[written and faithfully submitted on 10/24/06, at 1:58pm... six hours before Game 3]
Yes, I was there inside Comerica Park for Game 2. And yes it was loud. No one in the park around me knew anything about the whole PineTarGate thing going on with Kenny Rogers. We noticed a few on-field meetings with the umpires but nothing seemed that far out of the ordinary, at least from my third base line POV.
While I'm on the topic... if I hear one more Cardinal fan make ANY reference to cheating--given the exuberance with shich they celebrated their hero Mark Mcgwire during his "sudden" explosion of home runs--I'll cover him with an unidentified substance. How soon we forget 1998, the year Grape Ape hit 70 dingers. The muscular whisp of an athlete we came to know in Oakland now sported knuckles calloused from dragging on the ground. His back had dreadlocks on it. Though I have a pretty good idea, I don't know for certain what that substance was on Kenny's hand. All i know is, he went into the dugout, washed the whatever-it-was off his palm, then proceeded to throw seven innings of 1-hit ball. Guess he really needed the stuff, huh?
The same eastern Missourians who told us eight years ago--between gulps of Budweiser--that anabolic steroids can't make you hit a curve ball any better, those are the same folks today who--between gulps of Budweiser--point their accusing fingers at the Tigers. They claim the mere residue of washed-off pine tar can dramatically change the direction of the ball. (I'll address this later.) They also call out manager Tony La Rusa as gutless for not going after Rogers when he could. Yeah, that's it. He's too timid to gain an advantage in the World Series. Tony Freaking La Russa. Good angle.
You want to know what I think? Well I'll tell you anyway.
1) Fox had to have tipped off either the umpires or the Cardinals (or both) about Rogers. This has been all but confirmed. One doesn't need but a few dozen active neuron connections to figure out that the network knew of this well before the first pitch. For if they didn't, their split-screen graphic of the substance on Rogers' pitching hand in the ALDS and ALCS would be nothing short of miraculous. What else can we make of these immaculately produced comparasons of a substance on his hand during both the ALDS and the ALCS? You want to tell me they could turn that info around, locate reference video AND do a final broadcast edit in the space of a commercial bed? Three grown, educated men in striped shirts can't even conclude whether a receiver's feet are in bounds in that space of time.
2) That being said, if any people could be referred to as cheaters, it would more likely be those with ties to the Cardinals organization. People who could have shared information. Oooh, I don't know, maybe our Fox friends Mr. Buck (whose daddy was the voice of the St. Louis Cardinals) and Mr. McCarver (who was on the Cards' 1968 roster and caught Game 7... in fact, if memory serves, he actually made the final out of the series). How could even the appearance of this be condoned? When have you ever heard of a broadcast network conspiring with one of the two teams during a league championship, against the other team? it's unprecedented.
3) La Rusa knew of Rogers' substance but may have been waiting for a more opportune time to call him out, should it present itself. In the same way Scotty Bowman just happens to call for referees to measure the curvature of an opponent's hockey stick the moment his team has a critical power-play chance. It's not coincidental. Don't you think the Cardinals' skipper would have loved to be the only one with the knowledge of the opposing pitcher's potentially improper conduct? don't you think he would have relished the chance to have Rogers ejected after, say, the fourth inning? And not simply ejected, but suspended for 10 games by rule, which unless this thing goes 13 games would remove him for the remainder of the series? That, in my opinion, was the hand he would have loved to play. Yet the news broke and spread so quickly that Rogers barely got in a half-inning's work before the hand-slap.
4) I'm not entirely sure La Rusa would dare call Rogers out anyway. At least without knowing his team was clean at the time. The biggest advantage of pine tar (if that is indeed the substance on Rogers' hand) is that it allows a pitcher to keep a grip on the ball in extremely cold weather. It may exaggerate a ball's movement if used in abundance, but its primary purpose is to aid one's control. As John Kruk mentioned during Sunday night's "Baseball Tonight" postgame show, most of the players on the business end of his pitches would just as soon give an opposing pitcher a cold-weather control aid. Because the alternative (getting drilled by errant 90+ mph fastballs) could impact--literally--the balance of their careers. La Rusa knew pitchers on both teams had to be using it in some way. And how could he rightfully call out Rogers when he likely had enough tar in his own bullpen to seal his driveway?
