John U. Bacon

Once in a while something happens that is so unusual, even those who don’t normally pay attention have to stop and take notice.

Halley’s Comet, for example, only comes along once every 75 years. Man has landed on the moon just six times in the entire history of the universe. And Lindsay Lohan goes to jail – no, wait, that happens almost every week.

Well, this week, Detroit sports fans got Halley’s Comet, a moon landing, and a clean and sober Lindsay Lohan all wrapped up into one: The Tigers clinched the American League Central Division, and even more shockingly, the Lions won their first three games.

That’s right: It’s September 30, and both the Tigers and the Lions are in first place. Go find a newspaper – if your town still has one – pull out the standings, and get them laminated. This might not happen again in our lifetimes.

That’s no exaggeration. By 1934, Detroit’s three big league teams – the Lions, the Tigers and the Red Wings – had never won a championship in their combined 45 attempts. But that year, the red-hot Tigers won 101 games, and faced the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series.

When the Cardinals’ star pitcher, Dizzy Dean, heard the Tigers manager say, “We think we can win,” he replied, “If they thinkin’, they already licked.” Apparently so. Dizzy Dean’s team won in seven games.

The next year, 1935, marked the nadir of the Depression, with the world slipping toward war. The Motor City needed a distraction, and the Tigers provided a great one when they won their first World Series. A couple months later, the Lions won their first NFL title. And just four months after that, the Red Wings won their first Stanley Cup. They called Detroit – hang on to your hats here – the City of Champions.

No city has pulled the trifecta since – and Detroit hasn’t come close. In the ’70s, no Detroit team won a single title, a glorious 0-for-40 stretch. No more “City of Champions.” People started calling the Lions the Lie-downs, the Red Wings the Dead Things, and the Tigers – well, everyone pretty much agreed just calling them the Tigers was bad enough. Hard times were these.

The Tigers were even worse in the nineties, but topped it in 2003 by losing 119 games, an American League record. But manager Jim Leyland, an old salty dog with a gray mustache yellowed from years of chain-smoking, led them back to the World Series in 2006, and he could do it again this year.

The Tigers’ resurgence is surprising. The Lions return to respectability is positively shocking. The Lions are one of only two NFL teams who have failed to make it to every Super Bowl, and the only team in NFL history to lose all 16 games – a perfect mark that no one, by definition, can ever break.

What makes this story better are the long-suffering fans that have stuck with their teams during those down… decades – and the dynasties who own them.

The Ford family owns the Lions, and a large part of a certain car company. The Ilitches founded Little Caesar’s Pizza, and now own the Tigers and the Red Wings, too. Both families have invested heavily in the city, they have never threatened to move their teams to Nashville, and they desperately want their teams to win – though their teams haven’t always cooperated.

But this might be the year. Okay, the Pistons are almost as non-existent now as they were in 1935, but the Red Wings are as good as always, the Tigers have a real chance with the American League’s top pitcher, and the Lions – well, the Lions are undefeated. I can’t recall saying that in October – and tomorrow, you can.

No, these teams don’t solve Detroit’s problems. But they make people feel better, and they bring us together.

And if it all goes right, then maybe – just maybe – Detroit fans will party like it’s 1935.

About the author: John U. Bacon is the author of the upcoming “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football,” due out Oct. 25. You can pre-order the book from Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor or on Amazon.com.

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John U. Bacon

If you’re sick of the big leagues, but not baseball, check out your backyard.

Here in Michigan you can watch the Beach Bums in Traverse City, the Lugnuts in Lansing, the West Michigan Whitecaps near Grand Rapids, the Great Lake Loons in Midland, and the Kings in Kalamazoo. Michigan fans can see six minor league teams if you count the Toledo Mud Hens – and seven if the Tigers start slumping again. Michigan baseball fans haven’t had it this good in decades.

In 1949, the U.S. boasted almost 500 minor league teams, supported by 42 million fans. But their ranks shriveled when major league baseball expanded, TV blossomed and air conditioning made staying at home much cooler. In just three years, attendance dropped almost 80%.

But when major league baseball turned its back on its fans with strikes and lockouts, the minor leagues aggressively courted them. Almost every fan-friendly custom you see at major league stadiums today they stole from the minors, including fancy food, daily promotions, pop music and endless stunts to keep the fans coming back, win or lose. As a result, the minors have grown back to a robust 176 teams nationwide.

Visit one, and you understand why.

You park your car for a couple bucks, and in a couple minutes, you’re in your seat. Every employee you meet seems to be working overtime to keep you fat and happy. They remember the season ticket holders’ names, and welcome them back each night.

The workers shower the fans with free frisbees, candy bars and bunched-up T-shirts fired from sling-shots. Between innings, they sponsor the usual potpourri of minor league gags, including the dizzy bat race, the hula hoop contest and a sumo wrestling match – always involving fans pulled from the stands.

