Tigers pitcher Kenny Rogers in the 2006 World Series. (AP photo)
Certain images in sports are everlasting. Muhammad Ali towering over Sonny Liston. Bobby Orr flying through the air after knocking in a Stanley Cup-winning goal. Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire locked in a performance-enhancing embrace on the Busch Stadium infield.
These moments are etched into a sports fan’s memory bank.
So what are some enduring images in Detroit sports? What moment or action or picture is one that sticks with us, that takes on a life of its own? There are countless examples, from Isiah clutching the Larry O’Brien trophy to Stevie Y leaping up and down after his double-OT slapper against the Blues.
These vignettes might be off the beaten path, but that doesn’t make them less memorable.
Luther Elliss Urging the Crowd: It’s the second quarter. The Lions are slogging through another less-than-wonderful season. The stadium’s half empty, and the visiting team is already coasting by a couple of touchdowns. It’s safe to say that the upcoming play will be neither memorable nor eventful. None of that matters to Luther Elliss.
Both teams approach the line, with the behemoths up front digging their paws into the turf, preparing to do battle. Big Luther has other things on his mind. He’s concerned with the noise level coming from the stands. He chooses this as the appropriate juncture to become a full-padded cheerleader. Abandoning his 3-point stance, Luther waves his right arm wildly like some kind of manic crossing guard. His intentions are well and good, but you have to remember; there is a professional football game going on and he’s supposed to be a part of it.
The quarterback snaps the ball, the left guard fires off the lane, and pancakes an oblivious Elliss onto his rear end. #94 shakes off the cobwebs and manages to return to his feet. His Lions just gave up 37 yards on a quick-hitting fullback draw up the middle, but that’s far from his mind.
There’s going to be another play in about 35 seconds, and it seems like the crowd is falling asleep. Time to start warming up that right arm again...it’s Showtime.
(This move somehow managed to become even more ridiculous late in Elliss’ career when he was playing with an injured arm, and still found a way to egg on the spectators with a huge air cast enveloping his main cheering mechanism. Possibly the second saddest sight in Detroit sports history, right behind the time Hooper limped around the Palace floor operating his hot dog shooter, while on crutches. You don’t forget a sight like that.)
The Smudged Palm of Kenny Rogers: The 2006 World Series has come to be known for three things. The inexplicable failings by Detroit’s hurlers to field their position and throw accurately to bases; the otherworldly hitting exhibition put on by scrappy David Eckstein; and lastly, for the mysterious smudge that adorned Kenny Rogers’ left hand during his start in Game Two of the World Series.
Rogers was nothing short of brilliant that entire postseason. He pitched three times, once in each series. And never did an opposing player cross the plate. 23 innings and a 0.00 ERA. After nine prior playoff appearances without a win, Rogers somehow managed to redeem himself as his career came to a close. But was the entire ordeal 100% kosher?
That World Series game against the Cardinals was tainted by the appearance of an odd brown mark appearing below Rogers’ left thumb. The umpires convened with Tony La Russa, Rogers was notified of the issue, and when he trotted out for the next inning, the blemish was gone. Did we have a real scandal here, or was it as Rogers claimed, just “some dirt” that naturally made its way to his hand? The truth likely lies somewhere in between. (The hole in Kenny’s explanation came when the television people looked back and noticed an identical discoloration in the same spot in each of his playoff starts.)
It was truly a bizarre night for those at the game. You were in the stands, captivated by Rogers, watching him knot the series, without the slightest idea that such a story was brewing behind the scenes. You get in the car at the end of the night and it turns out you missed the whole thing. It figures that in such a disastrous World Series for the Tigers, the only win they achieved would be one eternally marred by controversy.
Sideline Fashion Faux Pas: This one goes out to Doug Collins and Tommy Amaker, coaches who roamed the sidelines in our state with utter disregard for conventional wisdom in the fashion world. And that wasn’t a good thing.
