A hero once more
By Ken Amos
Senior Editor
THE SPORTING NEWS
Knee-deep in lawsuits and lawyers, worn down by nouveau riche free agents and their envious, unfree, unhappy and unsigned teammates, laden with failing franchises and chipped at by ever-rising costs, baseball at least had ONE positive symbol left; one chunk of mythology that still lived and breathed, and by virtue of its singularity, stands above the ambient bull----.
It may sound for all the world like 1996, but the time described in this passage from the baseball tome, No Big Deal, was a magical stretch of 1976 that belonged exclusively to Mark Steven Fidrych, perhaps the most animated pitcher the game has known. Little did the 6-foot-3-inch bundle of nervous energy, referred to then and now as "The Bird," know he would be enjoying his only season in the sun, soon to be followed by several summers filled with injuries, frustrations and unfulfilled dreams.
Twenty years ago, Fidrych, a gangly man-child from Northboro, Mass., charged up, strutted around and played a meticulous game of patty-cake with the dusty mounds inside mostly dilapidated monuments of metal posing as ballparks throughout the American League landscape.
Gerald Ford was president, a 29-year-old Bill Clinton still had not inhaled and Bob Dole, well, Bob Dole was younger.
The country was in the midst of a raucous bicentennial celebration, replete with fireworks, festivities and a flotilla of tall ships in New York harbor. But it was in Detroit, firmly in the grip of an Industrial Age meltdown, that a strong-armed equivalent of Joe Hardy in Damn Yankees — a flash in the pan, a human beanstalk — would capture the collective imagination of America.
Nobody does it like The Bird
Fidrych's All-Star year — 19 wins and 2.34 ERA — will stand as eternal testament to his mound mastery. But it was his disarming antics — the way he used to personally congratulate teammates while on the field for making dazzling plays behind him, the steady stream of bubble-gum bursts between pitches; and, some say, the way he had of passionately imploring baseballs to sail straight and true just before serving them up — his utterly charming, boyish characteristics that were to become his legacy.
He was Bullwinkle, Underdog and the Aqua Velva Man wrapped into one ever-smiling loaf of boyish "Gee Whiz." He seemed to savor each pitch, his new-found celebrity status and his then-lofty $16,000 major league salary.
Where have you gone . . .
It may sound strange, kids, but baseball once was our national pastime. Your fathers could be found in droves on diamonds, playing "hot box" in backyards, or simply dreaming big league dreams. There was the Game of the Week on NBC and Monday Night Baseball on ABC. And both networks clamored to have Fidrych as their armchair drawing card.
Today's youth know little of this country's fading passion for the sport, much less anything about The Bird, a moniker Fidrych says he picked up in the lowest rungs of the minors because of his striking resemblance to Big Bird of Sesame Street fame.
Although the national spotlight has long since dimmed, these days Fidrych still is smiling broadly and charming those who remember him. He also is reaching out to those with nary a clue about The Bird. With golden ringlets of hair cascading around his boyish face, Fidrych was most at ease in worn T-shirts and faded jeans in a time of leisure suits, platform shoes and disco duds.
Fidrych, the businessman, hopes a new coloring book--the brainchild of Rosemary Lonborg, wife of former Red Sox ace Jim Lonborg — will bring his illustrious 1976 season back into tack-sharp focus. (An autographed copy may be obtained for $6 by contacting Fidco Corporation, Box 1072, Northboro, MA 01532.)
Not long ago, Fidrych had to back his tractor and a friend's '57 Chevy out of his garage in order to take delivery of palette after palette of the finished product. "(Then) I actually got in my car and started driving around to different book stores, (asking) `Would you put this in your store?'" he recounts after meeting with varying success. He adds that "it's going to be a nice winter project" serving as the book's distributor in addition to his job hauling asphalt and gravel using his 10-wheeler, his speaking engagements and his fund-raising projects.
Out of sight, never out of mind
Consumed of these endeavors, Fidrych says he has little time to keep up with today's game or its "businesslike" players. You can sense he misses the daily camaraderie of friends and former teammates like Mickey Stanley, Bill Freehan, Rusty Staub and John Hiller. But his excitable demeanor especially is on display when the subject turns to his fans.
"I'm lucky because, when I go to Detroit, or basically anywhere, when people recognize me they ask, 'How's it going? What's your life like?' " he says. "They're always very, very concerned. That, to me, is like, Wow! A person who saw me 20 years ago is actually concerned. They want to know how Mark is doing. What a great feeling to have. I don't know if other ballplayers can have that feeling."
Fidrych carefully sifts through his emotions and comes away talking about the private thoughts he has each time he visits the Motor City — his most recent stop was for a book-signing appearance. "When I'm on the plane ... I get goose bumps thinking about the games I played," he says, "thinking about what I did, how much fun I had, how much sadness I had and how much joy I have again."
Although his interests are diverse, he ponders a question about someday finding another niche in organized baseball. Fidrych turns pragmatist, explaining how circumstances and opportunity may not find him.
But he asks no favors. He harbors no grudges.
Borrowing from a passage about The Bird in the coloring book, Fidrych says, "Whatever you do, just do it with joy."
He pauses, then says, "You know, Mark Fidrych is a lucky guy."
