Trevor Hoffman has been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Just as he did in his unflappable role in the bullpen during his career as an ace reliever, Hoffman was flawless in delivering his speech, closing it by thanking his wife. “You shared with me this amazing journey of ups and downs from the beginning, always never letting me get too high or get too low,” Hoffman said. “I love you.” Hoffman, chosen in his third year on the ballot, played the bulk of his career with the San Diego Padres before finishing with the Milwaukee Brewers. After failing to impress the front office in three years as a shortstop, he switched to the bullpen and became a star. Using a stultifying changeup, Hoffman recorded 601 saves over 18 seasons, second all-time to former Yankees star Mariano Rivera’s 652. Hoffman also played for the University of Arizona. As a shortstop, he hit led the team in hitting in 1988 and 1989, making the First-Team All-Pac-10 with a .371 batting average. Joining Hoffman is Jim Thome. Emotional during a Hall of Fame visit in February to tour the museum to prepare for this day, Thome held it together despite having to wipe away tears after his daughter sang the national anthem. “I’m so honored to be part of something so special,” Thome said. “Baseball is beautiful and I am forever in its service.” The lefty-swinging Thome hit 612 home runs, eighth all-time, and had an MLB record 13 walk-off homers , mostly for the Cleveland Indians. He also had 1,699 RBIs, scored 1,583 runs and drew 1,747 walks. Among the many he thanked, Thome praised former Cleveland manager Charlie Manuel, who served as the Indians’ hitting coach in the late 1980s and 1990s. Manuel was in the audience. “He told me I could hit as many home runs as I wanted to,” Thome said. “I knew this was someone I could connect with.” Jack Morris also made it to the Hall. Morris, now 63, pitched 18 seasons for the Tigers, Twins, Blue Jays and Indians, and played on four World Series champions. In the 1980s, he led all pitchers with 2,444.2 innings pitched and 162 wins and topped all AL pitchers in strikeouts with 1,629. Among those he thanked were his late parents and the late Sparky Anderson, who managed the Tigers to the 1984 World Series championship. “I know Sparky Anderson is with us today,” Morris said. “He taught me so many things. He taught me to fight through adversity.” The crowning achievement of Morris’ career was his 1-0 complete-game victory in Game 7 of the 1991 World Series while pitching for his hometown Twins against the Braves. Minnesota manager Tom Kelly wanted to take him out after nine innings and the 36-year-old Morris convinced him not to. Morris also thanked Kelly for that decision. Add Vladimir Guerrero’s name to the list. In a speech that lasted just five minutes, Guerrero, whose speech was translated from Spanish, thanked his mother, who cooked dinners for him, and father, the fans and the people in his hometown of Dan Gregorio in the Dominican Republic. Guerrero was elected on his second try, receiving 92.9 percent of the vote. The nine-time All-Star outfielder batted .318 with 449 homers and 1,496 RBIs and was a notorious bad-ball hitter, a skill he learned as a kid growing up in the Dominican Republic playing a game similar to cricket. Guerrero, who spent eight years in Montreal, became the first player inducted wearing the cap of the Angels, the team where he enjoyed his greatest success. He helped lead the Angels to the postseason five times in six seasons, reaching career highs for runs (124), hits (206), and RBIs (126) in 2004 when he won AL MVP honors. His son Vladimir Jr., the top prospect in the minor leagues with the Blue Jays, was in attendance. Alan Trammell and his double-play magic was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame as well on Sunday. The former Detroit shortstop was selected by a veterans committee in December along with former Tigers teammate Jack Morris. Trammell played shortstop for 20 seasons – all for the Tigers – and earned six All-Star Game selections, four Gold Glove Awards and three Silver Slugger Awards. His .977 fielding percentage ranks sixth among shortstops with at least 2,000 games played. Trammell formed a stellar double play combination with Lou Whitaker, who was in the audience on a special day for Tigers fans. “For 19 years Lou Whitaker and I formed the longest running double play combination in the history of baseball,” Trammell said, recalling the two were called up to the Tigers on the same day. “Lou, it was an honor and a pleasure to have played alongside you all those years. I hope someday you’ll be up here, too.” Trammell also thanked the late Sparky Anderson, who took over as manager of the Tigers in 1979 after leading the Cincinnati Reds to great success. “Little did we know our lives were about to change,” Trammell said. “We thought we were good ballplayers, but we found out we didn’t know squat.” Last, but definitely not least is Chipper Jones. Pressure was an afterthought for Jones during his career, except perhaps at the beginning in 1990 when he struggled in Class A ball. He managed to keep his emotions in check on Sunday as he gazed down at his wife Taylor. She’s due to give birth to a son that will named Cooper and the due date is Monday. “She changed my life forever,” Jones said as his wife brushed away tears. “It took me 40 years and some major imperfections in me along the way to find my true profession. Now we’ve taken our two families and blended them together. It has given me what I’ve been searching for my entire life – true happiness.” Jones fought back his emotions in a speech that took the crowd through his entire career, starting in his rookie season when he helped lead the Atlanta Braves to the 1995 World Series title in his rookie season.