A minor league baseball park is no place for the self-conscious. You should expect to let your hair down and join the show.

Kids play on the grass embankments, stand on the dugouts and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch – while waving to their parents – and get to run around the bases when the game’s over.

Fans don’t leave minor league games early, because they’re enjoying the whole experience, not just the outcome.

In the minors, even the players aim to please. Unlike the lollygaggers in the majors, the bush leaguers take their at-bats as if they’re being timed, they don’t whine about the umpire’s calls and they actually run all the way to first base on hopeless ground balls. Of course, they’d better, or they’re gone.

The players put their hearts in their work for less than they could make flipping burgers at McDonald’s. So, why do it? Because after four or five years of flipping burgers, McDonald’s will never give you a big league contract. Do any of these guys really have a chance? As one manager told me, “If you got a uniform, you got a chance.”

These guys are doing what they’ve dreamed about all their lives: playing baseball.

Some dreams are a little more modest. I met two brothers who had good jobs at Oldsmobile, but asked the Lansing Lugnuts if they could walk around the park with trash cans. They only got minimum wage – and all the cans they could find. “If it wasn’t fun,” one told me, “we wouldn’t be here.”

He then picked up his trash can, turned toward his buddies in the stands and bellowed, “Get yer trraaaaaash. Cold trash here! Get yer trash!”

And that, in a peanut shell, is the difference between the majors and the minors: Everyone in the minors is making less money, and having more fun.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

Absentee voter applications are not printed on baseballs. This is just someone's execution of the concept that "Every article should have art!"

Now, you don’t have to go to the game in order to qualify for an absentee ballot. But just to be clear, if you do plan to make a whole day event out of your visit to Detroit to watch the game, that will absolutely qualify you for an absentee ballot. If you expect to be out of town, that’s a legally valid reason for voting absentee.

Maybe some of you would even like to make the short drive in to the ballpark after a Monday night stay at the Westin Book Cadillac – from what I understand, it’s a pleasant place to spend the night, even if you’re not a Washtenaw Communty College trustee.

What about you Chronicle readers who aren’t baseball fans? If you want to vote absentee, the current election law specifies a limited set of other reasons you can use, which include being older than 60, being in jail, or having religious beliefs that prevent attending the polls.

The topic came up a bit more than a week ago, when the Ann Arbor city Democrats hosted a forum for candidates contesting the Democratic primaries for Michigan’s 52nd and 53rd district state House seats. Jeff Irwin, who along with Ned Staebler is running for the 53rd District seat, threw out an idea for a tweak in Michigan’s election laws.

Irwin said he’d like to see “on-demand absentee” voting – citizens would be able to obtain an absentee ballot and avoid the lines at the polls for any or no reason at all. It’s not some new screwball idea – it’s been around a while and enjoys a lot of support, from Washtenaw County clerk Larry Kestenbaum, among others.

For the time being, though, the application for an absentee ballot requires that voters commit, you know, really commit – just like the guy on the mound has to commit to delivering the ball to the plate after starting in that direction – to at least one of the allowable reasons under the state statute. Through June 17, according to the first Absent Voter report sent out last week via email by the city clerk, over 1,800 Ann Arborites have already committed to one of those reasons.

The Absent Voter Report

Last week, the Ann Arbor city clerk’s office sent out an email containing its first Absent Voter report – absentee ballot applications requested through June 17. The first one, as well as subsequent reports, contains an updated list of names and addresses of all voters who have applied for an absentee ballot. That first email indicated that the city has taken delivery of its ballots, so starting this week, the absentee ballots will be mailed out to those who’ve requested them.

How do you sign up for the city clerk’s email alert service? It’s as simple as telling the city clerk you’d like to be added to the “daily AV list.”

Who would want to receive timely updates about people who’ve applied for absentee ballots as those requests roll in? Candidates on those ballots have a clear interest in knowing who has requested ballots and whether the ballots have been returned – both pieces of information are provided in the daily AV list.

As The Chronicle noted back in May, as a part of its coverage of the finalized primary field, someone who’s requested an absentee ballot is highly likely to vote, so from that point of view, candidates typically see them as a good time investment. It’s worth an extra knock on their door or an extra postcard in the mail. Similarly, if the person has already voted by absentee ballot, well, contacting them is not going to change their vote – a candidate’s time might be better invested knocking on new doors.

How Many People Vote Absentee?

