The author is a former reporter for the Detroit Free Press and The New York Times and a contributor to Deadline Detroit.
By Joe Lapointe
In the eighth inning of Saturday’s Tigers’ telecast, Victor Martinez hit a ground-rule double that bounced over the Comerica Park fence and forced Detroit’s tie-breaking run back to third base.
Kirk Gibson
Color analyst Kirk Gibson of Fox Sports Detroit expressed his dismay.
“Dang!” Gibson said. “Gosh dang it!”
Those of us who remember the young Kirk Gibson of long ago had to smile and maybe clap our hands and pop our ears. The Gibson of the 1980s – a fierce Tiger and a clutch performer – could rarely go five minutes without bluing the atmosphere with loud remarks more harsh than “Gosh dang it!”
But the Gibson of 2018 has evolved into a sometimes soft-spoken and often enlightening commentator who chooses and uses his words well and wisely. He blends an occasional light touch with the strategic savvy he showed as National League manager of the year with Arizona in 2011.
The Game Changer
Had Gibson not been diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2015, he might have been a candidate to replace Brad Ausmus last year as manager of the Tigers. As it is, Gibson works mostly home games and shares insights viewers might not know.
For instance: Earlier this season, somebody hit a high pop fly behind second base in short center field. Three fielders converged near it but none of them took charge.
Now, Gibson said, this is a good time for the batter to hustle around first base toward second because the fielders can sense you coming and the crowd gets loud and that might make the fielders anxious.
And in Saturday’s 7-4 victory over Toronto, Gibson told of how some managers sometimes give their pitchers false bravado by doctoring upward the speed on the radar gun.
“Not that I would do that,” Gibson said.
He let the little line hang there without hammering home the humor, the way some color analysts do.
Gibson seems to understand instinctively that you need to let the game breathe. It’s OK to let the crowd’s murmur and other natural baseball sounds fill the space between the words of the announcers.
Gibson’s voice is high-pitched in that nasal, Michigan way and not as strong as it once was. It doesn’t always penetrate above the roar of the crowd after a major moment. In Sunday’s telecast, while narrating a few video clips about hitting the cutoff man, Gibson’s voice cracked and he fell silent for a long moment.
Gibson's legendary walk-off homer during Game 1 of the World Series in 1988.
“I lost my voice there a little bit,” he said.
He is a value-added participant. Earlier in the telecast, riffing on the “Rally Goose” theme of the recent Tigers winning streak, Gibson’s producers showed a cell-phone video that Gibson made of a flock of Canada geese flying and honking over a local lake at sunset. Nice idea. Nice touch. And a good bump to end the inning for a commercial break.
Gibson also enjoys poking fun at himself and his play-by-play man, Mario Impemba.
“Some people say I used to have hair,” Gibson said. “How ‘bout you?”
I first met Gibson in 1978 in Lakeland, Fla., when both of us had more hair and less life experience. I was new to the Free Press and Gibson was new to minor-league baseball. This was before his senior season as a football star at Michigan State. Gibson’s manager then was the promising young Jim Leyland.
Tigers and Dodgers
Who knew then that Gibson would hit two historic World Series home runs – for the Tigers in 1984 and for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1988? It’s the 30th. anniversary of the latter and the Dodgers gave him a rousing tribute on opening day in L.A.
Mario Impemba and Kirk Gibson
But my favorite Gibson moment was neither of these. Mine came in 1983 at Tiger Stadium against Boston. In the fourth inning, Gibson crushed a home run over the right-field roof that might still be in flight. But that was not his game highlight. Oh, no.
In the sixth, with Lou Whitaker on first, Gibson clobbered another pitch to the 440 sign in deepest center field. Whitaker rounded second, Gibson gaining speed behind him. The throw came toward the infield. Whitaker rounded third. Gibson picked up speed, closing the gap.
The relay throw reached Rich Gedman, the Red Sox catcher. He tagged Whitaker out. But Gibson crashed into the catcher, into umpire Larry Barnett and into Whitaker.
This knocked the ump unconscious but baseballs were falling out of his big pocket in a cloud of dust. Gedman jumped up and down waving the real baseball at the unconscious umpire. The catcher thought he had a double play.
Ken Kaiser, a large umpire, charged as fast as he could from third base and ruled Whitaker out and Gibson safe. The medics ran out to cart the ump to Henry Ford hospital. As the dust cleared, Gibson surveyed the carnage and trotted back to the dugout like a wide receiver tackled after a long gain.
Despite the official ruling of a double and an error, Gibson had followed his out-of-the-stadium blast with what was in essence an inside-the-park home run that culminated with Gibson knocking over all in his way – friend, foe or neither. After all, he was a football All-American who thrived on contact.
A few years ago, when Gibson managed the Diamondbacks and I worked in New York, I talked with him in Citi Field before a Mets game about collisions. He said, while a Spartan, he sometimes “saw the lightning” after getting hit in the head. “But I would never come out,” he said.
Baltimore 1985
Oh, and one more Gibson anecdote, this one about the fine art of cussing. On the final day of the season at old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore in 1985, I stood near the batting cage while the Tigers took their practice swings. Gibson was there and so was Alan Trammell, who will take his rightful place in the Hall of Fame next month.
When the gates opened to the public, two very loud and very drunk and very crazy guys ran down the aisle to the first row of seats and began filling the Sunday morning air with loud shouts of “Bleepity-bleep-blip-blap-bleepity . . . “ and so on.
They weren’t exactly yelling at the Tigers. They were just yelling curses. The players got a kick out of it and tried to stifle their smiles. Few of them would dare tease Gibson in those days, but Trammell was a wit.
After listening to a minute or so of these cursers, Trammell turned to Gibson and asked “Your passes, Gibby?”
Back then, listening to Gibson was not always fun, even for a few minutes. Now, listening to him for three hours is a delight. Let’s hope Gibson keeps it up for many more years. He’s a dang-good baseball announcer.
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