Prediction: The Cards win tonight with last year's Cy Young winner beating Nate Robertson. The Tigers, behind a strong Bondo outing, tie it up at 2 tomorrow night (and Bonderman, after retiring the side in the seventh, will hold up his clean throwing hand for all to see). Verlander comes back stronger than ever, and the kitties' offense awakens as they roar to an impressive win in Game 5. Get ready for the parade, right? Wrong. With the eyes of the galaxy on Rogers, the clean-handed 41-year-old gives up three runs on this night, while his bats only score two. We go to Game 7. As it was 38 years ago, as it should be today. In a move that appears based largely on nostalgia, Leyland gives the start to aging donut-shop owner Mickey Lolich, saying, "If anyone out there knows how to close out the Cardinals, it's the Mickster". Okay, maybe not. But Rogers aside, anyone with an arm is available. Bondo gets the start, Verlander throws two, Zumaya throws two, Robertson, Grilli, Walker, Miller... at three balls for a dollar, you'll all get a chance to dunk the principal, so stop fighting! The Tigers blow it open in the 5th and 6th, as the Cardinals' reserve tank finally peters out. Todd Jones gets the final out, forcing Incarnation to ground out to Inge (the first I-to-I final out in World Series history, incidentally), and the city goes Chernobyl.
I'm not saying this just 'cause I have tickets for Games 6 and 7. Honest.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
THE ALCS: Why can't the Tigers beat the A's too?
[written and shared on 10/10/06, at 6:46pm... 90 minutes before the first pitch of game 1]
After my spot-on ALDS prediction (WHO else had the Tigers in four?), I couldn't just pass on making a call for the ALCS. That'd be like Jim Leyland resting Kenny Rogers for the remainder of the season. Here it is. You need not bother tuning in, because here's how it will go (you can thank me later):
Game 1-- Zito is masterful, and the Tigers' bats are somehow quieter than they were vs. the Yanks. Nate does much better than anyone expects, yet serves up a Home Depot Tape-Measure Shot to Frank Thomas (if they've yet to grab hold of that promotional opportunity, then I will!) and the kitties fall on this star-filled night. Oakland leads the ALCS, 1-0.
Game 2-- As we all know, whenever kitties fall they always land on their feet. So of course the Tigers rebound for a big win. Verlander doesn't last as long as he did in the Bronx, but he's just as effective nonetheless. Zu (spared in game 1) throws two big innings of heat (i even predict he clocks a 104 fastball!) and TJ closes it out. The series is now tied, 1-1, heading for the Brush Street Looney Bin.
Game 3-- The until-recently-nicknamed Coma is anything but. Tonight Comerica Park is loud and proud once again, providing a distinct advantage. However, the setting is far different than what we saw in the ALDS. First of all, our collective bile (a lovely thought) can't possibly reach the rolling boil it hit whenever those bleepin' Yankees were mentioned. Without an A-Rod to ridicule or a Jeter to jeer, the SRO crowd has no choice but to be merely pro-Tiger. And second, this weekend's games will see far more snowball fights in the stands than what we saw in Oakland. Light flurries are accompanied by a temperature that shivers its way toward the freezing point. Fortunately, the harsh elements won't faze our man on the mound, for he is older than snow itself. Kenny Rogers won't duplicate his VVS1-quality gem of an outing in game 3 of the ALDS, but he thows enough junk to back up the bats and bring home a Tiger victory. Look for a big game from Granderson and a huge catch by Monroe. Detroit leads the ALCS, 2-1.
