"Millen Fired"

I woke up this morning...wait who am I kidding, I mean this afternoon and instinctively groped around for my cellphone. I found it twisted around in my bed sheet in some impossible fashion where I could feel it and make out its shape but I couldn't find a way to actually touch it. Frustrated I aired out the sheet and watched as my phone shot out as if it had been fired from a cannon and smack against the wall with enough force to knock the backing off of it. A year ago beginning a day like this would have led to me flying into a fit of rage and spewing so many curse words that I would have made Richard Pryor sound like Bill Cosby hosting "Kids Say the Darndest Things."

But today I just didn't care. Not because I was in some euphoric state or because I had just rolled out of a bed full of naked and satisfied Victoria's Secret models. Quite the opposite in fact. Not literally of course, I'm not saying I was depressed and rolled out of a bed full of Jockey Men's underwear models, (although I'm not NOT saying that either). No, it's just that for the past couple of weeks (months, years, decades really who's counting) I've been depressed after being hit with the harsh reality that faces thousands of people my age every year. Being diagnosed with gonorrhea. But I'm not talking about that, I really meant to say entering the real world after being babied through seven years of college (There, I think I covered that up nicely, now I just have to burn all these bills from the clinic and vow to never sleep with hookers or anyone from Baltimore ever again).

I was under the impression that graduating from law school included receiving a diploma, a monocle, leather driving gloves, a trophy wife, a 100k job offer and enough henchmen to help get my fledgling law/super-villain practice off of the ground. Instead I've got a diploma, student loan debt, no job, no girlfriend and worst of all I think the two henchmen I hired out of pocket are using me more for crashing on my futon and playing my Wii instead of arching my nemesis. In short the lack of job offers in Detroit is leading me back to my hometown to work with my Dad, a fate I thought the last seven years of school would help me avoid. The only intriguing advantage of moving back home is the chance to purchase a wardrobe of nothing but white suits and try to bring the wild Besaw Boys running shine from their uncle's farm out on Dodge road to justice through a series of arm wrestling matches over poisonous cacti. Only problem is that instead of trying to get with their hot cousin Daisy I'll have to settle for some 300 pound lady with curly, greasy hair who drives a Pontiac Sunbird with a decal that says "I Like Big Bucks and Big Trucks" on the back window. Gross.

So by the time I put the casing back on my phone and turned the power on I was thoroughly depressed and was surprised to see that I had missed a number of phone calls, text messages and voicemails from friends of mine. With my present state of mind my thoughts naturally turned to the idea that something terrible had happened. Something along the lines of Mickey Tettleton releasing a statement to the press saying how disappointed he was to find out a website in named in His honor was run by such an insufferable douchebag. When I finally dared to open my text message inbox I read in the subject heading of my friend T.J.'s message the most glorious and uplifting words I had laid my eyes upon since reading that Scott Mitchell was injured for the remainder of the 1994 season.

It simply and succinctly read, "Millen Fired"

I would be overstating things if I said this was some life altering moment and from that point on my fortunes turned around for the remainder of the day until everything culminated with a nude Kate Beckinsale crashing through my apartment window while riding a unicorn and offering to take me away to her English castle where she would allow me to be the fatherly leader of a gang of quickwitted cockney pickpocket children. However the Lions as a franchise had personified and paralleled the hopelessness I had been feeling through my life recently.

Having the privilege (disfavor?) of going to nearly every Lions home game since I was about ten years old I've seen first hand the damage Millen instilled on an already tortured and frustrated fan base. It's unfathomable to think now but in the first days of Matt Millen's reign things started out promisingly. The first season was a disaster record wise but everyone knew the Lions were in full-on rebuilding mode and there was excitement over first round draft choice Joey Harrington fresh of a dominating season at Oregon where he led them to the Rose Bowl. I saw the excitement on peoples faces when Harrington showed some pluck in battling Brett Favre and the Packers in his first start. During that offseason the Lions jettisoned overwhelmed position coach masquerading as a a head coach (hmm...that sounds awfully familiar) Marty Mornhinweg in favor of a proven and successful coach and Michigan native Steve Mariucci. Marriucci's hiring along with the drafting of Saginaw native and Michigan State star Charlie Rogers led to a great deal of excitement heading into the season. I watched as the line outside the Team Store in Ford Field ran the entire length of the concourse as people eagerly waited for a chance to purchase local hero Charlie Rogers jersey after his impressive two touchdown debut. Even I, already a cynical Lions fan at the age of 20, talked excitedly with my Dad as we left the season opener against the Cardinal about the beginning of a dynamic young quarterback-receiver combo that might one day rival Montana-Rice and Manning-Harrison as one of the greatest of all time. Sure that was short-sighted and little did I know at the time that Charlie Rogers was probably smoking himself retarded at the same time I was praising him, but the excitement I felt for the first time since Barry Sanders retired was genuine. This season also coincided with heady days from a personal standpoint. I was acing all of my classes at MSU, I had a great girlfriend who really cared about me, and I had just killed the LSAT. I felt that my future was as bright as the Lions. Unfortunately that statement still turned out to be true.

Shortly after that game Rogers broke his clavicle in a bye week practice collision with cornerback Dre Bly. The team floundered and finished a disappointing 5-11 and the development of Harrington seemed to have stalled. Millen made what was arguably his only good draft decision swapping spots with the Browns to pick up two 1st round picks which he used on Roy Williams and Kevin Jones in an effort to create what many believed to be the makings of the most exciting young offense in the league. However, the season started off ominously when Rogers once again was lost for the year after breaking his clavicle for a second time on the seasons opening drive. Even though the team started 4-2 it quickly fell apart as the Lions lost 8 of their last ten games to finish a disappointing 6-10. I sat and watched as the fan base grew increasingly and justifiably frustrated as they watched a seemingly talented and expensive young team flounder under the leadership of an expensive veteran coach. (That's right when I go to games I sit and watch everything but the game, namely the expressions on peoples faces and the line to the team store. I'm just not a very good writer).

2005 was a crossroads year for many people in Detroit. Marriucci was feeling the pressure to win and live up to the money he was being paid and the excitement that surrounded his hiring. Jeff Garcia was brought in to challenge a stagnant Joey Harrington for the starters job. Chuck Rogers was trying to prove he wasn't injury prone and resurrect his dying career, Matt Millen was supposedly fighting for his own job and I was moving to the city to start law school. By December everything had fallen apart for all parties involved. Mooch was made the scapegoat and fired after an embarrassing Thanksgiving Day loss to the Falcons. Harrington was hated so venomously and vociferously that I took five seconds out of booing and cursing him from my seat to actually feel sorry for him. Rogers was suspended for drug abuse and watched as his NFL career flamed out. Millen made national news by ordering a fan with a Fire Millen sign to be physically kicked out of a game and watched as fans organized a march advocating his dismissal and I found out that I was unprepared and in over my head with my classes, essentially becoming the Marty Mornhinweg of law students. The fans were angry and frustrated with the franchise and voicing their opinion to any outlet available and I was overwhelmed and angry with my decision threatening to quit school at the next available opportunity.

After the season and my first semester I expected Millen to be fired and for me to have the courage to quit something I felt I hated deep down inside. Instead to the shock and dismay of the entire fanbase Millen received a five year extension and I begrudgingly decided to give class one more semester (nobody was shocked and dismayed by my decision...maybe my cat). During the next season Harrington and Rogers were unceremoniously dumped and the last remnants of all that excitement that I had felt just a view years earlier had faded away entirely. I watched as apathy set in among the fanbase and in my own personal life. The distinguishing moment for me as a fan came late in that season during another Lions home loss. During the game a fan in our section tried to start a "Fire Millen" chant and nobody joined in. He was persistent though, standing up and yelling it at the top of his lungs trying to encourage others to join him but was rewarded with silence. After another minute or so a second person yelled, "Stop chanting. The Ford's never listen to us anyways!" and the man who had been trying so valiantly to start this Fire Millen chant just stopped trying and sat down defeated. No truer words had ever been spoken at Ford Field. During this same time I had begun withdrawing from school, missing classes at an alarming rate receiving bad grades and feeling despondent.

