Fun City

It's the little moments that have turned the Tigers into a joyride for players and fans

It's a fireworks night at Comerica Park, in a summer of fireworks for the Tigers. First pitch is a few hours away, but Jim Leyland is already lighting up the clubhouse. "HEYYY, PUDGIE!" Leyland shouts cheerfully as Ivan Rodriguez comes through the door. "HEYYY, YOU'RE NOT PLAYING TONIGHT!"

Rodriguez stops. Leyland does not. "TAKE A DAY OFF!" the skipper continues happily. "I KNOW YOU DON'T LIKE IT, BUT YOU'VE BEEN WANTING TO MANAGE ALL YEAR!"

The All-Star catcher looks at Leyland, who walks toward him and gently extends a hand. Aware now that a couple of reporters are watching, Leyland lowers his voice and explains to Rodriguez, who is nursing some bruises, that he might benefit from another day of rest. Rodriguez smiles, nods.

The Tigers are dressing, and Leyland works the room, greeting some, teasing others. He zeros in on rookie reliever Joel Zumaya. "HEYYY, ZUMAYA! NICE TATTOO!"

Zumaya grins; the players are loving it. The 61-year-old Leyland jabs them with humor, but it quickly becomes evident that what he's really doing is taking their temperature-collectively, individually-and doling out treatment. A dose of implied confidence for Zumaya. A dab of acknowledgment for eager-to-please outfielder Curtis Granderson. An emotional ice pack for I-Rod, who says, "The manager I have, this man, is unbelievable."

The Tigers were 20 games under .500 last year, 43—119 three years ago. But walking through their clubhouse on a Friday night in late June, you don't get the sense that they're impressed with how far they've come. You get the feeling that this is a bunch of guys who have discovered as a group that they can really play. Leyland, who burned out as a manager seven years ago, has rediscovered his passion and intensity, and he's passing it on.

Their powerful arms and timely bats are only part of what has transformed these Tigers. And it's not just the mountains of Big League Chew the pitchers stuff into their mouths when the team needs a rally-a superstition started by lefty Nate Robertson on May 30. It's their mind-set. As Granderson scrawls under the bill of his cap: Don't think. Have fun.

IT'S THE first morning of spring training at Tigertown in Lakeland, Fla., and 41-year-old Kenny Rogers is hitting the dirt like a goalie. He's rolling in the infield grass and sprinting to cover first base. The drill is PFP-pitcher's fielding practice. It's generally regarded as a chore akin to taking out the garbage.

But Rogers attacks it, so everyone else does too. The adrenaline level rises. "We can't let a veteran make us look bad," 23-year-old Jeremy Bonderman says to himself. From an adjacent field, first baseman Chris Shelton notices the intensity: They're moving at game speed.

Leyland likes what he sees, likes the feel of it. He turns to his coaches. "I don't know how we'll do," he says. "But we're going to have a fun year." FOR A time, that's no sure thing. Following a loss to the White Sox in mid-April, a week before he would publicly rip the team for lack of focus, Leyland sends the most important message of all. During the game, a veteran, unhappy with what he's being told, abruptly walks away from a coach. Leyland notices, and he's furious. Just as he did in 1991, when as manager of the Pirates he got in Barry Bonds' face, Leyland explodes.

"I don't care who you are!" he barks in the clubhouse afterward, in full view of the players. "You are not going to treat other people on the team like that! That ain't the way we do it around here! As long as I'm here, that's not the way it's going to be! We're not going to point fingers! We're all in this together!" When Leyland finishes, silence fills the room. Some Tigers make eye contact: Wow.

"If he doesn't squash that situation in that moment," one player says later, "then I think we go right back to being what we were before."