Absentee ballot applications are accepted starting 75 days before the election. Calculating backwards from Aug. 3 puts the start of application acceptance on May 21. In the first daily AV list sent last week, 1,860 voters were listed. Broken down by ward, here’s what that picture looks like – the percentages indicate the percent of total ballots requested so far:

Absentee ballot requests
through June 17, 2010
for Aug. 3 primary

214 Ward 1  11.5%
569 Ward 2  30.6%
319 Ward 3  17.2%
475 Ward 4  25.5%
283 Ward 5  15.2%

Total: 1,860

-

That percentage distribution of absentee ballots roughly parallels the November 2009 general election absentee voting percentages. Separate absentee ballot count boards – one for each ward – made a breakdown of absentee votes visible in the election results [Ward 1, Ward 2, Ward 3, Ward 4, Ward 5]:

Absentee Voting
by Ward in Ann Arbor
November 2009

236 Ward 1   9.9%
678 Ward 2  28.4%
390 Ward 3  16.3%
551 Ward 4  23.1%
533 Ward 5  22.3%

Total 2,388

-

Ward 5 accounted for a greater relative percentage of the total absentee vote in the November 2009 general election than it does in the early requests for ballots for the Aug. 3, 2010 primary, but it’s still relatively early in the ballot request season – the daily AV report for Monday, June 21 added another 49 names and addresses.

How Many Is a Lot of Absent Voters?

Based on the general election of November 2009 and the early absentee ballot application numbers, it looks like the absentee voter numbers for the Aug. 3 primary will, on the very conservative side, be at least 2,000. Is that a lot?

Viewed through the lens of the last two Democratic mayoral primaries, 2,000 votes works out to be roughly the difference between a clear victory and a virtual dead heat.

In 2008, when Tom Wall challenged John Hieftje for mayor, Wall received 3,394 votes to Hieftje’s 7,447. Shift 2,000 votes to Wall and Wall would have still been short – 5,394 to 5,447 – but not by much.

Two years earlier in 2006, when Wendy Woods challenged Hieftje, she received 2,913 votes to Hieftje’s 6,703.  Shift 2,000 votes to Woods and Woods would have prevailed 4,913 to 4,703.

So it’s fair to say 2,000 votes is a lot of votes. It’s easy to understand why candidates for public office in Ann Arbor “work the absentees,” using the daily AV lists – they’re not just almost certain to vote, their numbers are great enough to have a potential impact on the election.

The Penalty of Law

The kind of on-demand absentee voting advocated by Jeff Irwin at the city Democratic Party candidate forum does not currently exist. Absent voter ballots require “application” because Michigan does not currently allow for absentee voting for no reason. An exhaustive list of justifiable reasons that can be checked on the absentee ballot application is:

• age 60 years old or older
• unable to vote without assistance at the polls
• expecting to be out of town on election day
• in jail awaiting arraignment or trial
• unable to attend the polls due to religious reasons
• appointed to work as an election inspector in a precinct outside of your precinct of residence.

The application notes that “A person making a false statement in this absent voter ballot application is guilty of a misdemeanor.” And a call to the state’s Bureau of elections confirmed that the check on the accuracy of statements – including the reason cited justifying the right to vote absentee – is the application itself. In signing the form, an applicant for a ballot is attesting: “I declare that the statements in this absent voter ballot application are true.”

Irwin isn’t alone in advocating for reform that would eliminate the need to commit to a reason for voting absentee. Archived on Washtenaw County clerk Larry Kestenbaum’s blog, Polygon, the Dancing Bear, is part of a Nov. 12, 2006 Ann Arbor News Q&A conducted by reporter Dave Gershman:

Q: What’s the trend you’re seeing in terms of absentee ballots?

A: Absentee ballots are being used more widely over time and you can see the percentage creeping up little by little, year by year. That may also have to do with the aging population as well. If you’re 60 years of age or older you’re automatically eligible to use an absentee ballot without having to state another reason.

And people certainly are aware of the fact that if you choose to vote absentee you can put down that, yes, you plan to be out of the jurisdiction on Election Day even if those plans later change. There has been a movement in the Legislature to enact basically freedom to use an absentee ballot instead of showing up in person without having to state a reason. That legislation, although supported by virtually all of the county and municipal clerks in the state and supported by the secretary of state, did not move forward in the Legislature in the last couple of years. It may in the next one.

Q: And you support that?

A: Oh, absolutely. … If people want to vote absentee they should be able to vote absentee, and the notion of swearing to a reason is really pretty superfluous.

That Q&A was published four years ago. But in response to a recent emailed query, Kestenbaum says: “All those things are still perfectly valid as far as I’m concerned.”

I think the case for on-demand voting is pretty straightforward: it would remove various barriers to participating in democracy. On-demand absentee voting would eliminate the need to make your vote on a specific day, the need to stand in a possibly long line, the need to brave possibly inclement weather, the need to arrange transportation to a polling place, among other barriers.

