It was Tuesday July 14, 2020 and when our alarm clock went off at 6:00am, I could tell right away that my photographer was eager to get going. He had planned on having breakfast at Chet’s Diner in Northborough, Massachusetts which was owned and operated by Jessica Fidrych; daughter of Tom’s all-time favorite Detroit Tigers player Mark “The Bird” Fidrych. In my mind, I knew Tom would try to have a conversation with Jessica because he wanted to talk about her dad who was tragically killed on April 13, 2009. My photographer had witnessed 15 of Fidrych’s 18 home starts in 1976 and he had a funny story about “The Bird” that he wanted to share with Jessica.
The three of us made the six-mile ride from our hotel into Northborough and we arrived at Chet’s Diner at 8:30am, but as soon as Vicki pulled the Edge into the parking lot we feared the worst. What should have been a parking lot filled with vehicles was completely empty. Tom got out of our SUV and walked up to the diner’s entrance, but it was locked tight. The dang virus had taken its toll on another site we wanted to visit; and this time it hit home with my photographer. Tom knew that after Mark Fidrych’s baseball career was over, he returned to his hometown of Northborough. In 1986 Fidrych got married, a year later Jessica was born, and on weekends “The Bird” made hash at Chet’s Diner; a small highway truck stop restaurant that was owned at the time by Mark’s mother-in-law. That morning, Tom had his taste buds all set for some of that hash.
Mark “The Bird” Fidrych barely made the Detroit Tigers Opening Day roster in 1976 and was likely considered by Manager Ralph Houk as a mop-up bullpen pitcher; that is until Houk needed an emergency starter on May 15th against the Indians. Not only did Fidrych spin a complete game two-hitter against Cleveland as he notched his first major league win by a score of 2-1, ‘The Bird” began his journey as one of the most colorful and beloved players the game has every seen. Even though Fidrych, who got his nickname “The Bird” because he resembled Sesame Street’s ‘Big Bird’ character, turned out to be a crafty control artist who had movement on his pitches, it was his antics on the field that captured the hearts of the Detroit baseball fans – including my photographer. During every outing, Fidrych bounced around the diamond as though he had springs in his cleats; he talked to the ball in between pitches; and the colorful pitcher got on his hands and knees and manicured the mound before the start of every inning. I’ve heard Tom tell story after story about how he and Mongo went to nearly every home game in 1976; however, one of the few games they missed was “The Bird’s” nationally televised 5-1 victory over the Yankees on June 28th – they were in the middle of their Bicentennial trip to Washington D.C. But, like most baseball fans in America, Tom and Bob watched the game on TV and cheered on “The Bird” as though they were in the seats at Tiger Stadium.
So how good was Mark Fidrych in 1976? The 22-year-old rookie phenom won 12 of the first 14 games he started – and those two losses were by scores of 2-0 and 1-0. Fidrych ended his rookie season with a record of 19-9; and since he liked to finish what he started, he compiled an astounding 24 complete games that year; including five games that were 10 innings or more. He was the American League’s starting pitcher in the 1976 All-Star Game and Fidrych was named the A.L.’s Rookie of the Year. As a matter of fact, “The Bird” finished second in the 1976 Cy Young Award voting to another bird – Orioles’ future Hall of Famer Jim Palmer, who won the award with a 22-13 record. Palmer finished the season with an impressive 2.51 ERA for a very good Baltimore team compared to the 2.34 ERA that Fidrych had on a lousy Detroit squad. The one variable that the voters didn’t seem to consider was the number of extra fans that “The Bird” put in the seats compared to games when he didn’t toe the slab. In my photographer’s humble and unbiased opinion, Mark Fidrych deserved the 1976 American League Cy Young Award over Palmer and the final vote shouldn’t have been close. Once again, the baseball writers got it wrong.