As both the losses and poor grades mounted and the future that had once been so bright and promising became darker and more disenchanted a sense of abject hopelessness began to settle in the fanbase and in myself. Matt Millen would always be in charge of the hapless Lions and my destiny would be to remain in my hometown, take over the family business and watch dreams die. But maybe that changed today. Maybe things that seem to be written in stone can be changed. Sure the Lions may still suck for this year but maybe they'll finally hire the right person, draft the right players, sign the right free agents and a few years from now my Dad and I will be able to go to Ford Field and watch them win a home playoff game. Sure, I might have to go back home and work but maybe after a couple of years I'll make a name for myself, meet the right people, find the ambition and drive that propelled me through my first few years of college and get the hell out of there. Maybe I'll finally have the courage to abandon this whole lawyer thing and do something I really love. Or maybe nothing will ever change. Who knows but now there seems to be hope, for the first time in the last five years there seems to be a little bit of light peeking through the darkness. (Editor's note: I'm not some emotional douchebag who talks like this all the time. It's only like this 6 times a week or so.)

Also, I know some people have compared this to the French Revolution and credited Millen's firing to the fan's revolt of not buying tickets and vociferously denouncing the team. The parallel to the French Revolution would have been if the Millen Man March in 2005 would have been rolling around a portable guillotine and successfully captured and beheaded Millen and the Ford family as they tried to escape in a carriage in the shape of the Lombardi trophy. Then the fans went on to run the team as a democracy before being overun by a tiny man with an unquenchable thirst for power.....like Dan Snyder or Mark Cuban or someone. I think this feels more like a liberation. I feel like someone who has been beaten by and toiled for an oppressive, cruel and tyrannical despot only to be saved by a spoiled great-grandson of a billionaire bigot riding in on his white Mercury Mariner and begging his dad to listen to him for once. It's not really iconic imagery but it's still liberating nonetheless.

Finally, I may be in the minority here but I don't hate Matt Millen. As an executive yes but as a person he seemed likable. He kind of reminded me of a guy my Dad would be friends with, and I honestly believe he was trying as hard as he could to build a winner. A lot of people would have swallowed their pride and quit 3 or 4 years ago but Millen was willing to see this thing through until they drug him out of his office kicking and screaming and a part of me admires that. Ah what am I saying. Fuck Millen. Amen.

Detroit Tigers History Vol. 2: Li'l Rastus

A little over two months ago Detroit City Councilwoman Barbara Rose-Collins created a mini-controversy when she stated that she wasn't sympathetic towards the efforts to save Tiger Stadium because of her childhood memories of the racist history of baseball at large and more specifically the steadfast refusal of former team owner and horseless carriage magnate Walter Briggs to sign African-American baseball players. Briggs refusal resulted in the Tigers being the second to last team to integrate when they finally traded for Ozzie Virgil in 1958 over eleven years after Jackie Robinson had broke the color barrier after signing with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Of course Rose-Collins statements weren't nearly as big a controversy for her as when she fired a homosexual aide because she was afraid he might have AIDS. However her opinion on Tiger Stadium's fate did elicit a wide range of sentiments in defense of and opposed to her assertion. Of course everything devolved, as it usually does when the topic of race and Detroit is brought up, into an argument between people from the city blaming white suburbanites for being afraid and or reluctant to visit or work in the city and people from the suburbs blaming Coleman Young and the City's most recent administration for making them feel unwanted and unwelcome in the city. It seemed like the only thing the commenters could agree on was wanting to punch in the face all of the skinny-jeans and scarf-wearing Black Kids-listening Ann Arbor undergrad dildoes (dildos? dildi?) who felt compelled to interject with comments like "I visited Detroit once this summer and found the mixture of magnificent Art Deco buildings with abandonment and urban decay hauntingly beautiful." Pricks.

After reading through the array of comments, blog posts and op-ed pieces regarding Rose-Collins opinion it appeared that most people took an extreme position on the subject. They either dismissed racism as an unfortunate but ultimately irrelevant portion of the stadiums history which shouldn't impede the efforts to save the stadium while others supported the Councilwoman's views and wanted to put the racist past of former owner Briggs to the forefront of their advocacy to tear down the eyesore in Corktown. Since I'm constantly racked with indecision (you should see how I act when someone asks for my suggestion on where to get something to eat, it usually involves me suggesting everything from Barbecue to Mexican to Thai food then hemming and hawing until tears well up in my eyes and the person I'm with becomes so frustrated and annoyed with my antics that they end up not talking to me during dinner) and have a hard time choosing a side and making a strong argument for my position, which may end up being a problem after I become a lawyer. Naturally my opinion falls somewhere in between. As a student of history (and I hope that sounds as pretentious as I intended) I hate when people pick and choose what parts of history to remember. So under that flimsy line of reasoning I'm going to drag the story of L'il Rastus out from the annals of Tiger Stadium history. This isn't an indictment on the Stadium or the team or a show of my support for either side of the argument proposed by Rose-Collins, but rather an unbiased and agenda free look at a piece of history for both the Stadium and the team. It happened and right or wrong (definitely wrong unless the ghost of Nathan Bedford Forrest is reading this blog) we can't and shouldn't just forget about it because, well, that would make up no better than the Germans.

The story of L'il Rastus goes like this. In early July of the 1908 season the Tigers were battling through a horrible midseason slump. Allegedly Ty Cobb showed up to the Bennett Park and found a homeless black orphan who looked to be about ten years old hanging outside of ballyard. Throughout the history of the game baseball players, even the greatest ones, have been a superstitious lot. Ballplayers are either trying to maintain their good luck (i.e. lucky undershirt), change their bad luck (i.e. switch up the height of their socks), not upset the Baseball Gods (i.e. not stepping on the foul lines while going on or off the field), or in the case of Wade Boggs they are completely insane (i.e. eating chicken before every game, taking batting practice at 5:17 every day, claiming to hit better during games his mistress Margo Adams attended without underwear on, etc.). Ty Cobb was no different than any other player when it came to being hung up on irrational superstitions and with his team mired in a downswing Cobb decided to change his behavior in order to change his teams performance. So instead of running the young African-American orphan over in his brand new 1908 Chalmers Runabout as he was typically wont to do Cobb rather generously invited the young child into the Stadium to work as a clubhouse attendant.

The young attendant endeared himself to the team by running errands for the players and he quickly became the Tigers de facto batboy and mascot. Since the young man was in the clubhouse so often, even sleeping at the Stadium after games and while the team was out on road trips, the Tigers players brought him within the camaraderie found inside most pro sports teams locker rooms and christened him with a nickname. Since this was the early part of the 20th century and political correctness consisted of NOT getting blind drunk and burning down the haberdashery shop owned by a Polish immigrant, baseball nicknames weren't very sensitive (Yes, I only wrote the previous sentence so I would have an excuse to use the word haberdashery it doesn't make my point any less salient). For example nearly every player with Native American ancestry was given the nickname "Chief" and just about every uneducated player from the country was called "Rube". Worst of all in the first half of the twentieth century, before baseball became integrated, it was common for baseball players with dark complexions to be given the moniker "Nig". So it should come as no surprise that the Tigers gave their youthful orphan attendant the designation of L'il Rastus. Shortly thereafter the Tigers players took to rubbing their bats on L'il Rastus head for good luck a habit that was elegantly described by the Detroit News in July 1908 as such

"The Tigers had a pickaninny batboy with hair full of corkscrew kinks. When (Germany) Schaefer went to bat in the fourth he rubbed his bat in the darky's hair and then singled. Some of the rooters advised Cobb to try the same method but the pickaninny, knowing Ty's nativity, kept well out of his way."

