(Author’s Note: As epic a sports fan-filled weekend my previous weekend was [read about it here], this past weekend was virtually devoid of any fan-related experiences. So today we share this piece that was published nearly a year ago on my other web presence, Middle-Aged Male Musings. We hope you enjoy!)
… For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land …
From the Bible, Song of Solomon Chapter 2
The verse above was recited – without fail – by longtime Detroit Tigers’ broadcaster, Ernie Harwell, prior to the first pitch of the first spring training game each season.
For Detroiters, hearing the dulcet tones of Harwell utter these words became as much a part of the rites of spring as that rodent in Punxsutawney, PA, making its bold prediction or the madness that is college basketball’s month of March or the arrival of potholes and orange construction barrels in southeastern Michigan.
Ernie’s old team opened its 2023 Grapefruit League season Saturday afternoon in Lakeland, FL, defeating the Philadelphia Phillies, 4-2.
With a new baseball season now officially on deck, it got me remembering the time I spent a morning strolling in the summer sun with two Baseball Hall of Famers: Ernie and then-Tigers’ Manager Sparky Anderson.
It was the summer of 1984 and there never was and, probably, never will be another summer quite like it for Detroit Tigers’ fans – especially if you were a sports-crazed 17-year-old like I was at the time. The team busted out to a 35-5 start after 40 games and never really looked back. The closest anyone came during the season was 3.5 games in mid-June. By mid-July when my encounter occurred, the Tigers were flirting with a 10-game lead.
That summer was my third and final one as a caddie at the Country Club of Detroit. It was a decent summer job and earned me enough to buy the $4.50 Tiger Stadium bleachers’ ticket over a dozen times that year to see my beloved Tigers.
I’m not sure Dennis, our caddie master and the person who awarded loops, was aware of my Tigers’ fandom that late July morning or if he simply wanted to have a solid caddie on the bags (yep, we’d carry doubles on occasion). Whatever the reason, the experience only grows more memorable as the years slip by.
Dennis came strutting out from behind his cage and looked around the caddie room that morning as he was want to do, tapping the bag cards in his left palm, glancing my way, pointing a finger in my directions, and said, “Ehhh, you!”
I looked down to see who I had and it was some CCD member whose name is lost to my memory and “guest.” My buddy Ray got the other two guests in the foursome.
My guest was Alex Grammas whom I knew as the Tigers’ third base coach.
Ray’s two guests, however, left me gobsmacked: Harwell and Anderson.
I would love to report I have vivid memories of all 18 holes and each of the 240 or so minutes I spent in the presence of baseball royalty. Alas, 17-year-old boys – at least this 17-year-old boy – were not opening up a journal each night to record their daily thoughts. (Oh, to have a few moments with my younger self!)
What I do recall, like it was yesterday, was me being the first caddie to reach the green at No. 1. Ernie had already chipped on and one of my players was on the fringe getting ready to putt and they asked me to mark Ernie’s ball. I slid a dime under his ball, put it in my pocket, and gave it to Ray to give to Ernie. When all the players were safely on and Ray had returned Ernie’s golf ball, he put the ball in front of my dime, picked it up, turned to me and said, in that voice I listened to so many times drifting to sleep, “Thank you, very kindly” and flipped me the dime as I was grabbing the flagstick.
Perhaps it’s because Harwell’s voice on my clock radio put me to sleep more times than I can remember as I dozed off listening to games, but I can still – these nearly 39 years later – hear him thanking me! There were 17 more holes to follow and I just sort of floated along soaking up three longtime friends enjoying a good walk spoiled. There was nothing, however, that spoiled my lugging two golf bags around the 7,100-yard layout on an overcast mid-70 degree morning. I was able, for these few hours, to observe this trio enjoy a rather humdrum round of golf during what was an otherwise crazy time in their home city. It afforded me to get an up close and personal experience with a baseball manager whom I idolized as the leader of my early childhood team while I lived in Indiana – Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine. Sparky was, well, Sparky most of the day as I recall. He yucked it up with his longtime confidante Grammas and just seemed to enjoy being free from any spotlight or scrutiny. He and Ernie famously walked every morning while the Tigers were on the road so, in my mind, this walk just included a few other people and some golf clubs and balls.
I’d love to say there are more distinct memories but alas, if any existed they’ve faded as the years have clipped along.
I’d love to say I’m still in touch with Ray and could ring him up to reminisce about these few hours us two teenagers shared with a pair of Detroit’s most famous celebrities that summer of 1984. Sadly, I lost touch with Ray following the caddie banquet that November. (A banquet, by the way, that featured Tigers’ pitcher Milt Wilcox as its guest speaker.)
Instead, I hold close the memories of those few fleeting hours and a handful of realizations that I didn’t fully grasp on that July morning:
- Between the two of them, they’d likely met nearly every Baseball Hall of Famer who played in the 20th Century; I’m only a couple degrees of separation removed from the likes of Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Bob Feller, Willie Mays, and Roberto Clemente!
- For all the gray hair, Sparky was just 50-years-old that day; five years younger than I am right now!
- Ernie had already received the Ford C. Frick Award from the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum (1981). The only active broadcaster to have received it at that time.
Please enjoy Harwell’s speech below from the 1981 Hall of Fame induction ceremony.