Tom was proud to call himself a “Bird Watcher” in 1976 and his memories of when baseball was fun at Tiger Stadium will never go away. While my photographer wasn’t able to meet “Baby Bird” Jessica Fidrych at Chet’s Diner on that day, Tom did go to nearby Memorial Field where he found the historical marker dedicated to his favorite player. Our visit to the field where Mark “The Bird” Fidrych began his love for baseball would be a sense of closure for Tom – and I could tell that my camera guy had been mourning the tragic loss of Fidrych since his death a decade earlier. The sun may still shine on an empty nest in Northborough; but look skyward and “The Bird” won’t be far away.
When we returned to the Edge and made our way out of Northborough, I listened as my photographer told one final story about Mark Fidrych. It seemed that whenever “The Bird” finished a game at Tiger Stadium in 1976, the large crowd would never leave until Fidrych made a “curtain call”. After the final out of each game he pitched, the crowd stood and yelled: “We want the Bird; We want the Bird” until the gangly pitcher popped out of the dugout and either doffed his cap or waved to the fans. Tom described those moments as “electrically feverish”, and the most fun he ever had at the stadium. As we left Northborough behind, I recited that chant in my mind – “We want the Bird”; hoping that somehow, some way, I would see an image of Fidrych as he waved goodbye. Sadly, for the three of us, there was no curtain call on that day. The sun was out and it shone down brightly on Northborough. But in the end, The Bird’s nest remained empty.
After a 35-mile drive eastward, we arrived at the Lexington Common where the first shots of the Revolutionary War were fired. While Vicki remained in the vehicle as she used her phone to deal with work issues back home, Tom carried me alongside the Common until we stopped in front of an iconic statue known as the Lexington Minuteman statue, which stood tall and prominent at the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Bedford Street. In later years, locals have said the statue represented Captain John Parker, the leader of the Lexington Militia.
As we finished up our photos near the Minuteman statue, the sky began to grow increasingly dark towards the northwest and the threat of rain seemed imminent. Not wanting to get wet, Tom decided to beat the rain; he hurriedly carried me towards the Hancock-Clarke House that was located a half mile to the north. In other words, my photographer threw caution to the wind; before I knew it, we were headed directly into the teeth of the storm. When we arrived about 12 minutes later, Tom held me for a few shots, and I posed on a window ledge for a couple of other images. As the rumble of the thunder seemed to grow closer, I began to worry about lightning strikes; especially since I had a metal spring wrapped around my resin neck.
During my short time on the window ledge, I thought about John Hancock and Samuel Adams as both men had stayed in that house as guests of Reverend Jonas Clarke on the night before the British invasion – and I’m not talking about when the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show. Nearly four decades before that invasion, and some six years after the home was built in 1738, seven-year-old John Hancock moved into his grandfather’s house after his dad died. The future leader of the Continental Congress lived there for six years before he moved to an uncle’s place in Boston. But as the British Army marched into Lexington on April 19, 1775 en-route to Concord to destroy the Colonial cannons and gun powder, the Red Coats also wanted to capture Hancock and Adams who were part of the Sons of Liberty group that were seen by the Crown as rebel-rousers. Thanks to the midnight ride of Paul Revere and William Dawes, the two patriots got out of town and made their way to nearby Burlington before the British arrived.
Roughly five minutes into our return trip to the Lexington Battle Green, it began to rain. At first, I heard only a few sprinkles as they peppered the top of the camera case. It didn’t take long, however, before those small droplets transformed into a downpour. By the time the two of us made it back to the vehicle where Vicki had waited for us, Tom’s clothing was soaked. I laughed as I thought to myself: “A little rainstorm isn’t going to dampen my photographer’s spirits; especially when he’s at a historic site like the one where the Revolutionary War started.” We got lucky – the storm lasted only about ten minutes. When the rain stopped and the sun returned, Tom headed out on foot to a handful of sites that bordered the perimeter of the Battle Green.
Our first stop was a large boulder that was close to where our car was parked; that rock represented the eastern end of the Patriot line when the Colonists met head-on with the British Army. The face of the boulder was inscribed with the following words: “Stand your ground, don’t fire unless fired upon. But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.” Those words were reportedly said by Captain John Parker just before the Battle of Lexington began.