Senior Editor
THE SPORTING NEWS
Knee-deep in lawsuits and lawyers, worn down by nouveau riche free agents and their envious, unfree, unhappy and unsigned teammates, laden with failing franchises and chipped at by ever-rising costs, baseball at least had ONE positive symbol left; one chunk of mythology that still lived and breathed, and by virtue of its singularity, stands above the ambient bull----.
It may sound for all the world like 1996, but the time described in this passage from the baseball tome, No Big Deal, was a magical stretch of 1976 that belonged exclusively to Mark Steven Fidrych, perhaps the most animated pitcher the game has known. Little did the 6-foot-3-inch bundle of nervous energy, referred to then and now as "The Bird," know he would be enjoying his only season in the sun, soon to be followed by several summers filled with injuries, frustrations and unfulfilled dreams.
Twenty years ago, Fidrych, a gangly man-child from Northboro, Mass., charged up, strutted around and played a meticulous game of patty-cake with the dusty mounds inside mostly dilapidated monuments of metal posing as ballparks throughout the American League landscape.
Gerald Ford was president, a 29-year-old Bill Clinton still had not inhaled and Bob Dole, well, Bob Dole was younger.
The country was in the midst of a raucous bicentennial celebration, replete with fireworks, festivities and a flotilla of tall ships in New York harbor. But it was in Detroit, firmly in the grip of an Industrial Age meltdown, that a strong-armed equivalent of Joe Hardy in Damn Yankees — a flash in the pan, a human beanstalk — would capture the collective imagination of America.
Nobody does it like The Bird
Fidrych's All-Star year — 19 wins and 2.34 ERA — will stand as eternal testament to his mound mastery. But it was his disarming antics — the way he used to personally congratulate teammates while on the field for making dazzling plays behind him, the steady stream of bubble-gum bursts between pitches; and, some say, the way he had of passionately imploring baseballs to sail straight and true just before serving them up — his utterly charming, boyish characteristics that were to become his legacy.
He was Bullwinkle, Underdog and the Aqua Velva Man wrapped into one ever-smiling loaf of boyish "Gee Whiz." He seemed to savor each pitch, his new-found celebrity status and his then-lofty $16,000 major league salary.
Where have you gone . . .
It may sound strange, kids, but baseball once was our national pastime. Your fathers could be found in droves on diamonds, playing "hot box" in backyards, or simply dreaming big league dreams. There was the Game of the Week on NBC and Monday Night Baseball on ABC. And both networks clamored to have Fidrych as their armchair drawing card.
Today's youth know little of this country's fading passion for the sport, much less anything about The Bird, a moniker Fidrych says he picked up in the lowest rungs of the minors because of his striking resemblance to Big Bird of Sesame Street fame.
Although the national spotlight has long since dimmed, these days Fidrych still is smiling broadly and charming those who remember him. He also is reaching out to those with nary a clue about The Bird. With golden ringlets of hair cascading around his boyish face, Fidrych was most at ease in worn T-shirts and faded jeans in a time of leisure suits, platform shoes and disco duds.
Fidrych, the businessman, hopes a new coloring book--the brainchild of Rosemary Lonborg, wife of former Red Sox ace Jim Lonborg — will bring his illustrious 1976 season back into tack-sharp focus. (An autographed copy may be obtained for $6 by contacting Fidco Corporation, Box 1072, Northboro, MA 01532.)
Not long ago, Fidrych had to back his tractor and a friend's '57 Chevy out of his garage in order to take delivery of palette after palette of the finished product. "(Then) I actually got in my car and started driving around to different book stores, (asking) `Would you put this in your store?'" he recounts after meeting with varying success. He adds that "it's going to be a nice winter project" serving as the book's distributor in addition to his job hauling asphalt and gravel using his 10-wheeler, his speaking engagements and his fund-raising projects.
Out of sight, never out of mind
Consumed of these endeavors, Fidrych says he has little time to keep up with today's game or its "businesslike" players. You can sense he misses the daily camaraderie of friends and former teammates like Mickey Stanley, Bill Freehan, Rusty Staub and John Hiller. But his excitable demeanor especially is on display when the subject turns to his fans.
"I'm lucky because, when I go to Detroit, or basically anywhere, when people recognize me they ask, 'How's it going? What's your life like?' " he says. "They're always very, very concerned. That, to me, is like, Wow! A person who saw me 20 years ago is actually concerned. They want to know how Mark is doing. What a great feeling to have. I don't know if other ballplayers can have that feeling."
Fidrych carefully sifts through his emotions and comes away talking about the private thoughts he has each time he visits the Motor City — his most recent stop was for a book-signing appearance. "When I'm on the plane ... I get goose bumps thinking about the games I played," he says, "thinking about what I did, how much fun I had, how much sadness I had and how much joy I have again."
Although his interests are diverse, he ponders a question about someday finding another niche in organized baseball. Fidrych turns pragmatist, explaining how circumstances and opportunity may not find him.
But he asks no favors. He harbors no grudges.
Borrowing from a passage about The Bird in the coloring book, Fidrych says, "Whatever you do, just do it with joy."
He pauses, then says, "You know, Mark Fidrych is a lucky guy."