Game 4-- This is the Milton Bradley game. By rule there has to be one per post-season series, and this will be it. Bondo gets pulled early to have a rusted front quarter-panel patched up. Miner and Miller fill in and keep our blessed boys close. But the well-rested and aptly-named Rich Harden throws seven strong innings, Bradley and Jay Payton get three hits apiece, and a furious Detroit late-inning rally falls short (with the bases loaded at that!) as the A's sneak one from the Tigers' paws on this cold Saturday. Suddenly, series is tied at 2... it's best of three again, but now Oakland gets back home field advantage. And for their last game in Detroit, the Tigers will face a rested Barry Zito.
Game 5-- Sixteen hours after being declawed in front of their home crowd, the kitties crawl back onto the Comerica turf. Little do they know they are about to play yet another Detroit Tigers game 5 classic. I fall short of saying Leyland will move Verlander up, but I'm just about there. Anyway, Zito stands tall, though the Tiger bats (particularly Mags and Guillen) punch enough holes to keep the fans' hopes alive. This one goes into the ninth, and our boys are down. They claw and kick and even get plunked, and walk/run the bases till Houston Street serves up the dramatic, series-saving hit to.... to... hmm, someone unexpected.... someone who's shared the pain we've all felt... now who would be the perfect candidate for a game-winning hit? Ah, got it. So the team mobs Inge as he rounds first, then prepares for the west coast. Now up 3-2, and just one win away from the pennant. The pennant!
Game 6-- Detroit jumps to a huge lead, Oakland gets a run here and there and before you know it, the thing's tied going into the tenth. Both teams figure this is THE game to win, and empty their bullpens to prove it. Jamie Walker gives up a double to Chavez to start off the A's 11th, but gets out of the inning with a key DP, leaving him on third. With Justin Duchscherer(er) on the hill, Mighty Casey sends the first pitch he sees deep into the RF stands, and Grilli closes out the A's in order in the bottom of the 12th.
Detroit wins the ALCS, 4-2. The Tigers spill out onto the field. Royal Oak bars spill out onto the streets. The "TigerVision" crowd inside Comerica Park--the dozen or so poor soles who survived the bitter night--leaves out of the same gate, in an attempt to create a spilling effect. And jubilant fans engulf a downtown that four decades ago was engulfed in the riotous flames of racism. When all seemed lost, this never-say-die team just refused to quit, drawing a rightful comparason to the world champions of '68. The similarities don't end there of course... for awaiting them are those same St. Louis Cardinals. And this Cardinals team, like the last one, is making their second World Series appearance in three seasons. With a manager eager to join Sparky Anderson as the only men to win world championships in both leagues. If Tony LaRusa doesn't join him, Jim Leyland will.
This is all beyond belief anyway. Isn't it? Really? They've made it this far. So why can't the Tigers reach the World Series?
After my spot-on ALDS prediction (WHO else had the Tigers in four?), I couldn't just pass on making a call for the ALCS. That'd be like Jim Leyland resting Kenny Rogers for the remainder of the season. Here it is. You need not bother tuning in, because here's how it will go (you can thank me later):
Game 1-- Zito is masterful, and the Tigers' bats are somehow quieter than they were vs. the Yanks. Nate does much better than anyone expects, yet serves up a Home Depot Tape-Measure Shot to Frank Thomas (if they've yet to grab hold of that promotional opportunity, then I will!) and the kitties fall on this star-filled night. Oakland leads the ALCS, 1-0.
Game 2-- As we all know, whenever kitties fall they always land on their feet. So of course the Tigers rebound for a big win. Verlander doesn't last as long as he did in the Bronx, but he's just as effective nonetheless. Zu (spared in game 1) throws two big innings of heat (i even predict he clocks a 104 fastball!) and TJ closes it out. The series is now tied, 1-1, heading for the Brush Street Looney Bin.
