Today I invoke the spirit of the crazy 1970s, the decade when I was weaned on baseball, and when I first met the man who would be my stepdad, James Younger. And I celebrate my new favorite Tiger, southern California son-of-a-fireman, jogger, zen-master, Doug Wildes Fister, who saved the season for the mighty men of Detroit last evening.
Furthermore, though I have absolutely no evidence of this, I like to think that the man from Merced drives to work right down the center of Woodward Avenue, toward the mighty fist of Joe Louis, screeching left at the Fox Theater and into Harwell Stadium, blasting his tunes from behind the wheel of the sexy Tigermobile you see to your left. He smacks the horn and Tom Jones’ “What’s New Pussycat?” roars. If we’re lucky that motherfucker does the hydraulic thing in that beast, disrupting the Rangers’ BP before peeling away, leaving angry batting coaches eating his exhaust.
