back, playing third base. Brian knew he was ready for it even though all he’d done was DH so far, having watched Hank take ground balls at third every single day during batting practice. He had even seen him take grounders at first, breaking in a brand-new first baseman’s mitt, a surprise just because Brian knew without looking it up that Hank had never played a game at first base in his entire professional career.
The bigger surprise? Being in the field was something that seemed to make Hank happy. Brian would stop and watch him during practice making one clean, smooth pickup after another, making one sure throw after another across the diamond. And those simple actions would actually make him smile sometimes, even get him to engage in a little light trash talk, nothing heavy, with Willie Vazquez, the king of trash talk with the Tigers.
“Ooooh, Mr. Hank Bishop,” Brian had heard Willie say today after Hank had backhanded a ball behind third and fired a strike across to Bobby Moore at first. “I didn’t know your arm was still so strong and powerful.”
And Hank had said, “Compared with your rag arm? Yeah, I guess mine would look powerful.”
Willie had laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, then laughed again a few minutes later when Hank ranged way to his left and cut in front of Willie to pick up a grounder that was practically in Willie’s glove. But instead of throwing to Bobby Moore, Hank just took the ball out of his glove and, in what seemed to be one slick motion, went behind his back with it to Willie, who had the presence to barehand the ball and gun it to Bobby himself.
The two of them high-fived each other and, watching from the dugout, Brian thought that maybe these few minutes were the start of something. That maybe going back in the field tonight might make Hank feel more like the player he used to be.
It was almost a rough beginning, though. He nearly booted a ball in the top of the first when the ball caught the edge of the grass before the infield turned to dirt. The ball jumped on Hank, came up and caught the heel of his glove, falling in front of him. But he was able to grab it with his bare hand and make what Brian thought was a pretty amazing throw and to get the runner by a step.
When the Tigers came off the field, Davey Schofield put out his hand and said, “Nice recovery.”
Hank said, “I used to be able to field balls like that with my teeth and not drop them.”
In the top of the fourth, two out and two runners on, full count on the Red Sox cleanup hitter, Hank made the defensive play of the game. The runners were going with the pitch and the batter hit a screamer that bounced over the bag, but somehow Hank was there. He timed his dive perfectly, came up out of the dirt with the ball, and threw what looked like a 95 mph fastball to get the out.
As Hank came off the field to a standing ovation, he did something Brian couldn’t remember his having done since his first night back at Comerica:
He tipped his cap.
Another good sign.
Maybe.
Tom MacKenzie, the Tigers’ starter, had been the biggest fastball phenom in baseball before three shoulder surgeries robbed him of his heat. He was a ground-ball pitcher now, getting by on a lot of sneaky off-speed junk. But tonight, throwing his sinkers and changeups, he induced batter after batter to beat the ball into the ground for easy outs. Through seven brilliant innings, he had given up just one run to the high-powered Red Sox offense.
The problem was, despite runners on base in just about every inning, the Tigers couldn’t score at all. So the game stayed 1-0, Boston. You didn’t see many of those pitching battles in the American League, the league with the designated hitter.
Between the top of the seventh and the bottom, Finn came running down to the dugout to get a quick drink and said to Brian, “You know when you told me that a 1-0 game could be, like, the best?”
“You mean the time I told you
The bigger surprise? Being in the field was something that seemed to make Hank happy. Brian would stop and watch him during practice making one clean, smooth pickup after another, making one sure throw after another across the diamond. And those simple actions would actually make him smile sometimes, even get him to engage in a little light trash talk, nothing heavy, with Willie Vazquez, the king of trash talk with the Tigers.
“Ooooh, Mr. Hank Bishop,” Brian had heard Willie say today after Hank had backhanded a ball behind third and fired a strike across to Bobby Moore at first. “I didn’t know your arm was still so strong and powerful.”
And Hank had said, “Compared with your rag arm? Yeah, I guess mine would look powerful.”
Willie had laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, then laughed again a few minutes later when Hank ranged way to his left and cut in front of Willie to pick up a grounder that was practically in Willie’s glove. But instead of throwing to Bobby Moore, Hank just took the ball out of his glove and, in what seemed to be one slick motion, went behind his back with it to Willie, who had the presence to barehand the ball and gun it to Bobby himself.
The two of them high-fived each other and, watching from the dugout, Brian thought that maybe these few minutes were the start of something. That maybe going back in the field tonight might make Hank feel more like the player he used to be.
It was almost a rough beginning, though. He nearly booted a ball in the top of the first when the ball caught the edge of the grass before the infield turned to dirt. The ball jumped on Hank, came up and caught the heel of his glove, falling in front of him. But he was able to grab it with his bare hand and make what Brian thought was a pretty amazing throw and to get the runner by a step.
When the Tigers came off the field, Davey Schofield put out his hand and said, “Nice recovery.”
Hank said, “I used to be able to field balls like that with my teeth and not drop them.”
In the top of the fourth, two out and two runners on, full count on the Red Sox cleanup hitter, Hank made the defensive play of the game. The runners were going with the pitch and the batter hit a screamer that bounced over the bag, but somehow Hank was there. He timed his dive perfectly, came up out of the dirt with the ball, and threw what looked like a 95 mph fastball to get the out.
As Hank came off the field to a standing ovation, he did something Brian couldn’t remember his having done since his first night back at Comerica:
He tipped his cap.
Another good sign.
Maybe.
Tom MacKenzie, the Tigers’ starter, had been the biggest fastball phenom in baseball before three shoulder surgeries robbed him of his heat. He was a ground-ball pitcher now, getting by on a lot of sneaky off-speed junk. But tonight, throwing his sinkers and changeups, he induced batter after batter to beat the ball into the ground for easy outs. Through seven brilliant innings, he had given up just one run to the high-powered Red Sox offense.
The problem was, despite runners on base in just about every inning, the Tigers couldn’t score at all. So the game stayed 1-0, Boston. You didn’t see many of those pitching battles in the American League, the league with the designated hitter.
Between the top of the seventh and the bottom, Finn came running down to the dugout to get a quick drink and said to Brian, “You know when you told me that a 1-0 game could be, like, the best?”
“You mean the time I told you
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