Wait, instead of elegant I meant to write blatantly and overtly racist. Apparently the sports editor at the Detroit News doubled as the Grand Wizard of the Detroit Klan Chapter either that or he was my grandfather. Either way the News writer/editor was not only unabashedly racist they were also wrong regarding the relationship between Cobb and L'il Rastus as by most contemporary accounts Cobb and the young man were friendly with each other and L'il Rastus worked for Cobb at his home in Georgia during the offseason. (Although it should be noted that L'il Rastus did disappear from public view after working at Cobb's Georgia home following the '09 season, his true name and identity lost to history, so there is anywhere between a 1-100% chance that Cobb ate the child but I digress). But that's beside the point

For those readers who haven't travelled to the early 20th century or through parts of the present day Deep South there are at least a couple of things from the previous paragraphs that should jump out as patently offensive. First is the nickname itself. Rastus has been a highly offensive pejorative name for African-Americans dating back to the appearance of character of Brer Rastus in the first Uncle Remus book released in 1880. Uncle Remus books were a collection of stories and fables from the Deep South that were collected by Joel Chandler Harris and infamously put to film in the infamous Disney movie Song of the South (Hopefully Blogger isn't associated with Disney in anyway or else that last sentence I wrote will likely be replaced with the Mouse Ear logo or an advertisement for The Lion King 8: Rafiki's All Anal Adventure). However in the early 20th century Rastus became synonymous with the portrayal of any happy and naive African-American and commonly appeared in many different minstrel shows, books and popular songs. There were also a series of short comedy films produced with titular character Rastus that included such names as "How Rastus Got His Chicken," and "Rastus Among the Zulu's". Finally and most famously Rastus is the name of the character who appears in the Cream of Wheat logo that began in 1890 and continues to be used to this day.

The second racist gesture may be harder to pick up on as it has faded into relative obscurity but it was the act of rubbing L'il Rastus head for good luck. This used to be a relatively common practice and a way for whites to be disrespectful and/or condescending towards African-American's in a subtle and passive way. This practice fell to the wayside entirely by the late 70's early 80's as it became a much more common way for people to get their asses kicked then it was to subtly pass off as racism. Now that that's out of the way let's get back to the conclusion of the L'il Rastus story.

As the Tigers continued to win the team attributed their success to the presence of their batboy/mascot and rubbing their bats in L'il Rastus' hair, so naturally he started to accompany the team on the road. Beginning in September, however, the Tigers luck once again began to turn for the worse as they started to lose ground in the race for the A.L. pennant. Just as something can be deemed to be a good luck charm when things are going well it can just as easily be regarded as a jinx when things start to go poorly and in this regard L'il Rastus was discarded from the team and treated no differently than if he had been an old pair of lucky socks. The team believed there was such a negative hoodoo surrounding the child that during the 1908 World Series against the Cubs the Tigers banished their former batboy to sitting in the visitors dugout. In displaying their collective ignorance the Tigers may have in fact established the existence of the Baseball Gods as they watched the Cubs run roughshod over them en route to winning their second consecutive World Series over Detroit 4-1. In fact L'il Rastus proved so lucky that the Cubs have not won a World Series since he last graced their presence while sitting in their dugout. Great now some jerk from Chicago is probably going to dig up his bones and place them under Lou Pinella's seat on the bench. Forget I said anything.

I would quote sources but I'm so far removed from writing history papers in undergrad that I've forgotten how to make proper citations. So I'm just going to say that I got most of my information from the book Crazy '08 by Cait Murphy. This book is amazing so instead of giving you page numbers I recommend you just go out and buy it and read it cover to cover. You'll be a better baseball fan and person for it.

Detroit Tigers History Vol. 1: Charlie Bennett

As I'm sure I've written before and I suspect no one cares or remembers, about three years ago I received my undergraduate degree in history from Michigan State. It took all of two seconds after I received my diploma for me to realize I couldn't do dick with a bachelor's degree in history and the prospect of spending an additional six years pursuing my doctorate and researching in the libraries and archives on campus so I could write a 200 page dissertation on The Social Affects of Thomas Nast's Political Cartoons: Harper's Weekly Era 1865-1885 was slightly less appealing than being slowly disemboweled by a polar bear, or a shark, or some kind of indestructible polar bear/shark hybrid.

Of course I'm probably overstating things. I'm sure the usual channels of employment for liberal arts majors from state universities were available to me if I had bothered to look. For example I probably could have worked at Greenfield Village as a man hideously disfigured by smallpox who deceived and sold unsuspecting country girls from Ontario into brothels located near the rapidly expanding auto factories. Or rather I could have worked at the Ford Rouge Factory Tour as a Polish immigrant who was beaten and worked to death by Henry Ford's secret police after an unfounded rumor that I had led a meeting talking about unionizing with some fellow workers at the local Dom Polski in Hamtramck. Unfortunately these positions don't exist at Greenfield Village, because according to them all anybody did at the turn of the century was ride penny-farthing's and court girls carrying parasols before dying at the ripe age of 80 from diseases like happiness and contentness.

Finally there was always the option of stripping. But I don't think there is a market for historical strippers, although there may be as people have all sorts of strange fetishes such as my obsession with Omorashi. Regardless, I didn't want to show up for some bachelorette party and announce, "Hello ladies, did someone dial back back to 1857 and order James Buchanan, 15th President of the United States?" before taking off eight layers of frock coats and linen shirts while lecturing about Bleeding Kansas only to reveal a body so scrawny and translucent that I would look more like some street urchin dying of tuberculosis rather than some stately president. Long story short I ended up doing what the vast majority of people in my position do. I panicked and enrolled in law school. Now here I am three years later, tens of thousands of dollars in debt, countless more grey hairs on my head and after finishing near the bottom of my class still looking for a job as a stripper but this time with an all new angle. "Order, order, Judge Brandeis holds that this party isn't sexy enough!!!!"

Well at least during my summer long layoff from blogging (studying for bar exam), I didn't forget how to write long rambling introductions. In case you fell asleep while reading this post my main point is that ever since I read about the demolition of Tiger Stadium in the Detroit Free Press a couple of months ago my interest in history has once again been piqued. I'm not going to get into the political debate of whether to save or destroy the stadium but rather I'm going to look at some of the interesting and I think overlooked aspects of Detroit Tigers history. This stuff is probably already familiar to hardcore Tigers fans to which I say, "Get a life", but may not be known to the casual fan. The first, and if my history for updating this site holds likely the last, entry is about Charlie Bennett.

Bennett joined the Detroit Wolverines of the National League in 1881 after playing sparingly over the course of a few seasons with the Milwaukee Grays and Worcester Rubylegs, which, if I may digress, sounds like the name of a company softball team at an all gay steel mill rather than a professional baseball team but apparently that's just how things were in the late 19th century. Extremely gay. However, following the 1880 season Bennett lwft Worcester and followed his manager, Frank Bancroft, to the more ferociously named Detroit Wolverines where he would begin his tenure as one of the most popular athletes in 19th century Detroit.

Bennett became the starting catcher for the Wolverines during his first season west and quickly established himself as one of the best hitting catchers in baseball batting .301 and slugging seven home runs which was good for second place in the National League. Of course the low home run total was normal during this early era of baseball, when the ball used was much softer, which made it more difficult to hit long distances and the mere fact that a baseball player wasn't dying from cholera, dysentery or Black Lung by the age of 18 was the modern day equivalent of an athlete injecting a barrel full of horse steroids into their bodies.

