechnie Field in Bradenton as spot No. 29 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

The field has been a spring training site since 1923, and is one of the most cozy and traditional. It doesn’t even have lights!

The Cardinals were the first train there, and hurler Dizzy Dean liked the place so much that he opened a gas station, and could be found pumping gas when he wasn’t at the ballpark – which is how the team became known as the “Gashouse Gang.”

I’ve never been to McKechnie Field – I really do need to get over to the other coast more! – but I have been to another ancient spring stadium that’s not tremendously far away.

Alternative place No. 29A: Chain of Lakes Park

The equally cozy ballpark in Winter Haven capped off a remarkable three-park day in the spring of 1995, undeniable proof of my parents’ spoiling me.
Part of this was for work.

You remember that spring 1995 was a dark period for the game, when the major leaguers were on strike and the owner toyed with the idea of proceeding through the season with replacement players.

These guys were branded “scabs” and met with all kinds of derision. And while there were some veteran players who fit into that category, it wasn’t so cut-and-dry for others.

There were many career minor-leaguers who where told that if they wanted a paycheck playing baseball, they were going to be playing in these games. And for a lot of these guys, baseball was what they knew, and had always been their way of providing for their families.

One of the players in this situation was Mickey Weston, a pitcher from the Flint area who I spend a lot time with in 1990 as we chronicled his career. Mickey, as nice a person as you will meet, used baseball as the basis for his off-season missionary work.

He had been in different organizations for several years, including the Mets in 1993.

The Tigers were his favorite team growing up, and that’s who offered him a contract as a replacement player. He sort of became the poster boy for guys in this spot, even appearing on the cover of USA Today.

I had planned on making the annual pilgrimage to spring training, and the editors allowed me to catch up with Mickey and interview him about his experiences.

I picked a day that the Tigers were playing the Royals at Baseball City, and I called ahead for credentials. All was good.

Now, Baseball City could be a post to itself, going down as the most disastrous spring training site ever. The park, located in Haines City near Orlando, was first a theme park called Circus World, which we actually went to in the late 1970s. It was fun!

It became Boardwalk and Baseball, a theme park with the revamped Circus World rides and a new stadium, with the Royals signed on.

That incarnation of the theme park went belly up not too much later. The rides were demolished, but the stadium remained. The Royals had a lease, so they had no choice but to stay on the site, now called Baseball City. The Royals fled for Arizona in 2003, and the stadium, too, was torn down.

But I digress. Dad and I showed up at the stadium, and picked up my credential. Dad said, “I’m with him,” and they let him in, too.

We were looking around the visitors’ clubhouse for Mickey to no avail. Ballplayers are such cards, and several promised to find him, and pointed me to another player, none of whom were Weston, who I knew.

Finally, one of the coaches took pity, and told us that Mickey stayed wasn’t pitching, so he stayed behind in Lakeland to work out.

That wasn’t too far, and Dad said we could head over there. But first we took a walk out on the field, not wanting to let good credentials go to waste and all. And there, joking around the batting cage, was Royals soon-to-be Hall-of-Famer George Brett, retired, but in uniform working with younger players.
George Brett was working with players near the cage.

The Tigers folks called ahead to make sure we would be able to get access to the stadium when when we arrived. And sure enough, the staffers happily waved us through and said Mick was in the weight room. This time, Dad had to stay outside.

Mick was on a stationary bike, and greeted me with a warm smile. He said he figured I’d show up at some point, having visited him at his assorted stops after our weekend in Rochester in 1990.

Speaking as he pedaled, Mickey was gracious as always. He said he realized that at age 34, he didn’t have a lot of chances left and wanted to keep pitching. Pitching at on Opening Day at Tiger Stadium was a dream since childhood, and he was promised a year at Toldeo if the strike was settled.

We also spoke about his work that past off-season, traveling to far away countries to preach and conduct baseball clinics.

I wished him luck, left the weight room and found Dad standing in centerfield of Joker Marchant Stadium taking photos. He is fearless. I love that.

And here’s where the major spoiling comes in. Since we were up that way, were there any other games we could attend? I figured I was already pushing Dad to the limits of tolerance by going to two parks, leaving him outside at one of them.

But he likes a good road trip, and there was a game in Winter Haven, which wasn’t too far from Lakeland.

Winter Haven is old Florida, very different from the newer, fancier coastal areas were used to.

And Chain of Lakes Park isn’t as old as McKechnie, but seemed like it. The stadium was built in 1966 and held 7,000 people. Not that there were that many people there. It was an odd spring.

The Red Sox called it home from 1966 until 1992, and the Indians claimed it when their brand new site in Homestead was destroyed by Hurricane Andrew before the team even had a chance to play there.

The Tribe was certainly embraced. Chief Wahoo was painted on a water town near the field. There was some kind of domed building beyond left field. It might have been a water tank. But it was painted orange, complete with a green stem on top, no doubt a nod to the citrus farms around the area.
Look for the giant orange in left field.