I don’t think on-demand absentee voting would be a grand-slam home run for democracy. I don’t think that such voting by itself would increase participation in the Ann Arbor August primaries a whole lot, beyond the roughly 14% of registered voters who decided the 2008 mayoral primary.

But improving our democratic process is not about hitting home runs – it’s about getting base hits. And on-demand absentee voting is like a solid base hit, straight up the middle.

For now, you need a reason for voting absentee. Planning an out-of-town excursion on election day – to a Tigers game – just so you can vote absentee might seem a little elaborate. But at least it means you’re planning to vote.

Absentee ballots can be requested by mail until the Saturday before the election. This year that’s July 31. The absentee ballot application form is available on the city clerk’s part of the city of Ann Arbor website. It can be sent via the full range of modern communication technologies: mailed; hand delivered to the city clerk’s office at 100 N. Fifth Ave., Ann Arbor, MI 48104; faxed  to 734-994-8296; or scanned and emailed to cityclerk@a2gov.org.

Go Tigs.

About the writer: Dave Askins is editor of The Ann Arbor Chronicle.

John U. Bacon

I’d just finished writing my commentary Wednesday night, when a friend tipped me off that I should be watching the Tigers game. He didn’t say why, because there’s a code in baseball against jinxing a pitcher who’s throwing a great game. I turned on the TV, and saw the Tigers were beating Cleveland, 1-0, in the eighth inning. Then I finally realized Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga wasn’t just working on a no-hitter, but a perfect game.

What’s the difference? A no-hitter means just that: A pitcher can’t give up any hits. But he can still let a runner get to first base on a walk or an error, and keep his no-hitter. But to throw a perfect game, the pitcher can’t let a single batter reach first base for any reason. He’s got to get 27 straight outs.

How rare is that? In the 135-year history of Major League Baseball, only twenty pitchers have done it. Twenty. It’s ten times rarer than a no-hitter – so rare, in over a century of Tiger baseball, not one pitcher had ever thrown a perfect game. Ever.

But there he was, Armando Galarraga from Venezuela, pitching a perfect game.

In the ninth inning, with everybody in the ballpark well aware of the stakes, Cleveland’s lead off hitter smashed the ball to deep center field. The Tigers’ Austin Jackson thought it was going to fly over his head. But he chased after it anyway – running full-speed to the fence to make one of the best catches of the year.

After a ground out, Galarraga was just one out from baseball immortality. That’s when Cleveland’s Jason Donald hit a ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera. He scooped it up, and threw the ball back to first base, where Galarraga had run to cover the play. Galarraga caught the ball, and stepped on the bag – a half-stride before Donald did.

Galarraga had done it – or so everyone thought. Everyone, that is, except the one person who’s opinion mattered: Jim Joyce, the first base umpire widely considered one of the best in the business. He had a clear view of the entire play – then he signaled, Safe!

The replay showed Joyce was dead wrong. The fans were screaming, the Tigers were outraged, and even the Indians looked embarrassed. The only guy who was not screaming at Joyce was Galarraga himself – by all accounts, one of the most decent men in baseball.

But if there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no replay, either. Even the lawyers whose ads run between innings are, thankfully, out of place between the lines – no matter how much everyone wished they could fix it.

After the Tigers won, manager Jim Leyland came busting out of the dugout to give Joyce an earful – and to Joyce’s credit, he stood there and took it like a man. Back in the locker room, instead of spouting or pouting, Galarraga said, in his slightly broken English, “I really respect [Joyce], because he say, ‘I need to talk to you. I really say I’m sorry.’ His eyes were water. He don’t have to say much. His body language say more. He probably feel more bad than me. Nobody perfect. Everybody human.”

What do you do next? “You come back and play tomorrow,” Leyland said. “That’s what makes this game great.”

There’s already a great hue and cry to use instant replay in baseball. But if they had used replay that night, we would not have known what a stand-up guy Jim Joyce is, just moments after making a mistake he knows will reappear in the first paragraph of his obituary. We would not have known what a fair-minded person Jim Leyland is, expressing respect for Joyce’s professionalism and compassion for his plight just minutes after the game.

I already knew what a great game Galarraga pitched. A rose is a rose, after all, by any other name – and his might go down as the most famous “perfect” game of them all. But I didn’t know what a great man he is.

We don’t need instant replay. We need more men like these.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

Michigan first baseman Mike Dufek stepped up to the plate in the tenth inning. The bases were empty, which in this game was rare.

Northwestern had shot out to an early 14-0 lead. We’re not talking football here, folks, but baseball. Then, incredibly, the Wolverines clawed back, run by run, until they tied the game with a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth. That brought Dufek up in the tenth inning, with the game in his hands.

That Dufek had even gotten that far was a story in itself.