By all accounts, namely Bill James who, in full disclosure, is the only account I bothered to look up Bennett was also an amazing defensive catcher. This was doubly important during the deadball era because the style of play, i.e. more bunting and base stealing, meant several more defensive chances a game than the modern catcher. What makes Bennett's play behind the plate even more astounding is the fact that Bennett fielded his position using less protection than I use when I'm sleeping with the prostitutes I pick up on Cass Ave. Essentially nothing! Hobbes may have been talking about the career of a deadball era catcher when he said life is "poor, nasty, brutish and short", either that or he was talking about Hugo Grotius' momma. Whatever. (If I make a time capsule of the saddest moments of my life it would have to include right now when I'm writing a blog at 4:30 A.M. wearing only a bed sheet and making jokes about 17th century philosophers who probably didn't even know each other along with everything that happened in my life ages 13-24). Catching equipment in the late 19th century was rudimentary at best. The catcher's mask wasn't invented until 1878 when somebody finally became annoyed enough with having their teeth smashed in by foul tips that they finally sat down and designed one. (This seems like common sense to me. If someone would have asked me to catch a game back in the early 1870's my first question would have been "O.k. but what am I going to use to cover my face with?" but that may be because I'm so vain and handsome. You know I have an insurance policy for my face in case of some horribly disfiguring accident. A modern Douglas Fairbanks the ladies call me). Also catchers mitts appeared to be of the same quality as those cheap work gloves you can buy at ACO for $1.99 that inevitably get crusted to the bottom of your wheelbarrow during the winter, and Bennett (or rather his wife) is credited with creating the first chest protector, even though he was razzed by opponents and teammates alike for wearing one, which is the equivalent of a junkie giving another addict shit for insisting on using a clean needle. Or not like that at all. I don't know.

This post is bogging down slightly so I'll get back to Bennett. Bennett remained a potent hitter and popular player in Detroit over the next several seasons and in 1887 Detroiters were able to witness their Wolverines tear through the National League and win the pennant by 3.5 games. After the season the Wolverines challenged the St. Louis Browns of the rival American Association to a best of fifteen series of exhibition games throughout the U.S. The Wolverines won this precursor to the World Series 10-5 and brought home the first professional title ever to the city of Detroit, and from the looks of that team photo it appears the Wolverines would have more then held their own in a World Series of Moustaches contest, although I'm sure the French and German squads would have something to say about that. However by the 1887 season the years behind the plate had begun to wear considerably on Bennett and his hitting skills began to decline rapidly as he split most of the playing time behind the plate with a young catcher named Charlie Ganzel. Despite their success the Wolverines would fold after the 1888 season mainly because the city was still populated mostly by farmers, lumberjacks, actual wolverines and a young Henry Ford still trying to figure out what to do with his burgeoning genius and anti-semitism.

After the Detroit franchise folded Bennett moved on to play five more seasons with the Boston Beaneaters until tragedy struck (Duh-duh-duh). In early 1894 Bennett was returning from a hunting trip when he got off the train to talk to a friend and presumably brag about all the quail he had shot or all the boars he had strangled to death with his bear hands (I know its supposed to be bare but I misspelled it and bear hands sounds way more badass so its staying). As Bennett was telling his story his train started to pull away and Bennett raced to catch up with it. He leaped while trying to reboard and slipped falling underneath the tracks. Unfortunately Bennett wasn't wearing the leg protectors his wife had sewn for him for just such an occasion as he had succumbed to the peer pressure and razzing of his fellow hunters. There is a lesson in there for you kids.

As it turns out nothing ends a baseball career faster than having two wooden legs, even for a catcher who seemingly could catch every inning of every game without having to worry about getting tired. Alas, artificial limb technology in the late 19th century wasn't what it was before or since that time so Bennett spent most of the remainder of his life confined to a big scary wheelchair that looked like the kind found in the basement of a mental asylum in some Nightmare on Elm Street sequel. (Seriously, in the 1500 and 1600's armorers made artificial limbs for knights and soldiers out of iron and as you can see from the photo on the right they looked ultra badass, like something a villain would wear in a Beastmaster or Conan movie. Apparently practicality is more important then looking cool when one has an artificial limb so wooden limbs became common for obvious reasons). After his accident Bennett returned to Detroit where he had remained quite popular, and opened up a candy/tobacco/newspaper/elixir/snake oil store across the street from the minor league ballpark located at Michigan and Trumbull. Shortly after his arrival in Detroit the minor league team, that would eventually become the Tigers, held a Charlie Bennett Day where they presented the former catcher with a wheelbarrow full of silver dollars, which if you adjusted for today's inflation would be the equivalent of giving him 4.7 billion dollars. In 1896 a new ballpark was built at the location that was to become famously known locally as "The Corner" and the fans voted to name the teams new digs Bennett Park a name that barely, and fortunately, beat out the push for corporate sponsorship from Bayer Brand Heroin and Lloyd's Cocaine Toothache Drops. Bennett himself caught the first pitch ever thrown at the park named in his honor an event that became an opening day tradition that would last for 30 years until Bennett's death in 1927 at the age of 72.

Rothbury Music Festival

This weekend over 50,000 hippies will invade the small town of Rothbury MI, for the beginning of a week-long music festival headlined by big name acts like Dave Matthews Band and John Mayer as well as several other musicians whom feature the "crunchy groove" sound that so greatly appeals to the unwashed masses. Free loving spirits from across the country have hit up their lawyer dads for gas money, charged $250 a ticket to their mom's credit card and loaded up their Jetta's to make the trek to the sleepy western Michigan town for a once in a lifetime chance to spend a weekend camping, dancing in place with their arms swaying wildly, trying to score with girls wearing long skirts, (all of whom feel the need to argue, with no one really, that Jose Ortega y Gasset is the most underrated American philosopher when you really just want to scream "To bad he's from Spain you dumb, pretentious harpy" but you want to see her boobs so bad that you just nod your head in agreement. Yes, I may be talking from personal experience here) and praying their AT&T wi-fi connect cards get service out in the woods because they need to update their blog so all their co-op farmer friends in Boise can read about how "organic" the festival is even though its located on the same land as a resort golf course and a family friendly indoor water park. Local officials estimate the scent of patchouli and pretense will more than likely suffocate the local population and may be smelled at distances as far away as Lansing, Ludington and Grand Rapids. Lucky for those of you, like myself, who are to busy selling your soul to faceless corporations or going to law school to get a degree in fascist pig-ism and don't feel like spending your Fourth of July weekend spending a couple of hundred bucks to lay in a hammock and eat rice the Detroit News has sent their music writer Adam Graham to cover the festivities for you.

O.k. maybe I'm being pretty harsh on these festival goers....maybe. To each their own, right? Sure, it might be fun to get a group of friends together, travel around the country and hit up various festivals, especially if you are really into music, which I'm not (I'm pretty sure buying Grave Dancer's Union by Soul Asylum in fifth grade pretty much disqualified me from ever reaching music aficionado status, but I digress). For example my idea of a dream road trip would be to head out with some friends and hit up as many major league baseball stadiums as we could, which if you don't like sports probably sounds like a colossal waste of money and time. So before I judge these festival goers to harshly and paint all of those in attendence to broadly with the same brush let me read what the first report from Rothbury has to say. Oh no.
-
"The first-year factor was also part of the allure for Nathan Straight, who came to Rothbury with four friends from Winchester, Va. "
We're breaking it in for everyone," says Straight, 19, while his friend Chelsea Witte cooked a pot of rice over a portable grill. "We're pioneers, really. Like Thomas Jefferson or something.'"

Fuck. You.

Seriously. Hold on, I have to go walk around the room to calm down about this

...

...

...

O.k. I'm back but I'm still angry. Maybe I shouldn't be though. Maybe this kid is just joking or he's mentally handicapped or he's just been misquoted or something. However there is probably something like a fifty percent chance he is being dead serious and I, relatively anonymous blogger and defender of Thomas Jefferson's honor, just can't let him get away with that. Why? Because I dealt with too many assholes in my history classes at MSU, namely guys who wore ponchos with sandals, drank coffee from the same moldy ass Beaner's mug everyday, treated completing the State News crossword puzzle as if they had just done the Sunday New York Times Puzzle, described everything as "pragmatic" and took contrarian bullshit stances against the professor just for the sake of being non-conformist to not call this kid on it. Since this is post is getting much longer than I anticipated I'm going to give an abbreviated list of everything Thomas Jefferson accomplished in his 83 years.