We watched the replacement Indians play the replacement Cardinals. Looking at the Cards’ roster today, I don’t see a single name I recognize.

The Indians, however, had some minor-leaguers who went on the play in the majors, including Richie Sexon, Bartolo Colon, Carmelo Martinez and Joe Slusarski. Lance Blakenship was a former prospect.

I also saw Shane Turner, who was a teammate of Weston’s when I did the story in Rochester five years earlier.

We arrived a little late, so I didn’t keep score. I’m not sure who actually played.

The Indians ended up staying in Winter Haven though last season. This is their first year in Goodyear, Ariz. But Chief Wahoo remains on the water tower. The park’s future is in doubt, thought.

Weston went on to have a great year in Toldeo, leading the team with 11 wins and 69 strikeouts, and posting a 2.90 ERA. But he was denied a deserved September. Several other former replacement players were unwelcome in their clubhouses when they got the call to the show, and the Tigers must of have figured with was not worth the trouble.

Mickey deserved better.

And three stadiums in one day remains a personal record!

Mickey & Me, Part 1: Two Hall-of-Famers and an Original Met

Jim Palmer humoring me by allowing himself to be subjected to an interview at Tiger Stadium.


I haven't booed a baseball player since 1990. Well, that's not entirely true. I reserve the right to boo Chipper Jones and each and every member of the New York Yankees. It's just the right thing to do.

But everyone else has gone un-booed ever since I spent a weekend in Rochester, N.Y. with ex-Met Mickey Weston and got a glimpse into what life is like for the guys working to make the roster year after year.

I actually started this story in the middle in October. Hey, it worked for George Lucas, and unlike George, I won't subject you to Jar Jar Binks and pod races. You can find it here.

I convinced my editors at the Flint Journal to allow me to tell the story of Weston, a pitcher from Fenton, Mich. Mickey toiled in the minors for years -– mostly in the Mets system -- before getting a shot with the Baltimore Orioles in 1989. He earned a save in his first game and a win in his second, and then hurt his arm.


I caught up with him again toward the end of the 1990 season in Triple-A Rochester. My assignment was to tell readers what it was to be tantalizingly close to a dream only to have it taken away.

From that point on, I kind of became Weston’s personal biographer, following his career through stops in Toronto, Philadelphia and back to the Mets. He became the a kind of poster boy for replacement players in 1995, getting his photo on the cover of USA Today after being named the Tigers’ Opening Day starter. He returned to the Mets system as a minor-league coach before taking a full-time job in a Christian organization that works with missionaries.

A devout Christian, Weston spent every off-season giving baseball clinics and spreading the Gospel, intent on being a role model on and off the field.

He's also about as friendly a person you'll ever meet, and was very patient with a star-struck young reporter.

Before heading to Rochester, I tried to be as prepared as possible, interviewing people in and around the Lake Fenton High, where Weston holds the school record with a 0.034 ERA.

Then I saw that the Orioles were going to be in town playing the Tigers for a series. Score! Naturally I was obligated to head to Tiger Stadium and talk to the manager and coaches about Weston. Background for the story, you understand.

The manager that year was Hall-of-Famer Frank Robinson and the pitching coach was Al Jackson, an original Met and one of the better young players of that statistically sorry bunch.

The visitor’s clubhouse in Tiger Stadium is just off the main concourse. I picked up my credentials and walked in, heart racing. This was my first time in a clubhouse to interview anybody. Someone pointed out that Jackson was in little locker area inside the visiting manager’s office. I walked in and was immediately embarrassed – he was changing into his uniform.

“No, come in, come in,” he said, greeting me with a big smile and a warm handshake.

Sportswriters get used to interviewing people in various states of undress. But I normally covered schools and this was just awkward. But Jackson was very gracious, answering all my questions about Weston, his injury and what he needed to work on to do better when he got another shot at the majors.

I told Jackson that I also wanted to throw a couple questions at Frank Robinson, if that would be OK. He said the skipper was already on the field, and I could probably find him near the batting cage.

I remember stepping out onto the field, stopping on the gravel and taking in the scene. Sure enough, there was Robinson leaning on the batting cage as Sam Horn was knocking the crap out of the ball.

Robinson is universally respected as a player and legendary for being on the grumpy side. I was completely intimidated. I got his attention, and he slowly looked over at me, clearly not one of the Orioles beat writers or anyone else he knew.

I told him that I was working on a story about Weston, and that he was a local guy.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he grumbled. I was panicking now, not understanding what he meant. My mind was racing with images of security goons hauling me off the field.

“Talk to the people in Rochester.”

I explained that I realized Weston was pitching in Rochester, but that he had been up with the Orioles for a spell and wanted to know what Robinson thought about him.

“Go talk to the people in Rochester,” he said, turning his head back toward the activity in the cage.

That would be it for Frank. I was walking back toward the stands when I saw Jim Palmer, the former Orioles pitcher who was working as an announcer. I thought, “What the heck, it can’t go worse than it did with Robinson.”