His genes surely helped. Mike’s grandfather, Don Dufek, Sr., played football for Michigan. In the 1951 Rose Bowl, against undefeated Cal-Berkeley, Don Sr. ran for two touchdowns in the final six minutes to win the game and the MVP award.

Mike’s uncle, Don Jr., played both hockey and football at Michigan – the last guy to do that. The Red Wings drafted him, and so did the NFL’s Seattle Seahawks, where he played for nine years. Mike’s other uncle, Bill, also played football for Michigan, and signed with the New York Jets.

Mike’s dad, Joe, turned down Michigan for Yale, where he became an All-American as an outfielder and quarterback. He started eight games for the Buffalo Bills, and played several years in the Canadian Football League. Clearly, Mike had the DNA.

He grew up in Scottsdale, where he played quarterback, too, but excelled in baseball. He wanted to play for Michigan in the worst way, but Michigan wasn’t that wild about him. They finally let him walk on – making Mike the first Dufek athlete not actively recruited by the University of Michigan.

Mike’s freshman year, he barely played on the field, and was barely eligible off it. But then Dufek caught fire. Last year, he led the team with 17 home runs – and he’s carried a B-minus average in sociology. This season, his teammates and coaches named him co-captain. He got it.

But Dufek’s home run total dropped from 17 to just five going into Sunday’s game – the game in which they fell behind by a staggering 14-0. If that was absurd, what happened next was positively crazy. The Wolverines scored 14 straight runs to tie the game in the bottom of the ninth, and force extra innings.

So the score was 14-14 when Dufek came to the plate in the bottom of the tenth. A teammate’s father told him “We need you to end it with a homer” – then his coach said the same thing.

The pitcher threw a change-up. Dufek swung – and missed. He moved up a foot in the batter’s box, in the hopes that the pitcher would throw him another change-up – and he did. “As soon as I saw that pitch, I knew I could hit it,” he told me. “And after I hit it, I knew it was gone.”

Boy, was it. It sailed more than 400 feet, far over the fence in centerfield, deep into the pine trees. The Northwestern outfielder punched the fence, incredulous that they had blown a 14-run lead. It finished the biggest comeback in Michigan baseball history, it was bigger than the biggest comeback in Major League history, and it might just be the biggest comeback in the history of college or professional baseball. Anywhere.

Dufek didn’t know all that as he rounded the bases, and he probably wouldn’t have cared. Coming around third base, he threw his helmet away, then jumped into the mob surrounding the plate. He got so many hugs, he was out of breath.

Mike Dufek might not ever play a single game of pro baseball. But he’s got his degree – and at least one memory none of the famous Dufek men can match.

Could be worse.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

Editor’s note: Ernie Harwell died on Tuesday after fighting cancer for nearly a year. He was 92. Portions of this column were published in John U. Bacon’s September 2009 tribute to Harwell.

This past September, the Detroit Tigers’ beloved broadcaster, Ernie Harwell, announced that he had contracted an incurable form of cancer, and would not seek treatment.

For everybody who knew him, or felt like they did – which, really, is just about all of us – it hit hard. We were losing our baseball buddy, our grandfather, our friend.

The only person who didn’t seem shaken by the news was Ernie Harwell. He said, “Whatever’s in store, I’m ready for a new adventure. That’s the way I look at it.”

Harwell was a deeply religious man, but he never wore it on his sleeve. He simply lived it. He was, truly, at peace.

But I was not. Like just about every sports writer who knew him, I felt compelled to write about him.

I wrote about our family trips up north, which were always accompanied by Harwell’s comfortable cadences filling our station wagon. Harwell didn’t simply broadcast baseball games. He turned them into stories. In Harwell’s world, a batter didn’t merely strike out. He was “called out for excessive window shopping,” or “caught standing there like the house by the side of the road.”

Unlike today’s announcers, who prattle on with mindless patter and pointless stats, Harwell treated his listeners to healthy doses of “companionable silences,” something Zen masters refer to as the delicious “space between the notes.” Harwell often said the quiet allowed the listeners to enjoy the sounds of the ballpark itself, which he felt was richer than his own voice. When Harwell called the game, you not only heard the crack of the bat, you heard the peanut vendors.

Harwell was born in Georgia in 1918, a time and a place that valued relaxed conversations on the porch. He grew up listening to Atlanta Crackers games on a crystal radio set. The power of those broadcasts probably hit Harwell more than most. His dad suffered from multiple sclerosis, and rarely left his wheel chair. The highlight of his day was listening to those ball games.

At age 29, Harwell became the Crackers’ play-by-play man. Just two years later, in 1948, Harwell caught the ear of the Brooklyn Dodgers. They were so impressed, they traded their catcher for Harwell, making him the only broadcaster in baseball history to be traded for a player.