-Delegate to Continental Congress
-Drafted Declaration of Independence, which could have led to him being executed for treason.
-State Legislator
-Governor of Virginia
-Founder of the University of Virginia
-Minister to France
-Secretary of State
-Vice President
-2-Term President
-Father to dozens of slave children...o.k. maybe this last item isn't so great but impressive nonetheless.

Noticeably absent from this list. Attending music festivals. I don't know though because Jefferson did take a year off from politics in 1794, which he very well could've spent backpacking across Europe with Ben Franklin and John Jay hitting up music festivals, experimenting with his sexuality and just fucking finding himself....man.

I don't think our friend Nicholas used the word pioneer correctly either. Jefferson was a political pioneer and I don't think the Rothbury Festival is breaking any kind of new political ground. I don't think Widespread Panic are going to introduce a new form of government in between 20 minute long jam sessions and Jefferson was way to cosmopolitan to be one of those soil of the earth American pioneers like Daniel Boone or som.........you know what this is stupid. If I wrote a blog post about every stupid uninformed hippie opinion that gets published in a paper I would be here all fucking day. So if you'll excuse me I'm going to get back to selling out.

Seriously though, this bar exam review shit is killing me. I'll post whenever I have time again.

Dontrelle Willis...

meet Steve Blass.

Opening The Vault Part I: Matt Millen

A couple of months ago I wrote that Sports Illustrated had put their entire archives online for free at SI.com. This was fantastic news for all the shut-in sports history buffs who would rather spend their Friday nights reading twenty-three year old articles about Dwight Gooden and Todd Marinovich instead of doing something frightening like talk to girls or leave my cat Scrambles at home by herself for more then an hour. Actually this isn't true. I don't want to play into the tired yet popular notion that all bloggers are basement dwelling losers who are afraid of human contact (In all honesty I don't see what's so great about human contact. Like the other day I was riding the bus and had no less than ten guys "accidentally" poked me with their boners. I know I'm a handsome man and people always tell me I look like James Spader in Stargate but I don't deserve that kind of treatment? It's not like I'm a woman).

Anyways in an effort to give full disclosure I thought I would get rid of the cloak of anonymity on this website and reveal my true identity. The name beefshower is an alias. I am really the spirit of Swami Vivekananda and whenever I get bored of travelling through India spreading the enlightening philosophies of the Hindu religion to the pure of heart I take some time out to blog about what's happening with sports in Detroit and breathlessly jack it to Paramore videos. Now that that's out of the way I thought I would put all those hours I've wasted going through SI's archives to good use by wasting even more time writing about those articles so that you the reader could waste your time reading my opinions of events that happened months, years even decades ago. It's a beautiful cycle really. Kind of like the circle of life only with a slower and more painful death.

I'm not going to be critical of the actual writing because my own writing sucks shit but rather I'm going to focus on the things that are funny or painful now that we look back on them with some historical perspective. I was thinking about writing something on the Tigers but they are so terrible and depressing right now that I couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't end up with me in tears or cursing a lot...or both. Instead I'm going to focus on this dandy that Peter King wrote during the summer of 2001 shortly after the Lions hired a man who would become famous for being worse at his job then anybody else is at their job anywhere in the country. Even worse then the guy at McDonalds on Woodward that gave me the Fish Filet value meal when I clearly ordered the ten piece McNugget meal. Seriously who requests barbecue sauce with a fish sandwich. Assholes. Anyways this isn't about the dumbass at McDonalds but for those of you who haven't figured it out yet and need me to spell out everything for them I'm talking about Matt Millen.

Matt Millen stood, soaking wet, outside the 226-year-old stone house he owns in eastern Pennsylvania. It was late May. A steady rain was falling on the 150-acre estate, and that made Millen happy. The rain was feeding his wife's endless flower beds and filling the property's cistern....

I know I said I wouldn't be critical of the writing because for the most part the writing in Sports Illustrated is top-notch but I'm going to nit-pick here. King goes on for nearly four paragraphs about some old cistern on Millen's property. Way to know your audience Mr. King. Although if any Quakers passing by from the 19th century happened by a news stand and picked up this issue hoping to find the latest in cistern news and advances in irrigation they would be in luck. Maybe later in the article he'll wite about James Polk's dealings with the British during the Oregon Territory dispute or maybe he'll provide the most humane method to kill an elderly relative suffering from typhoid fever. I consider myself a football fan as well as a pretty intelligent guy, as my rejection letter from the Everest Institute would indicate, and I had no idea what a cistern was until I looked it up on Wikipedia. Anyways if you want to read the rest of this cistern talk feel free to go to the article and read it. I'll just be sitting here waiting impatiently for you to return.

Millen recently began another rocky renovation project. This one, the reconstruction of the Detroit Lions, promises to be tougher than relining a 200-year-old cistern. The Lions last won an NFL title in 1957 and have won only one playoff game in the 44 years since. The previous regime tried to narrow the talent gap between Detroit and the league's elite by throwing huge money at players with slightly-above-average talent at best—running back James Stewart, quarterback Charlie Batch, defensive tackle James Jones, for example—thus creating major salary-cap problems for the new administration.

Mercifully thats the last of the cistern talk. At least Millen stopped the embarrassing habit of throwing large amounts of money at slightly above average talent. Instead he seems to have taken the radical approach of throwing big cash at old, washed up and way below average free agents such as Todd Lyght, Fernando Bryant, Damien Woody, Kenoy Kennedy, Marcus Pollard, Bill Schroeder, etc. I would continue to list the free agent busts but this post is already going to be about a million words long so I don't want to add another few thousand words by just naming names.

When Lions owner William Clay Ford handed the CEO and president job to Millen last Jan. 9, the hiring marked the first time since the AFL-NFL merger in 1970 that the day-to-day operations of a team had been turned over to someone with no coaching, scouting or front-office experience. Millen played linebacker in the NFL for 12 seasons—with the Raiders (in Oakland and L.A.), the San Francisco 49ers and the Washington Redskins—and won four Super Bowl rings, but for the past nine years his association with the game has been limited to working as a broadcaster for CBS and Fox.

Transcript of Millen interview:

Ford: "Matt, you will be in charge of a team that is moving into a wonderful state of the art stadium in downtown Detroit. You will be in charge of ridding the franchise of a culture of losing that has permeated the team following a half century of sucking shit through a straw. You will be in charge of evaluating current players and handing out tens of millions of dollars in contracts a year to free agents. You will also have to spend countless hours scouting college talent in an attempt to land high impact first round picks as well as starters and positional depth in the later rounds. You will be in charge of assembling a roster with a payroll in excess of $100 million with players from diverse backgrounds. You will also have to hire a coaching staff that will develop these players and try to get the absolute most out of their ability, while also holding players accountable for their behavior on and off the field. You will also need to surround yourself with front office employees who will help you run an efficient workplace environment and assist you in handling the day to day business operations and decisions that are associated with running a multi-million dollar entity. What kind of experience do you have in this field?"

MM: "None"

Ford: "None. Why the hell should I hire you then?"

MM: "Because I was a slightly above average linebacker on three Super Bowl teams, all of which were supremely talented and brilliantly coached and could have won world titles without my contribution. I was pretty good at tackling people. That's about it."

Ford: "Wow. You're hired. Hell I'll even let you work out of your home. I heard you have a lovely cistern there."

"Matt came to see me at my home in Florida, and after 10 minutes with him I was charged up," Ford recalls about a late December meeting. "He convinced me there's little difference between our team and the great teams."

Ford went on to add, "He also revealed that he had evidence that my grandfather Henry Ford stole his idea for the automobile from a Jewish co-worker named Lowenstein while the two were employed at the Edison Illuminating Company. Grandpappy lured him over for lunch and Grandma Clara poisoned him with an arsenic laced bagel. Before disposing of the body Grandpa used the sack of gold tied around Lowensteins neck to start the Ford Motor Company and the Lowenstein Quadricycle became what is known today as the Model T. Matt also had pictures of my boy Billy fellating the Princeton lacrosse team during his time there."