Game 3-- The until-recently-nicknamed Coma is anything but. Tonight Comerica Park is loud and proud once again, providing a distinct advantage. However, the setting is far different than what we saw in the ALDS. First of all, our collective bile (a lovely thought) can't possibly reach the rolling boil it hit whenever those bleepin' Yankees were mentioned. Without an A-Rod to ridicule or a Jeter to jeer, the SRO crowd has no choice but to be merely pro-Tiger. And second, this weekend's games will see far more snowball fights in the stands than what we saw in Oakland. Light flurries are accompanied by a temperature that shivers its way toward the freezing point. Fortunately, the harsh elements won't faze our man on the mound, for he is older than snow itself. Kenny Rogers won't duplicate his VVS1-quality gem of an outing in game 3 of the ALDS, but he thows enough junk to back up the bats and bring home a Tiger victory. Look for a big game from Granderson and a huge catch by Monroe. Detroit leads the ALCS, 2-1.
Game 4-- This is the Milton Bradley game. By rule there has to be one per post-season series, and this will be it. Bondo gets pulled early to have a rusted front quarter-panel patched up. Miner and Miller fill in and keep our blessed boys close. But the well-rested and aptly-named Rich Harden throws seven strong innings, Bradley and Jay Payton get three hits apiece, and a furious Detroit late-inning rally falls short (with the bases loaded at that!) as the A's sneak one from the Tigers' paws on this cold Saturday. Suddenly, series is tied at 2... it's best of three again, but now Oakland gets back home field advantage. And for their last game in Detroit, the Tigers will face a rested Barry Zito.
Game 5-- Sixteen hours after being declawed in front of their home crowd, the kitties crawl back onto the Comerica turf. Little do they know they are about to play yet another Detroit Tigers game 5 classic. I fall short of saying Leyland will move Verlander up, but I'm just about there. Anyway, Zito stands tall, though the Tiger bats (particularly Mags and Guillen) punch enough holes to keep the fans' hopes alive. This one goes into the ninth, and our boys are down. They claw and kick and even get plunked, and walk/run the bases till Houston Street serves up the dramatic, series-saving hit to.... to... hmm, someone unexpected.... someone who's shared the pain we've all felt... now who would be the perfect candidate for a game-winning hit? Ah, got it. So the team mobs Inge as he rounds first, then prepares for the west coast. Now up 3-2, and just one win away from the pennant. The pennant!
Game 6-- Detroit jumps to a huge lead, Oakland gets a run here and there and before you know it, the thing's tied going into the tenth. Both teams figure this is THE game to win, and empty their bullpens to prove it. Jamie Walker gives up a double to Chavez to start off the A's 11th, but gets out of the inning with a key DP, leaving him on third. With Justin Duchscherer(er) on the hill, Mighty Casey sends the first pitch he sees deep into the RF stands, and Grilli closes out the A's in order in the bottom of the 12th.
Detroit wins the ALCS, 4-2. The Tigers spill out onto the field. Royal Oak bars spill out onto the streets. The "TigerVision" crowd inside Comerica Park--the dozen or so poor soles who survived the bitter night--leaves out of the same gate, in an attempt to create a spilling effect. And jubilant fans engulf a downtown that four decades ago was engulfed in the riotous flames of racism. When all seemed lost, this never-say-die team just refused to quit, drawing a rightful comparason to the world champions of '68. The similarities don't end there of course... for awaiting them are those same St. Louis Cardinals. And this Cardinals team, like the last one, is making their second World Series appearance in three seasons. With a manager eager to join Sparky Anderson as the only men to win world championships in both leagues. If Tony LaRusa doesn't join him, Jim Leyland will.
This is all beyond belief anyway. Isn't it? Really? They've made it this far. So why can't the Tigers reach the World Series?
THE ALDS: How and why the Tigers will shock the baseball world
[written and shared 10/3/06, at 7:18pm... an hour before the first pitch of game 1]
To quote Ben Crenshaw the night before the final day of the 1999 Ryder Cup (while waving my finger like he did), "I'm a big believer in fate. I've got a good feeling about this. That's all I've got to say."