<doc-sep>COOPERSTOWN, N.Y. — Can you imagine Jack Morris, who once broke blood vessels by slamming the ball down so hard in his manager’s hand, trying to keep his cool in today’s era when data points, and not performance, dictate how long you stay in a game? How would Twitter react to Vladimir Guerrero, who never walked more than 84 times in a season? Would Alan Trammell be scorned for averaging only nine homers a year? Would Trevor Hoffman be belittled for his career 2.87 ERA? Would Chipper Jones be considered old school for never striking out 100 times in a season, or would Jim Thome be considered ahead of his time, once leading the league in strikeouts and walks, and still hitting 33 homers? “All I can say is,’’ Morris said, “thank God I played in the era I did. Thank God! “Can you imagine?’’ Uh, no. This illustrious Hall of Fame class of 2018 — Jones, Thome, Guerrero, Hoffman and Today's Game committee choices Morris and Trammell — played in a different era, a time when everyone knew who was leading the league in batting average, and not WAR. When players sat in clubhouses for hours after games talking baseball instead of scrambling home to play video games. When hit-and-runs, stolen bases, and advancing the runner actually occurred on a nightly basis. When 20-win and 100-RBI seasons were considered elite, and not a statistical anomaly. This may be the last Hall of Fame class inducted into Cooperstown that played the vast majority of its career before analytics commandeered the sport. “I mean, we’re not playing for spin rate,’’ Morris said. “We’re not playing for launch angle. And we’re not playing for exit velocity or, you know, ground efficiency. “We’re playing to win. It’s W’s and L’s. I’ve been telling people for over a decade now, you know, all these numbers don’t matter. It’s letters that matter: W and L.’’ More:Yankees slugger Aaron Judge suffers fractured wrist More:Cubs acquire Cole Hamels in trade with Rangers More:Hader receives mild boos in first road appearance since tweets resurfaced Morris admits one number that's appreciated nicely over the years is a player's paycheck. “When I talked to guys from my era,’’ Morris said, “we’re all grateful that we played when we played. There’s obvious reasons why it would be advantageous to play in today’s game, and most of that revolves around money. “But it’s funny, I think if I would have grown up in this era, I’d be just like the guys today. You know, the manager gets me and 5 2/3 [innings], well I’m done. That’s it. Go get them relief pitchers.’’ Yet, when asked if he would have kept his cool if he were pitching a shutout, and told he was coming out because he was about to face a lineup for the third time, Morris laughed. “You know my reaction,’’ Morris said. “You don’t even have to ask that question. But here’s the thinking: those are the people that taught me how to do that. [Detroit Tigers manager] Sparky [Anderson] taught me how to do that. He was probably going, 'Oh, God, I’ve created a monster. '’’ Yes, like the time Morris snapped when Anderson came to get him, with Anderson calling him into his office after the game and letting him know that will never happen again. “Sparky had his little Sparkyisms that when he went out to get the ball from the pitcher he kind of clapped his hands twice, and put his hand out,’’ said Trammell, Morris’ former teammate. “Well Jack being the competitor that he was, he was so hot he didn’t want to come out of the game that he slammed the ball in Sparky’s hand and he broke some blood vessels. “Often times, you know, Jack was very remorseful after the fact. But his hot blood, you know, it was real.’’ Hoffman, who grew up watching his older brother, Glenn Hoffman, play for the Boston Red Sox, went old-school the night he saved his 600th career game. He gave a quick speech to his Milwaukee Brewers’ teammates, retired to the trainer’s room, and sat there with staff members, clubhouse attendants and teammates for nearly six hours, telling stories, and downing a few beers. It was vintage Hoffman, who realizes those days have gone the way of trains and flannel uniforms. “It’s kind of dissipated,’’ Hoffman says, “because everything under the sun is in the clubhouses. I don’t know if it’s a video game thing, or if it’s just kind of social media type of stuff that you know can be [exposed] in the clubhouse. “One of my greatest thrills was being able to hang out in a big league clubhouse. I appreciated being able to pick the brains of the people I was around, whether it was coaches or teammates to kind of hash out what just happened for the last three hours of the ballgame and try to get better at my craft. And you do that by communicating some of your thoughts and what you think through your lens and maybe bounce those ideas off and get a different perspective. “And so I definitely think it’s beneficial. I’d love to see some of that come back more.’’ Those days are gone, and aren’t coming back, just like the time Morris pitched a 10-inning shutout in Game 7 of the 1991 World Series, finishing the year with 283 innings. Or the years when Guerrero came so close to actually having more home runs than walks. Or the 1,918 games that Trammell and Tigers second baseman Lou Whitaker played together, the most by a double-play duo in baseball history. Morris pitched 175 complete games, with 175 former pitchers actually having more in their career, but his plateau may never be reached. There’s no active pitcher with more than 38 complete games, with 45-year-old Bartolo Colon and 37-year-old CC Sabathia nearing retirement, and no one has more than two complete games this year. Considering pitchers averaged a major-league low 5.5 innings per start last season, can anyone ever again reach 100 complete games again, let alone 175?<doc-sep>Mitch Albom Detroit Free Press Pitchers and shortstops. The cornerstones of a baseball defense. One strikes ‘em out. The other throws ‘em out. In Little League, the pitcher and shortstop can be the same kid (usually the best player on the team). But come the majors, pitchers and shortstops couldn’t be farther apart. The pitcher, as starter, is a protected diva, working once or twice a week, resting in between. The shortstop is a daily mule. So it might surprise you that back in the 1980s, Alan Trammell, shortstop, and Jack Morris, pitcher, could be seen side by side in the Tiger Stadium infield, chasing grounders during batting practice. Even on days that Morris was pitching. “Jack used to take ground balls with me all the time,” Trammell, 60, recalled during an interview last week. “He’d go out and wear his spikes and get himself going. That was a routine he had.” “It was a way for me to get loose,” Morris, 63, confirmed. “Kind of get the blood flowing.” Out there in the dirt, leaning down, scooping baseballs with their gloves, they might have seemed very much alike. They were not. As someone who covered these two men for years, I can assure you their personalities were as similar as oil and water. Trammell was a gym rat in a Lakers T-shirt and blue jeans, his hair forever matted by sweat. Morris was a show pony, with leather pants and fur coats and a barroom brawler’s gleam in his eye, as if itching for a fight because he knew he could win it. Trammell was a Southern California kid, an American Legion product, all sunshine and sports. Morris was a cold-weather athlete, raised in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a college player at BYU before turning pro. [More Baseball Hall of Fame coverage] Trammell negotiated his own contracts, once handshaking a deal during a spring training practice. Morris, who was the highest-paid pitcher in the game several times, made money an issue and, as a free agent, tried single-handedly to take on baseball owners’ collusion. Trammell played his whole career in Detroit. Morris wore four different uniforms. Trammell shied from the media like an owl ducking inside a tree. Morris saw the media the way a lion sees a panther: attack or be attacked. Jack was three years older and a few inches taller. But despite their differences, they were united by a competitive streak and a true love of the game. It brought them together then, from infield grounders to World Series games. And it brings them together now, this weekend, in Cooperstown. They are finally, after 15 grueling years of falling short on the ballot, going into baseball's Hall of Fame, thanks to its Modern Era committee. The pitcher and the shortstop. Here is one man’s remembrances of each. Time changes everything Jack Morris could be scary. When you approached him in a locker room, you were met by the same angry eyes that glared down opposing hitters. “I never went near him when it was his day to pitch,” Sparky Anderson once told the media. And Sparky was his boss! Some of this was reputation preceding him; Jack, in truth, was as much bark as bite. But he was smart and quick and he did not suffer fools easily. We got along. Most of the time. But you had to stand your ground. Jack often had a snarky grin beneath that droopy Marlboro Man mustache, and his responses were as cynical as they were comical. If you asked an obvious questions, he’d snap, “What do you think?” I once wrote about seeing him again in Toronto, a couple of years after he left the Tigers in a semi-bitter free agency. “Hi, Jack.” “Hello, Mitch.” “Miss me?” “No.” “Miss Detroit?” “I had enough of people blaming me for everything.” “Happy here?” Sneer. “What do you think?” Like I said… And yet, deep down, Morris always struck me as a principled, if stubborn, guy. You may not have agreed with those principles, but you knew he stood by them. Once, towards the end of his baseball career, Jack bought a farm in Montana. Not a small farm. A huge, 10,000-acre farm. Rolling wheat. Combines. Massive storage bins. The works. He’d never farmed before (Jack was raised in a city neighborhood). But farming had been a lifelong dream, and