This quote doesn't actually appear in the article but it should have because it would finally shed light on how Millen has been able to keep his job despite a 31-81 record as a G.M. Also legally I should point out this is all parody and that in all honesty Henry Ford is one of my favorite historical icons. Anybody who had their own secret police is a certifiable badass.

Hardly the executive type, Millen showed up for his introductory news conference wearing a wrinkled, seven-year-old blue blazer, sneakers that had belonged to Redskins linebacker LaVar Arrington and a tie borrowed from broadcast partner Dick Stockton.

I might be wrong on this but I'm pretty sure the NFL is the most profitable business entity in all of professional sports. According to Forbes the Detroit Lions alone are worth 870 million dollars, which is more than the entire GDP of Zimbabwe. An NFL team could presumably hire some of the most intelligent and accomplished businessmen in the country to run their franchise but instead the Lions hired a man that doesnt even own a fucking tie. Although I probably shouldn't criticize somebody for their wardrobe or lack there of since I just pulled off the rare trifecta of wearing the same suit to my high school, college and law school graduation. But at least I was switching up my ties.

His office decor is best characterized by a pair of framed Three Stooges pictures that hang on the wall. He rides a Harley to work. In Millen's world every day is casual Friday, his typical attire being polo shirt, jeans, sneakers and a ball cap that reads DO IT ONCE—DO IT RIGHT. When Mike Holmgren, the Seattle Seahawks' executive vice president and coach, saw Millen scouting on the Michigan campus in March, he quipped, "Team president, CEO, general manager—and he looks like a schmo." Even the 43-year-old Millen admits, "I am an experiment."

So the first thing Millen does when he gets hired is throw some Three Stooges posters up on the wall? If I went to Midas to get my brakes fixed and I looked into the managers office and saw some Three Stooges posters on the wall I would just leave. Maybe that says more about me then it does Millen. Maybe this exposes me as some pretentious comedy snob who only finds stuff funny if they are shrouded in several levels of irony and who reads Steve Martin's autobiography while hi-lighting passages that discuss different comedic philosophies, but I just don't think the Three Stooges are funny. No, I'm really not that snobby because if I were I wouldn't rate Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure as one of the funniest movies I've ever seen but there is something about the Three Stooges that drives me nuts and now is not the time or place to explain why because I don't even know the reasons myself. I'm sorry.

Secondly I wouldn't hire a guy to run an NFL team that wore a hat with a cheesy slogan like "Do It Once - Do It Right" on it. Maybe if I were hiring a coach for a high school girls softball team I would allow it. Then he could print up sweatshirts that said things like "Hard Work Beats Talent When Talent Doesn't Work Hard." with cutesy girl nicknames like Short Stuf and half numbers on the back. On the other hand I don't think I would hire Millen to even run a high school girl's team. Not because he's so inept but because with his kind of moustache he looks like the kind of guy who would be the lead story on the 11 o'clock news after getting fired because he bought some chubby girls on the team wine coolers in exchange for them massaging his thighs in the dugout.

Finally if Mike Holmgren who looks more like an obese walrus than most obese walruses do says that some guy is a slob it might be time to re-evaluate things.

Millen's initial personnel moves were uninspiring. After firing coach Gary Moeller, Millen replaced him with Marty Mornhinweg, who had previously labored as an assistant deep in the shadows of Holmgren in Green Bay and Steve Mariucci in San Francisco. Millen loves Mornhinweg's football mind, his variation of the West Coast offense and his ability to deal with change in this era of extensive player movement. Millen impressed no one with his veteran free-agent pickups—(Brendan) Stai, cornerback Todd Lyght, tight end Pete Mitchell, utility back Amp Lee and backup quarterback Jim Harbaugh. On the other hand, the combined 2001 cap value of those five players ($3.95 million) is about the same as what the Lions would have had to pay next season to retain free-agent guard Jeff Hartings, who signed with the Pittsburgh Steelers. "We'll plug Stai in for Hartings," says Millen, "and not lose much."

Wrong. Hartings went on to be a two time All-Pro with the Steelers and helped them win a Super Bowl during his final season. His ability to play both center and guard at a high level helped the Steelers have one of the most consistently good rushing offenses this decade. Brendan Stai sucked ass-barf for one season in Detroit before he was traded to the Redskins for a draft pick that was probably wasted on a lineman who sucked equally as bad, such as Kelly Butler or someone. I like this line of thinking by Millen though and I wonder if he applies in it other real life situations. For example if he went to a car dealer with the intention of buying a new Mercedes and the dealer said something like, "Sure that Mercedes is nice but for the same price I can sell you seven 1985 Mercury Topazes and you really wouldnt be losing that much in performance." would he take that deal? I'm leaning towards yes.

As for Hasselbeck, a source close to the Seahawks' front office says Millen tried to acquire him before the April 21 draft in a three-way deal that would have sent a high draft choice from Detroit to Jacksonville, with Jaguars quarterback Mark Brunell going to Seattle and Hasselbeck, whom the Seahawks had gotten from the Packers in March, moving to the Lions. "How can I make this work?" Millen asked the Seahawks, according to the source. "I want Matt Hasselbeck." Holmgren, though, would not part with his former Green Bay protégé, and Detroit will stick with the cap-heavy and injury-prone Batch.

There is no way this paragraph is true because that deal actually makes sense. I wonder if Millen and the Lions fortunes would have been different had they traded for Hasselbeck or if the Lions aura of suckitude and overwhelming history of shitty quarterbacking would have ruined Hasselbeck's career. It's a pretty amazing What-if? scenario. Well, not really. I'm so pessimistic about the Lions that I honestly believe that if Hasselbeck had ended up playing in Detroit his career would have been ruined. I bet Hasselbeck wakes up screaming at night after having a recurring nightmare where he has to repeatedly check down to Aveion Cason as Dominic Raiola helplessly flails his short little T-Rex arms at a blitzing Lance Briggs.

Millen consulted confidant and former Michigan coach Bo Schembechler, who'd recruited Millen as a Pennsylvania all-state linebacker. (Millen signed with Penn State.)

Bo Schembechler was a great football coach but I wouldn't take advice from him on how to be a good executive. I loved the guy and he was a legend in Ann Arbor but his season as Tigers President was an unmitigated disaster. Dude fired Ernie Harwell for Chrissakes.

Millen will have to hope he hits the lottery with the draft and free agent signings. He saved the Lions another $2.5 million on this year's cap by persuading Jones and linebacker Allen Aldridge to take substantial pay cuts.

This paragraph isnt really that important other than the fact that I don't think Allen Aldridge ever actually existed. I've been a Lions fan my whole life and have been going to games for the past 15 years or so and I have no fucking clue who Allen Aldridge is. Though somehow he was making enough money to take a million dollar plus paycut. God I hate the Lions.

The Lions have a long-term question at quarterback: Can Batch stay healthy and become a consistent and accurate passer?

No. Also the Lions still have a long term question at quarterback for going on the fiftieth season. Is Erik Kramer available b/c he's still the best quarterback the Lions have had in my lifetime.

Strolling his property, Millen acknowledged the obstacles he faces, but he was undaunted. "Look at that house," he said. "In its day it was a great house, probably the finest in the area. But it fell out of repair and had to be rebuilt. Same with the Lions. Champs of the league long ago, but the franchise fell down. We need to bring it back to greatness. That's the only reason I'm in this."

Well if the Lions were an old house and Millen's been in charge of the renovations for the past seven years the house is a disaster. What he's done to the Lions would be the equivalent of driving a bulldozer through the side of the house, setting the ruins on fire, using the fire to light a big fat cigar and then pissing all over the flames to put them out while all the while Mr. Ford claps his hand gleefully and pays Millen with giant sacks of money with dollar signs on them.

He Gone

Over/under on ERA at Coors Field: 16.00

New Content Coming Soon....

