During my first year as a full-time sports writer for The Anderson Herald (Anderson, Indiana), I spent an afternoon with Mark "The Bird" Fidrych.
Well, sort of.
Fidrych, the 1976 Major League Baseball Rookie of the Year, and All-Star pitcher for the Detroit Tigers, made a name for himself for his on-field routines of talking to the baseball and grooming the mound during the game. He earned the nickname "The Bird" for his resemblance to Big Bird on Sesame Street.
He was an instant baseball celebrity, but he tore cartilage in his knee goofing off in spring training in 1977 and later learned he had a torn rotator cuff (although it wasn't repaired until 1985).
In 1980, Fidrych was sent to the minors to pitch for the Evansville Triplets (a AAA minor league team). That summer, during a road game against the Indianapolis Indians, I went to Bush Stadium to see if Fidrych would answer a few questions for this aspiring sports writer.
Fat chance.
I followed him around the locker room.
I sat next to him at his locker.
I waited while he took a shower (that seemed like an hour).
I listened to him talk to other players.
He never looked at me. Never talked to me. Never asked my questions. He didn't acknowledge I was even being a pest.
However, my spirit wasn't totally crushed. At least manager Jim Leyland (yes, THE Jim Leyland who later managed Florida to a World Series title) talked to me about Fidrych's comeback.
Still, I didn't give up on an opportunity to talk to The Bird.
I followed him into the dugout and onto the baseball field. I watched him run a few sprints and toss a few baseballs.
"You're not giving up, are you?" Fidrych said. "Five minutes. Now."
That five-minutes of interviewing Fidrych turned into 30 minutes. I rattled off every stupid question I could think of. Most, of course, about baseball; his comeback; life in the minor leagues and then the usual boring fare that included "what do you do when you're not preparing for a game" to which Fidrych replied "answer questions from sports writers."
As other sports writers started to arrive at the ball park, he told that he was finished (thank God because I was making up questions). I thanked him and drove back to Anderson, Indiana to write my story.
This past Sunday, on Easter, Mark Fidrych, 54, died of an apparent accident on his farm in Massachusetts.
I'll never forget the time he allowed me during that hot Monday afternoon in Indianapolis to talk to me about his comeback (probably questions he's heard from a hundred other sports writers, I'm sure).
Fidrych did make a comeback with Detroit, but was later released. He tried again with the Boston Red Sox, but only played in the minor leagues until deciding to retire at the age of 29.
Thanks Mark.
RIP.