The two of us walked across a section of the Battle Green; the plush grassy area where the first shots of the Revolutionary War were fired and where eight brave members of the Lexington Militia met their demise. My photographer carried me across Harrington Street and up to the front door of a large two-story white house. That historic building was where 30-year old Jonathan Harrington, a member of the Lexington Militia, lived with his wife Ruth and son Jonathan. At dawn, when the British Army and the Minutemen engaged in musket fire, the skirmish broke out just 100 yards directly in front of Harrington’s house. As the British charged the Colonists, Harrington took a bullet and was mortally wounded. He found the strength to crawl to his house where he died in Ruth’s arms on the doorstep. Even though the house was a private residence, Tom set me down on the very doorstep where Harrington died. In the entire Revolutionary War that lasted seven years, roughly 6,800 Americans died fighting for our nation’s freedom. Jonathan Harrington was one of the first and it was an honor for me to stand where he perished.
After our short visit at the Harrington House, Tom carried me across another section of the Battle Green to a historic house that stood witness to the Battle of Lexington on April 19, 1775. On that fateful day, the home belonged to Marrett Munroe, whose son Nathan was a member of the Lexington Militia. During the short skirmish with the British Army, Nathan Munroe was one of the handful of Minutemen who actually opened fire on the Red Coats. Today, it’s difficult to fathom a foreign enemy marching through your hometown and assembling across the street from your house. But that’s exactly what happened at dawn on that Wednesday morning in April 1775.
I thought it was cool to stand on the Lexington Common where history was made on April 19, 1775; it was an honor for me to pay tribute to the brave “Minutemen” who did their best to prevent the British enemy from advancing to Concord. While their efforts seemed futile and ended in the deaths of eight patriots, they managed to delay the British long enough to allow the Colonists in Concord enough time to hide most of their weaponry and gun powder.
A year earlier, as I stood at the home plate site of Atlanta Fulton County Stadium where Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s home run record, I said to myself: “I’m standing where the ‘shot heard around the world’ had taken place.” While Aaron’s record-setting blast made headlines around the world, little did I know that a more significant ‘worldly shot’ had occurred in the small town of Lexington, Massachusetts. While no one knows for sure who fired the first musket ball shortly after sunrise on that Wednesday morning in 1775, we do know for sure it was truly the ‘Shot heard around the world’. Had it not been for the Colonists who demanded freedom from the Crown, we still might be drinking tea every day at 4 pm.
We spent about an hour walking in and around the Lexington Common, which was likely longer than the small skirmish between the Minutemen and the British Army had lasted in 1775. Once Tom had me securely in place on the back seat of the Edge, Vicki drove the vehicle westward to the small town of Concord, which was about seven miles away. The route we took was likely the same path the British had marched on April 19, 1775 as they made their way to pillage the ammunition storage areas in Concord and to capture John Hancock and Samuel Adams.
It was roughly 11:15am when we arrived at the Old North Bridge that was located a mile or so north of Concord; which was about the same time the British had arrived in the area on April 19, 1775. From the Visitor Center where my photographer’s wife had parked, we walked along a pathway for what seemed to be an eternity before we could see the historic bridge in the distance. It was on that hill where the Minutemen and militia had been staged as the British soldiers made their way across the North Bridge. As Tom carried me closer to the bridge, it was as though I could see the Colonists as they charged towards their enemy and drove them back across the Concord River to the east side of the North Bridge. As the two sides faced each other, separated by about 110 feet, a British soldier fired the first shot – the Battle of Concord had begun at the bridge. Unlike what had happened earlier that morning in Lexington, however, the militia and minutemen didn’t run – they stood and returned fire, killing three British soldiers and wounding nine others, including half of their officers. When the smoke cleared, the British had fled back into town – it was the first victory by the Americans in the Revolutionary War. But that short conflict wasn’t without casualty for “the good guys” as Captain Isaac Davis and Private Abner Hosmer were killed, while four others were wounded.