I'm in the middle of exams right now and I think Bill is in his 1,248th straight hour of Warcraft. Once I'm done with finals I will post content until I can think of a different reason to ignore this site.

That's More Like It

I'm yo pusha....I'm yo pusha.....

Tonight the Tigers were able to roll out their complete lineup for the first time all season. O.k. so they were missing the desecrated corpse of Gary Sheffield and Polanco's wonky back held him out of action again, but with Granderson available for the first time this year (for those of you just waking up from a coma Grandy had missed the first 21 games after breaking his hand during spring training and a hip shark with sunglasses named Zak has become president) and hitting atop the order the lineup finally felt complete. During the Tigers offensive struggles at the beginning of the season, when they were shut out four times in their first fourteen games, I, along with everybody else was extremely disappointed by this offense that was projected to score well over 800 runs.

Not as disappointed as I was when I got a set of Walkie Talkies for my birthday when I was a child and soon found out that they had a range of about ten feet. Man did that suck. I think every kid had dreams about having walkie talkies and going on adventures like the Hardy Boys. Well at least all the lame kids like my friends and I had those kinds of dreams. When I first got them I envisioned giving one of them to my best friend Greg and the two of us would go searching through the wooded areas by our houses hoping to stumble across a dead body that had a briefcase laying next to it with millions of dollars inside. Instead we usually came across high school kids with mopeds and bb guns smoking weed and when we desperately tried to radio for help before getting our asses kicked we discovered just how bad the range on the walkie talkies sucked and that's the story of how I never learned to get my hopes up for anything.

Wait. That's not what I was writing about. Hold on and let me get my thoughts back on track.....hmmm. Oh yeah, Granderson. Anyways, I wondered whether the problem was not just a team pressing to live up to unreasonable expectations but rather the fact that the team was missing its catalyst at the top of the lineup. Nothing against Clete Thomas, who did a remarkable job of filling in and hopefully will avoid contracting Brent Clevlen Syndrome (usually afflicting impressive outfielders during their cups of coffee in the majors who completely lose their ability to hit after returning to the minors and are never heard from again) during his stint in Toledo, but the team just didn't seem to have that same energy it does when Granderson is rocking the top spot. The Tigers seemed so lethargic, old and slow during the first few weeks of the season, seemingly grounding into double plays every time someone came to bat with a man on first. However tonight everything seemed different. It looked like everyone was flying around the basepaths, being aggressive with their baserunning and most importantly having fun.

Look I know as much as the guy sitting next to me....wait. Why is there a guy sitting next to me? I live alone in my apartment. Excuse me sir but can I help you? Uh huh....O.k....understood....thank you. Turns out his name is Reginald and he plans on robbing and kidnapping me but is going to be polite enough to let me finish my post. Now that that matter is cleared up I was saying that I'm not so dumb as to suggest that the Tigers were playing poorly because Clete Thomas doesn't laugh at Edgar Renteria's jokes about the differences between people from Barranquilla and people from Cartagena (for example "Have you ever noticed that drug lords in Barranquilla murder people with machetes and yellow bandanas while arms dealers in Cartagena murder people with machine guns and purple ski masks?" LOL). But when you watch a team day in and day out and they become such an important and interwoven part of your life that you find yourself pretend talking to Marcus Thames on your cell phone and empathizing with his lack of at-bats its hard not to let subjectivity and irrationality creep in. I find myself perceiving things out on the field that aren't really there. Things such as chemistry and energy and hustle and that little demonic badger that crawls out of Chuck Hernandez's mouth and screams at me in German to set the Domino's down the street on fire. I know that if I asked Leyland for his opinion on the improved chemistry or higher energy level after Granderson's return he would just curse at me and then put his cigarette out on my face. Also I know that it's just one game back for Granderson and the Tigers could get shut out tomorrow or that they will continue to be inconsistent until the starting rotation starts to pitch more effectively and deeper into games, but the return of Granderson coupled with a nineteen run outburst made tonight feel like the beginning of what we've all been waiting for. Now if you'll excuse me ich brauche zu Beginn eines Brandes. (That German is horrible, it's been 3 years since I slept through every German class I took over a two year period at MSU so for my one reader in Berlin I apologize. Also I know I forgot to call back to the joke about the guy robbing my apartment but it was kind of lame so I'll just let it die a slow death.)

Law School Advice

This post is a response to Grillicheese's question in the comments section of the previous post so if you are interested in attending Wayne State's Law School you might be interested in this. If you are looking for Tigers content skip this and I'll post something later.

Here is my advice regarding law school. Don't go. Not just to Wayne, don't go anywhere. It's a nightmare. Well, let me amend that by saying don't go unless being a lawyer or a judge or a politician is absolutely, positively, 100% what you really, really, really, really want to do with your career. It's a lot of work and a lot of money and a full time commitment for three years of the prime of your life. On top that the market for lawyers sucks in Michigan, like every other part of the states economy, so unless you know someone who is already a lawyer or you graduate in the top 10-20% of your class job prospects are dismal, and you'll likely be clerking at some firm in Southfield for $20 an hour your first year out of school until they fire you to hire some other first year clerk on the cheap, which is the fate about 50% of the people I'm graduating with are going through.
Maybe I'm being cynical but if I could have met my present self three years ago when I was considering law school I might have changed my mind and tried to do something I really loved instead of falling into law school. (My first mistake was getting a history degree, which was worthless). Anyways I've got no beef with Wayne, even if their Career Services office is more poorly run than the Lions front office. Seriously, there is one person in charge of the whole school's job placement program and if you aren't near the top of your class they have no interest in helping you. I've sent e-mails to them that have gone unanswered and half way through my third and final year they sent me an e-mail to me with the heading "Getting to Know You" and asking what my interests were and that if I found work after graduating to report it to them so their numbers would go up, as if anybody there had any hand in helping me find work.

As for classes you are assigned your classes and teachers based on what section you are in your first year, something you don't have control of. I was assigned to the group that had Mogk, Browne and Findlater as professors and all three of them were excellent (as was Moran but he's leaving this year to teach at Ann Arbor). I liked Browne so much that I took a couple of employment law classes during my second and third year that he taught just because I enjoyed him. If you are into environmental law or administrative law, Prof. Hall is a great teacher. He's young, easy-going and funny and more importantly a fair grader (i.e. lots of A's). If you are into IP law take the classes that Bambauer teaches, he has similar qualities to Hall. Now that I think about it I can't think of anything negative about any of the faculty as they were all knowledgable and relatively friendly. The only class I absolutely hated was Secured Transactions but that was more because of the subject matter than anything else.

Finally my advice for things to do while at school is to move to Detroit. Move close to Comerica and go to a ton of Tigers games, find restaurants in Detroit that you like, go to concerts at the Magic Stick and other music venues. Living in Detroit has been tits to say the least. When you get to law school you will quickly find that 90% or more of your fellow classmates are insufferable douchebags that you would never associate with outside of school. Any girl who is remotely attractive is already married or engaged and will spend every minute in class browsing theknot.com and or talking about their wedding. It's awful. I was fortunate to identify the few really cool people I go to school with early on, namely the aforementioned Matt from the previous post, and have spent most of my time in school hanging out and talking with him. I'm also painfully shy, awkward and possibly paranoid so take my advice about making friends with a grain of salt.

Anyways if you have any more questions just send me an e-mail and I will gladly answer them for you as best as I can.