You guys will probably think I'm off my John Rocker here, but I believe the Tigers are going to take it in four. In four! So how could I arrive at such an outlandish prediction? Here's how:
1) NOBODY thinks they can win this series. Which is perfect.
2) They're all of 2 games behind the Yankees in the win-loss column, so there's no great divide in terms of each team's record.
3) They've won more road games than any other team this season (49, or six more than the entire 2003 season--home AND away).
4) Forget the mystique. The Yankees are in the midst of a six-year, millenium-long title slump. They've lost the World Series to the likes of the Arizona Diamondbacks and Florida Marlins. They were up on the Red Sox three games to zero, having won game 3 with a 19-run explosion, and proceeded to lose four straight. It's a string of futility long enough to fuel suspicion that maybe there's something more to it. Something more justifiable than goats or 80-year-old trades.
5) They have The Marlboro Man, manager Jim Leyland (see photo, taken by yours truly). Leyland is the key to all of this. He, being of sane mind, risked a division title so he could rest his pitchers for the playoffs. Don't underestimate that. It didn't seem possible that his young horses would get swept by a team they'd already beaten 14 out of 16 times. But then, people lose poker hands with straights too. In games of chance nothing is certain. I myself would have put money down--eagerly--on the Tigers winning at least one of the three games. Yet as long as those odds were, they're a Tiger Woods tap-in compared to Detroit's three-year rise from baseball's abyss.
How soon we forget. Travel back to October 2003. The Tigers had just wrapped up a 43-119 season, the worst in American League history. Let's say, right then and there, you were to throw down $1,000 on that disgrace of a team making the playoffs thirty-six months later. In minutes you'd see a long line of takers, all wanting a piece of your action. And that's just the local clergy. Who knew then that from the top down, from Mr. I to their single-A farm club, the organization would commit itself to winning from that point forward? For the finishing touch, they replaced local hero Alan Trammell (who deserves a share of the credit for this season's success) with a chain-smoking, straight-shooting genius. They let go of a piece of their glorious past, so they may taste glory once again. The irony sure is delicious.
Yes, Leyland's decision to pull a few key players from the season's final weekend looks bad now. But let's wait till the hand's over before we make our final judgement. It's not that the gamble didn't pay off; it's just that it hasn't paid off yet. And I have this Captain Ben feeling that in the end, it will. After all, Leyland had enough confidence in his young staff to leave Mike Moroth off of the playoff roster. Hmm. What if the old man really does know what he's doing after all? Show of hands... who thought last March he'd wind up winning 95 games and we'd be talking playoffs right now? Exactly. Coach has been at this for awhile. He started in the Tigers farm system back in 1963. As a manager, he beat a better team than the 2006 Yankees (the '97 Indians) with a group less talented than this year's Tigers (the '97 Marlins), to win a World Series trophy in 1997. The Yankees, particularly this year's version, don't scare him.
Okay. Here's what I think. I think they split in the Bronx and take the next two at the Coma. I don't see them beating Wang in Yankee Stadium, but they could easily get to Mussina in the middle innings and hang on for the win. They then rock Randy Johnson off the mound in game 3 before closing it out with a dramatic late-inning homer on Saturday. I see Monroe sending that soon-to-be-historic pitch into the jubilant left-field bleachers. The Tigers will celebrate at home plate, then get ready for the next series nobody picks them to win.
Sound like a plan?
A BREAK WITH TRADITION: Wolverines refuse to follow example set by Wolverines
[written and shared on 9/18/06]
They call themselves college students? America’s brightest and best? Yeah right. They can’t even follow a simple script.
The setting hadn’t changed for the Michigan Wolverines. It was the first road game of the season. And the location seemed familiar enough. South Bend, Indiana. The same South Bend from which their school had not returned victorious since 1994. Remember 1994? Bill Clinton’s first term? The year before the internet became available to the populace? Yes, that long ago.
