In an ongoing effort to support and honor the Big Tilde, your intrepid reporter went out in the 37-degree rainstorm that encompassed New Comiskey Park Saturday to document the Tigers-White Sox game
Not doin’ THAT again any time soon.
I bundled up appropriately for the occasion: thermal underwear, Tigers shirt, Bears hoodie, Bears pullover jacket, wool cap. I probably should have brought a pup tent and a portable gas stove as well. Maybe a creature to cut open and crawl into for warmth by the seventh.
Still, onward and upward: here’s how we support the Tilde on what might have been the worst day of the season thus far.
Here are the intrepid young people of Detroit (via school at Northwestern or Loyola, most likely) huddled together for warmth while waiting for the train to whisk us off to the park. They bundled up as well, though (if memory serves) handling the cold is not what Tiggers do best
Everyone dressed for the occasion, even Frank Thomas Jersey with Man-purse.
There was little doubt the game would be crammed in, weather be damned. (And that was some damned awful weather.) The tarp came off the field about 15 minutes before game time.
However, few people witnessed the tarp holstering. Or the whole game. The die-hard fans joined the college students and hardy younguns to create a miserable lot with more love of the game than common sense. Detroit fans showed more resolve than the locals; I estimate Tigers support was 30% of the meager crowd.
The man facing the camera is Carlos Quentin. In a few minutes, he would join the pantheon of Enemies of the Tilde
In the top of the first, I thought the Tigers would have a (moist) field day on Gavin Floyd’s deliberate delivery and A.J. Ratinski’s pathetic arm when the Tigers stole two quick bases. However, Cletus’ questionable run home cost the Tigers an out. (That’s on the third base coach, natch.)
Then Carlos Quentin tracked through the grass and mud and then leaped to the top of the wall to reel in a Big Tilde smash that would have scored at least one run. How do I know this?
That’s right. Journalism!
I would have taken a picture of this moment, but two events intervened:
- A home run ball was headed right for me. Dead on at me. You have to keep your hands free for that.
- A Big Tilde home run ball was headed right for me! I had to be ready to snap a femur or cut a tendon on anyone near me if my Divine Right to the ball was challenged
Josh Byrnes has to be kicking himself a little after seeing that. C’mon… just a little.
I didn’t have a strong sense of how important that play would be. Of course, it was the first inning and I didn’t know BT would struggle mightily the rest of the game.
Also, I didn’t really know Gavin Floyd was working on a no-no. I had a sense the Tigers bats sucked donkey crotch sweat, but I couldn’t keep score because my scorecard was soaked by the second inning.
As the weather grew worse, it became harder to keep track of the events on the field. Because I was in the bleachers, I couldn’t see the traditional box score on the center field board. I only realized what happened when Ozzie pulled Floyd in the eighth after giving up his first hit and the crowd opposite the bleachers erupted. At that point, I just wanted the Tigers to get their two runs, win the game, and send me home happy.
The Tigers just wanted to be anywhere else, especially poor Jacque Jones. He took it from Detroit fans and Sox fans equally hard. None of the insults were remotely interesting (except the guy that allegedly took Jones in the 26th round of his fantasy draft, to which I had to respond, “You have 26 rounds in your fantasy draft?”). When the Frenchie nonsense started, I turned and yelled, “He’s from San Diego; did the French annex California?”
You know it’s a bad day when you’re defending Jacque Jones. Poor bastard just looked miserable out there. (Of course he would be; he’s from San Diego, France.) Look at him trying to keep his throwing hand warm between pitches.
sigh. (Also: check out the infield. I thought I heard the PA announcer call “All Swim” in the sixth.)
The game was clearly over at 2-0 in the bottom of the eighth since no one seemed interested in extra innings and left Verlander in past exhaustion. However, the shellacking continued when Leyland clearly felt uncomfortable calling anyone from the ‘pen. His fears were realized, of course, as the score mounted to 7-0. (Thanks for ruining Verlander’s ERA, Beltrán.)
Of course, since this fellow had been warming up at the beginning of the frame, Guillen sent him in for the top of the ninth:
His belly flop into the muddy grass to get the second out of the ninth inning brought goofiness to an otherwise dreary day.
So. Went to the ball game, didn’t know a no-hitter was about to be foisted upon the Tigers, watched the Big Tilde get flat-out felonied 10 feet from me, and sloshed home completely soaked despite dressing like an OCD Boy Scout.
Still, it was a baseball game, so who cares? Good times.