(photo by Tom Hagerty)
This beautiful photo of Tiger Stadium was taken by Tom Hagerty (and can be found in his incredible Picasa gallery of Tiger Stadium in the 70s) in June 1976, just a week or two after I saw my first major league game there. My Dad took me as a belated birthday present, and we sat probably ten rows behind home plate; purchasing good seats was pretty easy (and inexpensive) in those days.
Now sadly gone, Tiger Stadium will always be my favorite ballpark, my original "Field of Dreams," while Dodger Stadium is my favorite major league ballpark that's still in existence. I talk about both of them in the introduction to this week's edition of "High and Tight," my weekly baseball column for Rolling Stone Online, in which our esteemed panel of rock n' roll seamheads (including Alice Cooper, Scott Ian of Anthrax, Tom Morello, Steve Earle, and "King of Men" Handsome Dick Manitoba) dish on their favorite and least favorite places to see a major league ballgame. Some of the answers are predictable, some considerably less so...
Today also marks the birthdate of the late, great and generally unhinged Billy Martin, the fiery skipper who made winners out of the Tigers, Rangers and Yankees in the 1970s... and whose alcohol and anger-management issues forced his eventual exit each time. His 1972 Topps "In Action" card shows him jawing with an umpire, a choice that's both poetic and perfect.
Billy did some of his best work at Tiger Stadium in 1972, when he somehow got a team of aging, injured vets and no-name spare parts to play well above their collective heads and actually make it to the ALCS, where they narrowly lost to the newly-ascendant "Moustache Gang" Oakland A's. When I went to see the Tigers play the visiting Yankees in May '76, Billy was back, though this time as the manager of the Bronx Bombers. Billy was ejected from that game before the first pitch, having picked a fight with the home plate umpire during the exchange of lineup cards...
I've long suspected that Billy wanted to get tossed; it was a Sunday afternoon game, and he'd probably been out drinking all Saturday night, hitting his favorite Motor City hotspots, and was now desperately in need of a hangover cure (which, given his proclivities, certainly would have involved a little "hair of the dog" action). In any case, his tirade meant that the first bit of real major league action I witnessed in person wasn't a strikeout, a home run, or a stolen base — it was Billy Martin getting kicked out of a ballgame, and I'll always cherish that memory. Happy Birthday, Billy, wherever you are...
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