Mark Fidrych Remembered (8/14/54-4/13/09)
Yankee classic from June 2001
The faint scent of sheep manure drifts up into this otherwise spotless kitchen in Northborough, Massachusetts. Pulling on well-worn brown duck coveralls, Mark Fidrych is on his way to the barn, where one of his ewes is about to give birth. On the island counter, beside a bottle of Gatorade, a small stack of mail waits to be taken to the post office. He stops briefly to explain the letters, which come in every day from fans who remember that one year. 1976, which for Mark and the Detroit Tigers, represents perhaps the briefest, most spectacular pitching career in the history of baseball. It was 25 years ago. He touches the stack with the tip of a long finger. “Yeah,” he says. ”I’m a lucky guy.”
Patches, his five-year-old springer spaniel, hops up into the cab of the red Ford pickup, and Mark follows. He is 46 now, the famous curly mop of hair trimmed down to a manageable frizz. And he is huskier than when he played. Six-foot-three but a stringbean then, maybe too slight to throw 93-mile-per-hour fastballs and sliders over and over and over. Once he pitched back-to-back 11-inning complete games. Another game he threw 156 pitches. Too many, maybe. Maybe that’s what did his arm in. He sometimes thinks that. When he ended his career, it was the rotator cuff, torn front and back. Doctors could fix that now. But they didn’t know how to then. He pitched until he literally couldn’t throw any longer.
“And if I had taken the season off, they tell me now, it might have been OK. But for me, it was like, you don’t stop, you keep going. I didn’t go to college. I had a high school diploma and all I could think of was, I’ve got this, this is a great life. I’ve got a job doing something I like! Maybe the pain will go away, maybe it’s just tendonitis. I figured, if I took time off, you don’t know what will happen.”
Starting when he was a kid in high School, Mark has never known what was going to happen. It was one day in 1974 when a scout for the Detroit Tigers spotted Mark playing on his high school ball field in Worcester. Mark was 19 years old. A few days after he graduated, the scout knocked on his screen door. In his hand he had a contract he wanted Mark to sign, to pitch for the Tigers. “That’s when my life changed,” he says now. “Everything changed.”
At the beginning Mark lingered in the minors for an entire month after he was drafted, never once getting to the mound. “My buddy, Melvyn Ray, was sitting in the dugout with me, telling me not to get depressed. He says. ‘I’ve been around for two years, and I’m still here. You’ll get your chance. But, listen, you got to change the way you think. You see that starter up there right now?’ And I says, ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well, you better be sitting here right now praying that he flubs up.’ And I says, ‘I can’t do that! We’re a team!’ And he says. ‘But Mark, if he doesn’t flub up, you’ll never get up there. Don’t think of it as bad, because when he flubs up and you get out there, don’t you think I’ll be sitting here praying that you flub up so I can get out there and show my talent?’ ”
Just like a script, the pitcher on the mound gets himself into trouble. The phone in the dugout rings, and Mark is told to start warming up. His buddy Mel turns to him and says. “All right, Mark, now’s your time! Show them what you can do!”
In time he showed the Tigers that he was ready for the big leagues, and at age 21 Mark “The Bird,” the man who talked to the Ball, was blasted into the living rooms of unsuspecting Americans. Women, especially women, started watching baseball for the first time. His elastic rotations, the elated pirouettes, the way he would dance out across the field to congratulate his teammates after a good play, all those little things that no one had ever seen a ballplayer do before became etched in America’s consciousness. For one flickering moment in time, The Bird became a household name.
When Mark tells the story of his brief and legendary career, he doesn’t talk about this or about winning 19 games as a rookie. He doesn’t mention the All Stars or Rookie of the Year or the fact that he was the only baseball player ever to have been on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. He doesn’t tell about that indelible June night when the Detroit fans, 50.000 of them-on their feet screaming, refused to leave the stadium until he came back out onto the field, flanked by police officers, and waved back to them.