Harwell went on to set the record for most games broadcast, including 41 seasons for the Tigers. When Sports Illustrated picked its all-time baseball dream team a few years ago, they included a spot for their favorite radio announcer. They bypassed some real legends – like Mel Allen and Vin Scully and even Red Barber – to tap Harwell, a true Hall of Famer.

He told me Willie Mays was the best player he’s ever seen, that Jackie Robinson was the most courageous, and that a lovable Tigers pitcher named Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, who used to get on his hands and knees to groom the mound, “was probably the most charismatic guy we’ve ever had here in Detroit. A real breath of fresh air.”

In 1997, I was lucky enough to cover spring training for The Detroit News. My first day I was sitting on a bench, watching infield practice, when Ernie Harwell sidled up next to me. We sat there, watching baseball, and chatting like old friends – just the way everyone one of us imagined we already were, listening to him on the radio all those years. He invited me for dinner that night with his wife Lulu. We enjoyed a long talk, and he picked up the tab.

I wrote a story about him nine years ago. On the morning of September 11, 2001, I woke up to the phone ringing. It was Ernie Harwell, calling to thank me for the article. Who does that? That day, of course, soon turned tragic, but Harwell’s little act of humanity will always stand in my mind as such a poignant contrast to everything that followed that day.

A few times over the years, I invited him to call in to a talk show I was hosting. “Just ask,” he always said, “And I’ll come running.”

Eight months ago, I closed my piece by saying, I wish there was something I could do for him now. If he just asked, I’d come running.

I had to deliver that line in the studio a few times before I got through it without getting too choked up. The next morning, after the piece ran, an old friend called to thank me. Who does that? Ernie Harwell, that’s who.

It’s a strange sensation, knowing it’s probably going to be the last time you’ll talk. I kept it short – I didn’t want to be greedy with his time – but I had to tell him how much I appreciated hearing from him. He said, “Well, John, we go back a loooong way. Thanks for the wonderful story. God bless you. Good bye.”

After we hung up, I sat there for a few minutes. We went back about 13 years – not really that long for a man who had friends going back more than a half-century – and I’m sure he read better stories than mine that week alone. But he still took the time to call.

So, thank you, Mr. Harwell, for all the wonderful stories.

God bless you.

Good bye.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

With tax day just past, it’s a good time to ask where our money should go – and where it shouldn’t. I don’t have all the answers, of course – but I’m convinced one expenditure should end immediately: stadium subsidies.

Two years ago, the New York Yankees signed third baseman Alex Rodriguez to a contract that will pay him $275 million dollars in exchange for 10 years of catching, throwing and hitting a baseball. That puts him ahead of his teammate, Derek Jeter, who has to get by on a mere $189 million for his decade of duty. Sucker.

Whenever teams sign contracts like that, the player’s agent always justifies it by saying, “Well, that’s what the market will bear.”

If that were true, it would still be insane, but at least there would be a logic to it. After all, if any team is dumb enough to pay someone that kind of money, and if a family of four wants to pay $200 to see that guy play – well, then, so be it. That’s how free markets work.

But the free market doesn’t come close to paying these guys’ salaries. Who picks up the gap? You do – every time you pay your taxes.

When teams spend money like that, they suddenly realize they need a fancy new stadium with luxury skyboxes to generate the kind of revenue necessary to pay those ridiculous salaries. So, they demand state and local governments build them one – and most of the time, that’s exactly what those states and cities do.

The United States is home to 99 major league baseball, football, basketball and hockey arenas and stadiums. According to Judith Grant Long’s research at Rutgers University, the teams that play in those places have received subsidies totaling $21.3 billion. That’s billion, with a ‘b.’

To pay for the Silverdome, the Palace and Comerica Park, Michigan taxpayers have coughed up $616 million – which is about average.

Rodriguez’s team, the New York Yankees, just built a shiny new stadium for $2.3 billion – and had the nerve to ask the taxpayers to pony up half of that, over a billion dollars. But the Yankees get to keep all the team’s profits, which is how they pay guys like Rodriguez hundreds of millions of dollars to do something your kid does in the backyard for free.

What do the taxpayers get? The bill, that’s what – while New York City’s school system is facing a $4 billion deficit, and a massive layoff of 15,000 teachers.

It doesn’t have to be this way. And, just across the border, it isn’t. Canada is home to eight major league teams. But Canadian taxpayers don’t pay for their stadiums. Their teams do – just like they should – and the taxpayers spend their money on their schools. It’s a novel concept.

Somehow, Canada ranks second worldwide in student literacy, and the U.S. ranks 15th. Fine. But we lead the world in sports salaries. U-S-A! U-S-A!