Collins manned the ship for the Pistons during the mid-to-late 90’s, doing so with an unwavering intensity and an inexplicable obsession with collarless dress shirts. Virtually all hoops’ coaches have always worn the same thing; slick two-piece suit, crisp white button down, silk tie of varying colors. That’s the look. Collins would hear none of it.
Granted, during his tenure in Detroit, there was a brief uptick in collarless shirt sales. However, most of these sales belonged to suburban mothers purchasing said garments for their teenaged sons. The collarless shirt was meant to be a staple on the Bar and Bat Mitzvah scene; instead, Collins turned it into his primary game night option, acting as if the NBA sent formal invitations to all coaches, with the dress code calling for “snappy casual.”
The Tommy Amaker mock turtle speaks for itself. While failing to take Michigan to the NCAA Tournament in six seasons is a semi-forgivable offense, his choice to don the mock turtle so regularly was a fashion abomination that the program is still recovering from. John Beilein isn’t helping matters, either. He has worn the same yellow tie for what seems like all of his games in Ann Arbor, made worse by the fact that I’m fairly certain he took the item from my dad’s non-operational electric tie rack in his bedroom closet.
Tony Phillips’ Crouch: If he was any lower, he would have needed a beach chair. When Tony Phillips entered the batter’s box at Tiger Stadium (from either side), pitchers would inevitably wince in frustration. The at-bat had not started yet, but they knew what was to come. Phillips bent the knees, scrunched the torso, and raised his lead elbow to almost cover his face. The message was clear. “Good luck throwing me a strike.”
The diminutive Phillips stood just 5’10”, and when he dipped that frame down, it was nearly impossible to throw multiple pitches into “his” strike zone. You weren’t throwing to Eddie Gaedel, but it was in the same ballpark.
The batter that leads the league in base-on-balls is traditionally a lumbering power hitter. They can swat the ball a mile, so logic suggests that pitchers refrain from throwing these gentleman many strikes. Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Jason Giambi, Frank Thomas; all players that would routinely pace the field in walks. In 1993, Little Tony out-walked ‘em all. He strolled to first a league-leading 132 times that summer for the Tigers.
It is important to give proper credit to Phillips’ supreme baseball ability as well. He possessed a sharp eye and exercised strict plate discipline. But it’s pretty easy to differentiate a ball from a strike when the pitcher is attempting a task with the difficulty of a tricked-out $2 carnival game. That third milk bottle might wobble, but it’s never going down.
Roy Williams’ First Down Celebration: Besides being widely considered as the greatest runner in NFL history, Barry Sanders was also known for his humble nature. After each touchdown, Sanders would merely go find the nearest official, hand over the ball, and maybe engage in a little light high-fiving with his linemen. That was it. The motto Barry lived by was, “Act like you’ve been there before.” Nobody ever gave former Lions receiver Roy Williams that advice.
After any catch that resulted in a first down, be it to clinch a game late in the 4th quarter, or to extend a drive in the opening minutes, Williams would perform his signature move. He’d bounce to his feet, take a couple steps down the field, and make an exaggerated pointing motion in the direction of the opposition’s goal line.
If Barry was the silent assassin, Roy was the noisy clown.
Unfortunately for Roy Williams’ career, that title is all too valid. Clowns make a big show of everything, drawing lots of attention to themselves. But ultimately, what is their real talent? They aren’t really magicians, they aren’t gifted dancers, and they don’t do stand-up comedy. They just put on a red nose, some floppy shoes, and hope nobody looks close enough to actually ask, “How exactly are you helping us here?”
That was Roy Williams and his signature first down move in a nutshell. He had all the makings of a franchise-changing playmaker coming out of Texas. At 6-foot-4, 210 pounds, he was the prototypical NFL wide receiver, sure to make a half dozen Pro Bowls on his way to a possible bust in Canton.
That was the plan, anyway. But after a few solid but unspectacular seasons, it became painfully clear that our sad clown favored style over substance when the stakes were highest.
The kids were promised a show-stopping performer with all the bells and whistles; instead, they got misshapen balloon animals and melted ice cream.
But we always knew when Roy made a first down. He made certain.