I waited for Palmer to finish his conversation, introduced myself and told him what I was doing. He seemed happy to talk about Weston, telling me about his strengths as a pitcher and how because he’s a soft-tosser teams don’t have a lot of patience.


As this was happening, my brother – visiting for a couple days – was snapping photos. One proudly hung above my desk for years.

Later, about halfway through my weekend in Rochester, I mentioned to Weston that Palmer had nice things to say about him.

“You guys talked to Jim Palmer – about me?” He asked.

“Heck, yeah. Frank Robinson, too!”

Weston winced.

There will much more to come.

In Other Words...

We know that Gary Sheffield, Derek Jeter and their cronies woke up to find coal under their Christmas trees this year. But what did members of our beloved Mets find? A great new Mets blog, Miracle Mets, has all the answers!

Mickey & Me: Clubhouse Celebration

The 1990 champion Rochester Red Wings were a colorful team. A guy named Curtis Schilling was on the roster.

The champagne that gets sprayed around championship locker rooms stings your eyes. I learned this on a late September night in 1990.

Watching the Chicago White Sox celebrate their World Championship brought me back to a mad dash to Columbus, Ohio to both catch the Clippers and Rochester Red Wings determine the International League crown and find the perfect ending to a story I’d been working on for a good slice of the summer.

It was my first year working for the Flint Journal, and I convinced my editors to allow me to tell the story of Mickey Weston, a pitcher from a Flint suburbs who had toiled in the minors for years before getting a shot with the Baltimore Orioles – then got hurt and was sent back down to Triple-A.

A photographer and I spent a weekend in Rochester, N.Y. with Weston near the end of the season. I learned more about baseball in those few days than I had in the previous 26 years of my life.

We’re not supposed to have opinions about the people we write about, but I couldn’t help but pull for Weston, a devout Christian dedicated to being an example both on and off the field. He's one of those players who would post spectacular numbers in the minors, then have things not quite click when reaching the show. And since soft-tossers are kept on a short leash, his stays were typically brief before being asked to prove himself at Triple-A all over again. Think Crash Davis without the cussing and skirt-chasing.

Writing about Mickey over the years led to baseball adventures from interviewing to Hall-of-Famers on the field of Tiger Stadium to sitting inside the Mets clubhouse to helping the Famous Chicken with his act. You’ll hear about them all in time.

The main Sunday package was about the ups and downs in the life of a minor league ballplayer. But the story just didn’t seem complete. Weston was having a phenomenal year, and I continued to follow the progress of the team as it wrapped up the season and progress through the playoffs.

The Red Wings ended up facing the Clippers for the championship, and who should draw the assignment for the deciding game but Weston. The perfect ending!

Will suggested we sprint down for the game. A Columbus native, he knew the 5-hour trip by heart and had witnessed dozens of games at the stadium while growing up.

We picked up out credentials and walked out on the field. I was horrified to see how few people were in the stands – and Will laughed. It was the day of the first home Ohio State football game, and he explained that the Clippers take a very distant back seat to the Buckeyes.

Walking to the press box, we spied the prized Governor's Cup in the shed where the groundskeeping equipment is stored. It's not quite as glamorous as the World Series trophy, but we enjoyed the opportunity to see it up close.

We took our seat, and found that the Rochester newspaper had sent its reporter along. I tried making some small talk with her while we were guests of the Red Wings, but found her rather unfriendly. And her disposition had apparently not improved much on the way to Columbus. The rest of the Clippers staff was a little confused why the Flint newspaper was sending two reporters, but didn't seem to mind.

Weston did his part to help the story, giving me the ending I had hoped for.

He went the distance, holding the Clippers scoreless until the seventh inning. A 5-1 victory gave the Red Wings the championship.

We hustled back down to the field and entered the clubhouse through the bullpens. Inside was already bedlam. Players were showering each other with champagne, though it didn't seem to be as plentiful as in a World Series celebration.

You have to watch for the corks, which are projectiles. A couple landed near me, and I have one as a souvenir, among the stranger things on display in the baseball room.

Once they ran out of beverages to spray, third baseman Leo Gomez brought a hose in from the bullpen and soaked everything and everyone -- including us. Did we mind? Heck no!

I also remember Jeff McKnight, a future Met, attacking the post-game spread of fried chicken, then standing on a table and reading out some kind of poem. I couldn't quite understand what he was saying, but then I don't think it mattered.

Mickey came over, gave us bear hugs and said he thought the game and the season proved that he belonged in the big leagues, then jumped back into the celebration.

Will and I continued to just sit back with eyes wide. It wasn't our championship so we couldn't participate, but it sure was fun to watch.

After all the comotion had calmed down, who appeared but the Rochester reporter, who had changed her clothes and was wearing a towel around her neck. She was so concerned about staying dry that she missed all the excitement.

We got back home to Flint very late that night -- early the next morning, actually. But what fun night.

And Mickey got the call-up he deserved, a few days later he was pitching for the Orioles.