More good news: Rodriguez is doing just fine, thank you – except for the steroid scandal, that is. He’s already hit two home runs this season, and since he gets paid about $800,000 per homer, he’s already made more than 30 New York City school teachers will this year – combined. Provided, of course, they don’t get laid off.

Taking candy from a baby may be immoral – but taking money from students, and giving it to sports stars, should be illegal.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio; Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism; and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

The first quarter of this year has been filled with endless sports stories about salaries and steroids and sex – and pretty much everything but sports. So I welcome a look back at a time the stakes were real, and the men were equal to the moment.

Well, we’re in luck, because this week marks the anniversary of the most important day in sports: April 15, 1947, when Jackie Robinson made his major league debut.

Even people who don’t know about sports know about Jackie Robinson – and they should. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “Jackie Robinson made it possible for me in the first place. Without him, I would never have been able to do what I did.”

But, without a much less famous man named Branch Rickey, the Brooklyn Dodgers’ president and a University of Michigan law school graduate, Robinson might never have gotten his chance.

At first glance, Rickey was a very unlikely candidate for such an important mission. He was a staunch conservative who hated Franklin Roosevelt, the New Deal and welfare in equal measure. But if you look a little closer, it makes more sense.

Rickey was born in 1881 in Lucasville, Ohio, a hotbed of the abolitionist movement. He went to Ohio Wesleyan, where he coached a baseball team that had a black catcher. When Rickey took his team to South Bend to play Notre Dame, the hotel clerk would not give the catcher a room. After lots of arguing, Rickey told the clerk the player would stay in his room.

Fifty years later, Rickey recalled, “When I got to the room, here was this fine young man sitting there crying and pulling at his hands. I asked him what was wrong. ‘Oh, Mister Rickey,’ he said, ‘it’s my skin. If only I could pull it off everything would be all right.’ All these years I have heard that boy crying.”

After Rickey tried pro baseball – hitting a lukewarm .239 – he enrolled in the University of Michigan law school. But he couldn’t shake the baseball bug, so he managed Michigan’s team on the side.

He tried practicing law, but hated it, and returned to baseball as an executive. Rickey once asked, “why a man trained for the law devotes his life to something so cosmically unimportant as a game?”

One thing is certain: Rickey never treated baseball as just a game. He didn’t just return to it. He reinvented it, twice – first by creating the modern minor league system, which produced the St. Louis Cardinals’ famous Gashouse Gang that won four World Series. Then Rickey moved to Brooklyn, where he finally hatched his plan to change the game – and the country – forever. He still heard that catcher crying.

A few years ago, I had the chance to interview baseball legend Buck O’Neil, who told me, “It took a big man to do what Rickey did. It could have killed Rickey in baseball if this thing had blown up.”

But whom could he find to take on such an incredible task? There were better Negro League ballplayers than Jackie Robinson, and certainly more passive ones. But Rickey said, “I don’t like silent men, when personal liberty is at stake.” Rickey didn’t make the safe choice. He made the bold one – and the best one.

In 1965, Branch Rickey died at age 84. When a reporter called Robinson to pass on the sad news, Robinson fell silent. Finally, he turned to his wife Rachel and said, “Rae, take this call. Mr. Rickey has just died.”

Later, Rachel said, “Rickey needed Jack as much as Jack needed Rickey.”

Baseball great Buck O’Neil agreed. “Don’t ever forget,” he told me. “When you say Jackie Robinson, to say Branch Rickey too, see, because you couldn’t have one without the other.”

We were lucky to have both.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

Almost all of the major league baseball’s 30 teams have moved their spring training camps in the past three decades, and fully half of them now play in Arizona. Stay-at-home stalwarts like the Cincinnati Reds trained in Tampa for 52 years before moving to Plant City in 1988, then to Sarasota a decade later, then finally to Goodyear, Arizona, last year.

Even the Los Angeles Dodgers, who created Dodgertown 62 years ago in Vero Beach to provide a safe haven for Jackie Robinson and other black players, also bolted for Arizona last year.

Baseball teams have been city-swapping their spring training sites like swingers in a – well, a bad movie about swingers, I guess.

In this permissive environment, the Detroit Tigers stand as a pillar of fidelity. Except for three years during World War II, the Tigers have trained in Lakeland, Florida every year since 1934. That’s 74 seasons, by far the longest marriage in the major leagues.

But why Lakeland?

It’s not the nightlife. Hall of Fame broadcaster Ernie Harwell told me when he first started going to Lakeland in 1941, “nothing happened there but morning, noon and night – and sometimes they skipped one of those.”

One important consideration for a major league club is the quality of the training facilities. On that score, Lakeland’s have always ranked among the best in baseball – maybe the very best. And the city treats the team well. When the Tigers need a new bulletin board, it’s the city park workers who install it. The city even celebrates the Tigers with an annual barbeque blow out.