Even though that arched wooden bridge was the fifth bridge to span the Concord River at the original site of the 1775 battle, I was thrilled beyond words to stand on it. During the time we spent at the North Bridge, it was as though I could hear the musket-fire from both sides of the river, which was soon followed by the exuberant cheer of the Colonists as the British ran from the area with the tails of their red coats between their legs. As I stood on the east side of the North Bridge, I saw a marker that had been placed at the graves of two of the three British foot soldiers who died at the site. Although I’m not a fan of the English enemy who invaded our soil, those guys were only following orders. In my mind, they were still husbands, or brothers, or sons to someone across the ocean and they died for what they believed was right. Even with that, I refused to stand on their grave marker or pay tribute to the fallen Englishmen.
Our stay at the historic North Bridge lasted about 45 minutes, which was likely longer than the 1775 battle had lasted between the Colonists and the Red Coats. During our long hike back to the car, which was primarily uphill, I had wondered if we would see some of the other famous sites around Concord – like Author’s Ridge inside Sleepy Hollow Cemetery or maybe Henry David Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond. When we finally made it back to the Edge, I heard Tom tell his wife: “Well, we’ve seen my sites this morning – the rest of the day is yours. We’ll freestyle antique shops all the way from Concord to wherever we stop for the night in Connecticut”. While my photographer’s statement shocked me a bit, I figured he had planned on us visiting those other sites the next time we’re in the area with Mongo. After all, Bob Moldenhauer is an avid fan, a well-read expert, a frequent visitor to Walden Pond and Sleep Hollow Cemetery and Tom figured it would be more enjoyable to go there with his friend.
It was a shade past 12 noon when we left Concord and headed southwest towards Connecticut. My photographer and his wife had roughly five or six hours to visit as many large antique shops as they could find along the route. While Vicki navigated the Edge, Tom scoured his phone to find the best places where they would get “bang for their buck”; and at the same time, he wanted to be south of Hartford when it was time to find a hotel. As my companions zig-zagged through the Connecticut countryside, the three of us looked for treasures at a large handful of places, but none were better than the final stop of the day. Not only was ‘Antiques on the Farmington’ in Collinsville, Connecticut large and was filled with amazing relics, the picturesque building was situated along the Farmington River and was truly a sight to behold.
Minutes after the ‘Antiques on the Farmington’ closed for the day, it was time to hunt for a place to spend the night. While we were still in the parking lot of the antique store, Vicki went to work on her phone and found a reasonably priced hotel located in the town of Southington, Connecticut. It was roughly 5:45pm when we arrived at the Holiday Inn Cheshire in Southington, which seemed to be located in an area that offered a great choice of food. Once my photographer and his wife had the vehicle unpacked and their gear safely transported to the room, Tom placed me alongside the television where I stayed the entire night. After my companions returned from Young Young Chinese Buffet with their evening meal, I had the displeasure of watching Tom gorge himself on sweet and sour chicken.
It had been a very good day for the three of us. Tom visited the hometown of his favorite Tigers player; and although he never got to meet Jessica Fidrych, he had the chance to see the field where “The Bird” first took flight. I loved my time in Lexington and Concord where I was absorbed in the origins of the Revolutionary War. And Vicki got to experience a half-day of shopping for antique treasures; some of which found their way into our vehicle. Had it not been for my photographer’s stories about watching Mark “The Bird” Fidrych pitch in 1976, I likely wouldn’t have known who he was. In comparison, the baseball player that we were scheduled to pay our respects to in the early hours of the following day has been a household name to virtually every American since the early 1900s. And since I love history, even baseball history, I looked forward to visiting the grave of the legendary Babe Ruth and posing on his tombstone. That’s right, Ruth wasn’t a President; but like ‘The Babe’ said in 1930 when he signed a contract worth more than the salary of President Herbert Hoover: “I had a better year than he did.” The Great Bambino was truly a colorful character; perhaps the biggest personality the sport had ever seen – at least until “The Bird” came along in 1976. After the lights in the room were extinguished, I stood and envisioned Mark Fidrych as he stood on the mound and talked to the ball while Babe Ruth stepped into the batter’s box. That evening, in my mind, I had a front row seat at the “Field of Dreams”.