All these educated young minds were expected to do was what those before them had done. Show up, play tight and tentative, worry about failing instead of succeeding and, ultimately, fail. Yet they looked like they had no idea what it meant to be a University of Michigan football team in the third millennium, throttling the second-ranked Notre Dame Fighting Irish, 47-21, before 80,000 stunned expressions.
Weren’t any of these young balls of clay paying attention? They were supposed to let last week’s annual Mid-American Conference exhibition (in this case, a sleepwalk win over Central Michigan) soften them for defeat seven days later. Just like it had six previous times in the Lloyd Carr era. Since 1995 Michigan has scheduled nine MAC teams for demolition; despite their perfect record over the weaker conference, their combined record in these two-game stretches is a not-so-impressive 12-6.
The kids seemed to understand early on, as they stormed to an impressive first-quarter lead. A performance so dominant, it was safe to assume they had done their history homework on this series. For example, 1998. Michigan owned the first half yet only led 13-0 at the break. The Irish went Yost on them over the final 30 minutes, scoring 36 and ruining the Wolverines’ hopes for a national championship defense.
This year they even added a new wrinkle and took it up a notch, swelling the score to a seemingly insurmountable 34-7 count (limiting the Notre Dame offense to a single first down in the process). Nice touch. A 27-point collapse would add a new chapter to this newfound tradition. We even had a foreshadowing taste of the impending devastation in the half’s waning moments. The Wolverines hit the locker room a minute early, allowing quarterback Brady Quinn to trot the Irish effortlessly down the field and cut the lead to a very reachable 20 at intermission.
You knew it. I knew it. The volunteers at the Dippin’ Dots stand knew it. According to script, Michigan’s second-half offense would have all the potency of an internet-dating senior citizen. The Wolverine defense would sit back, daring Quinn to throw 10-to-15-yard passes, all the way down the field if necessary. And, at the worst possible moment, they’d serve up a plot-twisting turnover to seal their fate. A halftime PA announcement even cautioned delirious Irish fans from storming onto the field after the game. Clearly, we were all on the same page.
But this year, unlike 2005, Michigan wasn’t satisfied with less than a full game’s worth of effort. This time they didn’t mail it in as they had before. They tossed the tired screenplay aside and wrote a new one, an action-adventure epic built around a character by the name of Ron English. Instead of calling off the dogs (or weasels, to be accurate), then sitting back and watching the clock tick its way down, English’s new attack-style defense continued its day-long assault on the Notre Dame offensive line. The Wolverines hurried, harassed and hamstrung Quinn, hushing the monolithic student body in the old stadium’s northwest corner.
The quarterback who seemed a natural fit for the role of Guest of Honor at the Downtown Athletic Club, wore sod in his helmet much of the half. Prescott Burgess, who grabbed a deflected Quinn pass in stride moments after the F-16 flyover and put the first points on the board just 41 seconds in, bookended one memorable pick with another, this time returning it to the Irish five. And Lamar Woodley, terror of terrors, whose eyes Quinn still sees between nocturnal twitches, snatched the Irish's final mistake off the manicured Indiana fescue and lumbered into the end zone in the game’s final minute.
By then the Notre Dame faithful, their painted faces smeared with blue, green and gold tears, had already left the building, pausing at the tunnel for one last disbelieving glance at the scoreboard. From my angle, Touchdown Jesus stood to the right of it, his arms extended outward as if to say, “What just happened?”
The bi-annual story the Irish once knew by heart had been rewritten by a young improv group of Wolverines determined to try something fresh and new. This time there’s more action and a whole different ending. And this time, it runs a full 60 minutes.
# # # # # # #
They call themselves college students? America’s brightest and best? Yeah right. They can’t even follow a simple script.