But the real cement behind this rock-solid bond was the relationship forged years ago by former Tigers’ president Jim Campbell and a guy named Joker Marchant. You might have heard of Campbell, but even Tigers fans only know the other name because the Tigers’ spring training site is called Joker Marchant Stadium.

Officially, Joker Marchant was the director of Lakeland’s parks and recreation department for 35 years. Unofficially, he was the “Boss Hog” of the city, getting things done that no one else dared to do.

Marchant was a small guy who walked tall, with a big white Stetson on top. He had a taut body, leathery skin and a deep Southern drawl. He always drove a pick-up truck. His only indulgence was leaving work every day at 5 p.m. to go home and watch re-runs of “Gunsmoke.” Then he’d hop back in his pick-up truck and work some more.

One of his employees told me Marchant would never let you down. He said Marchant’s word was his bond, and Campbell was the same way.

Despite their differences in background, Campbell and Marchant both saw in the other a kindred spirit.

A couple decades ago, the Tigers had a minor league pitcher who brought a huge boa constrictor to spring training. When one of Joker’s workers came to him with the problem, Joker told him to put the snake in an extra room in the cafeteria.

When Campbell heard about the snake he was hotter’n a firecracker. The worker told me Campbell gave him the business up one side and down the other, every expletive in the book and he even threatened to fire him.

Finally the worker said, “Joker said it was okay.” At that, Campbell stared at the young man, clenched his jaw, and simply walked away. The worker had said the only thing that would get him off the hook: Joker said it was okay. That is how close those two were.

Near the end of their long careers, and longer lives, Jim Campbell and Joker Marchant – a famous guy from a big northern city, and a small town parks and rec guy from the south – would sit together every morning in the team’s cafeteria, eat breakfast, and talk about old times.

They had become close friends. As unlikely a partnership as the one they left behind, between the Detroit Tigers and little Lakeland, Florida.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.

John U. Bacon

On Monday, former home run hitter Mark McGwire talked to sports broadcaster Bob Costas in an attempt to restore his good name.

He had a lot of restoring to do.

McGwire was one of those super-sized sluggers who were knocking out home runs at a record rate in the ’90s. And, like his peers – Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa – McGwire was widely rumored to be taking steroids.

In fact, the FBI gave the commissioner of baseball a list of 70 players they discovered were taking steroids, including McGwire – two decades ago. The commissioner, of course, promptly did absolutely nothing, because he was too hooked on the home runs that were saving baseball from itself after he had canceled the 1994 World Series.

And the hits just kept on coming. In 1998, McGwire broke one of the game’s most revered records when he shattered Roger Maris’s old mark of 61 home runs in a season by smashing 70. He was a national hero.

But the gig was up five years ago when McGwire’s former teammate, Jose Conseco Canseco, published a tell-all book in which he named names – including McGwire. You know you’re in a cesspool when the only guy telling the truth, Canseco, is a convicted felon.

Canseco’s book led to a Congressional hearing the same year. When it was McGwire’s turn to testify, he famously said, “I am not here to talk about the past.” Unfortunately, “the past” is usually what Congressional hearings are all about.

It was a public relations disaster. When the Hall of Fame voters turned their ballots in the next year, less than 25% voted for McGwire. A player needs three times that to get in. He’s not done any better since – and now he’s going to help coach the St. Louis Cardinals. He wants a clean slate.

Thus, Monday’s “Hail Mary” interview, in which McGwire said, “It was a mistake.” No, picking the wrong restaurant for dinner is a mistake. Injecting yourself with illegal steroids for fame and fortune is a deal with the devil.

He also said, “I regret I played in the steroids era.” That’s like Bernie Madoff saying, “I regret I was an investor during the Ponzi Scheme era.” Sorry, it doesn’t cut it.

But then, even more absurdly, McGwire said, with a straight face, that he didn’t take steroids to hit more home runs – no! – but for “health purposes.” In other words, we should ignore the fact that his season-high home run total skyrocketed from 49 to 70 – or that he played with the faith of 300 million people, to update The Great Gatsby’s take on the Black Sox scandal.

It seems to me a real confession is marked by sincerity, not self-interest. Its value is directly related to how much the confessor risks by making it.

In McGwire’s case, he fudged so much that it’s hard to call it a confession at all, and he was risking absolutely nothing. Everybody already knew he took steroids, and his chance to be brave about it came and went years ago. We knew he was a fraud as a player. On Monday we learned he’s a fraud as a person, as well. McGwire’s just trying to scam us – again.

If we can apply Kubler-Ross’s stages of grief to McGwire’s mess, we can see he’s gone from stage one, denial, to stage three, bargaining – but he’s still a long way from the final stage, honest acceptance.

And he is just as far from the front doors of Cooperstown.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.