The Best Things In Life Are Free

Today was a good day. The Tigers offense routed Sabathia with both Cabrera and Renteria contributing 5 R.B.I.'s. Armando Galarraga pitched great in his Tigers debut, throwing strikes and retiring 17 in a row after a first inning homerun to Dave Dellucci. Jason Grilli came in and didn't blow a ten run lead, only allowing one inherited baserunner to score in two hits over 2 1/3 innings of relief. The game ended within minutes of the new episode of South Park starting, which made for a seamless transition of laziness as I didn't have to spend a few minutes surfing channels, wasting time and fighting off a nagging feeling of guilt for neglecting my studies as final exams rapidly approach. South Park was hilarious. Then my friend Matt, who was over to watch the game and South Park, and I went to Burger King because we were both starving our faces off. While we were placing our orders a homeless guy approached my car and waited patiently for us to finish our order before asking us for money. But instead of just asking for cash he fidgeted around in his pocket and for a split second I thought, "Jesus Christ I think this dangerous minority is going to pull a gun or knife out of his pocket and rob me as I try to order Chicken Tenders. I never thought I would go out this way. I always imagined it would be at a White Castle." (Wait was that racist? Can I use it as an excuse that I'm typing this at 5:41 A.M. and that the brain filter that keeps me from writing stupid things might not be functioning at full capacity. I think even Mother Teresa would be capable of saying something offensive if she were as sleep deprived as I am right now. Seriously, I've seen meth heads who look more refreshed and alive than I do right now......rimshot followed by silence...maybe a cough or two). Instead the homeless guy pulled out a pocket full of baseball cards that he offered to sell me so that he could buy a Whopper. Being a dorky white kid who blows cash on all kinds of stupid shit that could be classified under the loose tag of collectibles I eagerly accepted. Had the guy opened up a book bag full of ALF pogs I probably would've traded him my car for them. I told him to meet me after the drive-thru window and I would give him the cash for the cards. I paid for Matt and I's food with a $20 and should have got $5 back in change but the lady working the window made a mistake and handed me back $15. Since I'm a total cheapass I didnt alert her to her mistake and pocketed the extra ten bucks. We got all the food we ordered, which is a minor miracle when dealing with the fast food restaurants in Detroit, and feeling generous I gave the homeless guy with the baseball cards $5. I pulled out of BK and hit every green light on the way back to my apartment. When I got back to my apartment I inspected the cards I had just received and, as I expected, they all sucked with the highlights being an '88 Topps Floyd Youmans and Rick Rhoden and a '91 Score Rondell White Draft Pick card. Matt joked that with all the good things that had happened to me throughout the day karma was going to rear its ugly head and have something terrible beset me. I thought about what he said for a moment and responded that maybe I had already died and this was my version of heaven.

He called me gay.

I deserved it.

Jason Grilli Is a Terrible Person Vol: 138

Today was perfect. I woke up early and went to class for one of the last times in my life. I got called on by my professor and aced all the questions he asked me. I left school in the early afternoon and when I went outside it was beautiful. Sun-shining, blue skies, high 60's temperature, gentle breeze. I played catch for about an hour, I saw a little Asian toddler feeding a squirrel bread crumbs, I held out my arm and a couple of cute animated bluebirds alighted on my forearm and started whistling "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes," from Cinderella. Or did they whistle "Don't Know What You Got (Till Its Gone)" by Cinderella? I can't remember but either way it was pretty awesome. So what could possibly ruin this beautiful afternoon? What kind of cold-hearted, terrible, sick, perverse person could possibly ruin this magnificent, marvelous, splendid, stunning, phantasma-fucking-goric spring afternoon? Who I ask? Who else but Jason Grilli.

I know, I know, everything is wrong with the Tigers right now and it's completely unfair to place all of the blame for the teams struggles on one middle relief pitcher. Is it Grilli's fault that Miguel Cabrera is hitting .100 after the first week of the season (maybe)? Is Grilli responsible for the bad luck the Tigers have experienced in the first few weeks of the season (probably)? Has Grilli's mere precense in the bullpen made all of the other relief pitchers ineffective, like he's some sort of human kryptonite towards good pitching (definitely yes)? But it's so much fun to have a scapegoat, and since there are no Irishmen on the team, I'm placing all the blame on Grilli.

While I was watching Grilli implode today many thoughts were raced through my mind. Most of them involved some kind of tortuous grisly demise for Grilli, such as that hawk that flies around Fenway swooping down and plucking his eyeballs, and another thought that involved a gnome riding a sleigh pulled by rabbits and chipmunks, which kind of made me happy for a second. Then Grilli walked in a run and the rage returned. By the time I snapped back into consciousness I was naked, covered in blood and had piles of panther carcasses piled up around my apartment. I don't really know what happened during those few hours but I picture it looking like a scene from 28 Weeks Later or to a lesser extent Rob Schneider's "The Animal."

Seriously though, when I watched the game I couldn't help but wonder what kind of pitches does Grilli even throw? Of course there is his bread and butter pitch that can only be described as a 94MPH 4 seam cockshot with just enough movement to swing back over the heart of the plate, but what are his other pitches? From what I saw today I think they are an 87MPH BP fastball that he can't locate and another pitch that clocks in at 79MPH, which I think is supposed to be a changeup but since it bounces three feet in front of home plate every time he throws it I can't say for certain. The only thing I do know for certain is that Grilli doesnt seem to possess one major league caliber pitch in his whole repertoire of shit. The Red Sox were just teeing off on him this afternoon and the damage would have been much worse had Cabrera not flopped onto the ground and stabbed a grounder by Manny that almost certainly saved two runs. Grilli just had absolutley no chance against the Sox and if I didn't hate him so much I might have felt bad about him being completely overmatched and helpless on the mound. However, as much as I enjoy seeing Grilli twist in the wind I realize that he's hurting the team in the process. Wait, I don't mean hurt, I mean absolutely killing any chance his team has at winning while also completely demoralizing an entire fan base.

-

Another thing that drives me nuts about The Cheese Man is his seeming complete lack of accountability after he melts down on the mound. I don't ever think I've ever heard or read from Grilli after a game he lost where he said, "Yeah, I know I sucked ass-barf tonight and it's completely my fault that we lost the game 24-1 mainly because I walked 96 batters in a row." If anything I always seem to read that he was testy after the game or wouldn't answer questions from the media at all or was upset about the lack of support from the home crowd.

-

Look, if I went into court and forgot to wear pants, stammered a bunch of racial slurs during my opening statement and then accidently set my case notes on fire while listening to testimony and my client finally lost patience and yelled out, "Why I declare, Mr. Adonis X. Wisdom Esq. that you maybe the worst god damn barrister the great state of Alabama has ever seen." I wouldn't get pissed at him or moody in fact I would probably take responsibility and return to him the sandwich he had paid me on retainer. If I were a teammate this lack of accountability would drive me nuts about Grilli. For example if I were a respected veteran and somewhat crazy like Sheffield I would go up to Grilli and say, "I'm keeping it straight Grilli. I've been in the bigs for two decades and I've played with a lot of sucky white dudes...like.....um...that guy with the Brewers....Chuck Crim or some shit, but you are the suckiest suck that I've ever seen suck."

I need to wrap this shit up, so from my possibly irrational and biased point of view I think this is a got-to-go situation. Grilli has had his chance, several of them, so many in fact that for a split second I actually questioned Leyland's decision to bring Grilli into the game today and I've never questioned anything Leyland has done before. I trust Leyland so much that he could tell me it's a good idea to turn to hardcore drugs as a cure for my crippling anxiety and depression and I would probably do it. Grilli just can't get guys out and putting him on the mound doesnt give the Tigers the best chance, wait no, ANY chance of winning and if he comes back to Detroit and blows up on the mound again it's going to be ugly as the Tigers fans have absolutely no patience for him anymore. It's past the point of no return.

One last thing. On Grilli's MySpace he sells t-shirts that have a picture of him pitching with his arm blurred out and the headline "Grilli's Gone Wild" with a tagline of "It's Filthy." Jesus Christ. When I become Emperor of the World in about 20 years I'm going to invite everyone that purchased one of those shirts to a special free screening of "Meet The Spartans." When the lights dim and the movie starts the audience will be shocked to see the movie is just clips of Grilli giving up doubles and homeruns with footage of me laughing spliced in between. As the moviegoers became confused gas would start creeping in from the vents and.....well I don't want to ruin the surprise.