The setting hadn’t changed for the Michigan Wolverines. It was the first road game of the season. And the location seemed familiar enough. South Bend, Indiana. The same South Bend from which their school had not returned victorious since 1994. Remember 1994? Bill Clinton’s first term? The year before the internet became available to the populace? Yes, that long ago.
All these educated young minds were expected to do was what those before them had done. Show up, play tight and tentative, worry about failing instead of succeeding and, ultimately, fail. Yet they looked like they had no idea what it meant to be a University of Michigan football team in the third millennium, throttling the second-ranked Notre Dame Fighting Irish, 47-21, before 80,000 stunned expressions.
Weren’t any of these young balls of clay paying attention? They were supposed to let last week’s annual Mid-American Conference exhibition (in this case, a sleepwalk win over Central Michigan) soften them for defeat seven days later. Just like it had six previous times in the Lloyd Carr era. Since 1995 Michigan has scheduled nine MAC teams for demolition; despite their perfect record over the weaker conference, their combined record in these two-game stretches is a not-so-impressive 12-6.
The kids seemed to understand early on, as they stormed to an impressive first-quarter lead. A performance so dominant, it was safe to assume they had done their history homework on this series. For example, 1998. Michigan owned the first half yet only led 13-0 at the break. The Irish went Yost on them over the final 30 minutes, scoring 36 and ruining the Wolverines’ hopes for a national championship defense.
This year they even added a new wrinkle and took it up a notch, swelling the score to a seemingly insurmountable 34-7 count (limiting the Notre Dame offense to a single first down in the process). Nice touch. A 27-point collapse would add a new chapter to this newfound tradition. We even had a foreshadowing taste of the impending devastation in the half’s waning moments. The Wolverines hit the locker room a minute early, allowing quarterback Brady Quinn to trot the Irish effortlessly down the field and cut the lead to a very reachable 20 at intermission.
You knew it. I knew it. The volunteers at the Dippin’ Dots stand knew it. According to script, Michigan’s second-half offense would have all the potency of an internet-dating senior citizen. The Wolverine defense would sit back, daring Quinn to throw 10-to-15-yard passes, all the way down the field if necessary. And, at the worst possible moment, they’d serve up a plot-twisting turnover to seal their fate. A halftime PA announcement even cautioned delirious Irish fans from storming onto the field after the game. Clearly, we were all on the same page.
But this year, unlike 2005, Michigan wasn’t satisfied with less than a full game’s worth of effort. This time they didn’t mail it in as they had before. They tossed the tired screenplay aside and wrote a new one, an action-adventure epic built around a character by the name of Ron English. Instead of calling off the dogs (or weasels, to be accurate), then sitting back and watching the clock tick its way down, English’s new attack-style defense continued its day-long assault on the Notre Dame offensive line. The Wolverines hurried, harassed and hamstrung Quinn, hushing the monolithic student body in the old stadium’s northwest corner.
The quarterback who seemed a natural fit for the role of Guest of Honor at the Downtown Athletic Club, wore sod in his helmet much of the half. Prescott Burgess, who grabbed a deflected Quinn pass in stride moments after the F-16 flyover and put the first points on the board just 41 seconds in, bookended one memorable pick with another, this time returning it to the Irish five. And Lamar Woodley, terror of terrors, whose eyes Quinn still sees between nocturnal twitches, snatched the Irish's final mistake off the manicured Indiana fescue and lumbered into the end zone in the game’s final minute.
By then the Notre Dame faithful, their painted faces smeared with blue, green and gold tears, had already left the building, pausing at the tunnel for one last disbelieving glance at the scoreboard. From my angle, Touchdown Jesus stood to the right of it, his arms extended outward as if to say, “What just happened?”
The bi-annual story the Irish once knew by heart had been rewritten by a young improv group of Wolverines determined to try something fresh and new. This time there’s more action and a whole different ending. And this time, it runs a full 60 minutes.
# # # # # # #
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