RIP Mr. Tiger

Win or lose, I got them life-long Tigers fans blues — Jeff Daniels

The ball is faded. It has no value, except to me. It was never shellacked or taken care of properly. The dog chewed on it, I played catch with it, showed it off, told the story of how I got all those autographs.

There is a story. But first, a remembrance.

Al Kaline died yesterday. Eighty-five years old. In the middle of a pandemic, he died. Peacefully, at home in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. He had suffered a fall sometime last year and as the late tennis announcer and Boston Globe columnist Bud Collins once lamented shortly before his death, “old age is great, just don’t fall.”

Billy Martin, who played against him and managed him for nearly three seasons, called him “Mr. Perfection.” Never played a single day in the minors. Two days after graduating high school in Baltimore, he was in Philadelphia, a ‘bonus baby,’ as they called those who signed for more than $10,000 in the pre-draft days. 1953. $15,000. Enough to pay off his parents house.

But not enough to live on.

In the offseason, Kaline worked. At a bank. All ‘professional’ athletes of that era worked regular jobs when they weren’t playing. Joe Schmidt, the great linebacker and coach for the Lions, started his own business in the early 60s, Mel Farr became a ‘Superstar,’ as the owner of his groundbreaking car dealership. Other players worked regular jobs, whether you were a Hall of Fame member or not, you worked.