IT'S APRIL 20, and the Tigers are three games into the kind of West Coast trip that used to crush them. Down two runs in the ninth, they're on the verge of losing the game and the series in Oakland. But they rap out four straight hits, and the game is tied. Now 29-year-old Brandon Inge, who as a sixth-year survivor of the worst Detroit teams is the Tiger with the longest continuous tenure, comes to the plate. He takes a strike from reliever Justin Duchscherer, hacks at another, and it's O-and-2. Hits have been scarce for the freeswinging third baseman, but he's determined to win this battle. Inge fouls off a pitch. And another. And four more. The count is 1-and-2.

Inge looks out at Duchscherer and sees frustration and weariness begin to seep into the pitcher's face. "By the fifth or sixth pitch of the at-bat," Inge recalls, "he had thrown all of his pitches."

Inge takes another ball, then fouls off another pitch. He's locked in, but he hears the shouts from the Detroit dugout getting louder. Duchscherer throws the 12th pitch of the at-bat; Inge fouls it off. Pitch 13: foul. His teammates are screaming for him now. Inge takes pitch No. 14 for ball three. And finally, pitch No. 15: ball four.

The at-bat, Leyland would say later, lasted "one-and-a-half Marlboros." Granderson works another walk to force in the lead run, the Tigers hold on, and they take six out of nine on the Coast.

IT'S JUNE 6, and the Tigers have just lost five of seven at home to the Yankees and Red Sox. The experts have all been expecting this, and here it is: the collapse. The Tigers take a 3-1 lead into the bottom of the eighth against the White Sox-and get their guts ripped out. Alex Cintron blasts a threerun homer, and Bobby Jenks closes out Detroit in the ninth. Some of the shell-shocked Tigers linger in the dugout, watching the White Sox celebrate.

Leyland is having none of it. He does something virtually unheard of in the major leagues: He chases his players out of the dugout. "Let's go," he says. "Relax. We'll come back tomorrow."

They do. And they win 11 of their next 14.

NOW IT'S June 24, and the Tigers are 49—25, a half game up in the AL Central. As the players prepare for the Cardinals, a TV in the home clubhouse flashes a score from the South Side of Chicago. "Can you believe the White Sox, a friggin' grand slam," one player says.

But somebody has already changed the channel. It's Zumaya, who wants to watch Mexico, his team of choice, in the World Cup. "Let's go Ar-gen-ti-na," Justin Verlander sings out from his locker.

"Verlander's going to get puh-unched," Zumaya answers, mimicking the cadence.

These two men, Zumaya and Verlander, may have the best pure arms in baseball. While they seem like polar oppositesthe 21-year-old Zumaya is from just north of the Mexican border, in San Diego County; the 23-year-old Verlander hails from rural Goochland County, Va.-they're comfortable enough to bust each other's chops. Before heading out to the field, Verlander walks by Zumaya, who's planted in front of a big-screen TV, and pats him on the shoulder.

Zumaya, a former 11th-round draft pick who throws upward of 100 mph, is to the '06 Tigers what Mariano Rivera was to the '96 Yankees: a dominant setup man. His fastball is so powerful, so heavy, says backup catcher Vance Wilson, "it feels like you're catching a bowling ball." An umpire has told Wilson he can't see Zumaya's pitches well enough to determine balls and strikes. Verlander, meanwhile, is a budding ace, with a record of 10—4 through June. Even the rare hitters who reach base against him mutter under their breath about his fastball, which also lights up the gun in the mid-to-high 90s.

Tonight, Kenny Rogers gets the start. Comerica Park is packed, fans hanging over the railing in right-centerfield. David Eckstein opens the game by hitting a chopper to the right of the mound. Rogers dives for the ball, gloves it, rolls and throws to first, just like in PFP. A roar comes from the stands, full-throated, deafening.

Leyland paces in the dugout, gesturing constantly to his fielders, his coaches, his baserunners, clapping between pitches when the Tigers bat. And they're grinding it, every plate appearance a scrap. Twice the Tigers fall behind, twice they catch up.

They sweep the Cardinals. They crush the National League. They're the best team in baseball. What's it all mean? They're not worried about that yet. The Tigers are adhering to their manager's code of conduct, and abiding by the mantra under the bill of Granderson's cap. Don't think. Have fun.

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