he was determined to make it work. He sold the place years later, admitting it was too much. Like many things in Morris’ life, the look came after the leap. But — and I believe he was proud of this — the leap was always his. And man, could he pitch. Morris didn’t just stand on the mound, he ruled it. He banged in his stake and declared it his own. Morris was the last pitcher I recall to get truly angry if he didn’t go a full nine innings. He famously had two complete-game victories in the 1984 World Series (try finding a pitcher today to do that). And he once told Sports Illustrated he chased Sparky back into the dugout when the manager was coming to relieve him during a regular season game. “Get the hell out of here,” Morris said, “because what you’ve got warming up is no better than what I’ve got right now.” More:Detroit Tigers Hall of Famer Jack Morris just wants to be loved Morris’ most famous long performance, of course, was not with the Tigers but with the Twins in the 1991 World Series, Game 7, against Atlanta, when, at age 36, he went a full nine innings without giving up a run. And then, with the score still 0-0, he came out and pitched the 10th. His Minnesota manager, Tom Kelly, had also thought about taking him out. “I can pitch,” Morris reportedly said, the way The Godfather would say, "Lemme take care of it." Kelly left him in. Jack retired the side on eight pitches. Half an inning and one bases-loaded hit later, the Twins were World Champions.<doc-sep>By Lynn Henning The Detroit News Cooperstown, New York — Baseball’s mystical and physical worlds merge this weekend at a dreamy place Alan Trammell and Jack Morris together have landed. By the time you’ve arrived at Cooperstown, it feels as if you’ve indeed reached another realm. Baseball’s Hall of Fame, where Trammell and Morris will be installed during a Sunday afternoon lawn fest, rests 76 miles west of Albany, 93 miles southeast of Syracuse, and 223 miles northwest of New York City, amid roller-coaster hills and enough trees and greenery to seemingly oxygenate the lower 48’s northeast tier. Corn and hay fields and farms with old silos still standing are bisected by meandering two-lane roads and by the occasional four-corners hotel that looks as if it might have been built during the days of native star James Fenimore Cooper. The surrounding terrain envelops a four-block downtown and adjoining neighborhoods brimming with trees and homes from the 19th and early 20th century. More: Trammell and Morris: Hall of Famers left imprint on Tigers It’s more village than city — population, 1,770 — and will remind people from Michigan of perhaps Fenton, or Dundee, or Milford, or Clare, or some stone-walled burg you might find along the lower Great Lakes waterways. It is, frankly, one crazy-tail place for baseball to have established its Holy Land. But that’s the legend, emphasis on legend, according to those who insist it was here Abner Doubleday founded America’s grand old game. As years have passed since the first summer induction, in 1939, a steady parade of baseball giants has arrived on the last Sunday in July for a kind of baseball canonization. Regal shrines It is being repeated Sunday, with the one-time Tigers masters, Trammell and Morris, joining Jim Thome, Vladimir Guerrero, Chipper Jones, and Trevor Hoffman in having their names, visages, and careers engraved on bronze plaques. They will stand on stage, offering speeches of eight minutes or so (keep ‘em tight, the Hall of Fame brass has commanded) they have spent six months writing and rehearsing. Beneath and beyond them and the dais will be a sea of wooden chairs lining a lawn that will seem to bleed into the hay and corn and hills, a seamless weave that whether by design or by accident honors baseball’s communion with nature. The forecast for Sunday is ideal: 75 degrees and sunshine. This will be weather as glorious as the names that for the past 80 inductions have made baseball’s hall of fame transcendent: Cobb, Ruth, Gehrig, Mays, DiMaggio, Aaron, Speaker, Mantle, Wagner, Gehringer, Robinson, Greenberg, Berra, Bench, Feller, Koufax, Clemente — and, yes, from Detroit, an outfielder, Al Kaline, who 38 years ago was the last player, Tigers-certified, to have won Hall of Fame grandeur. It is, in fact, those names, which have mounted through generations, that make Cooperstown the most regal of all sports halls. It is no slight to football's mecca in Canton, Ohio; or to basketball’s in Springfield, Mass. ; or hockey’s in Toronto, to say, with general agreement, that baseball’s museum has status significantly above any other sport’s. More: Tigers greats Alan Trammell, Jack Morris reflect on first meeting It is incredibly difficult to crack Cooperstown’s chambers. But there they were, Friday, two showcases within the Hall of Fame wings filled with Trammell’s and Morris’ artifacts — a baseball King Tut exhibit — that after Sunday will be joined by their Hall of Fame plaques. Trammell’s baseball relics were highlighted by a Tigers game jersey, and by his first baseball glove, a present on his ninth birthday in 1967. There was the bat from Game 4 of the 1984 World Series when he slammed two home runs. And there was a Michigan license plate, with the vanity-plate letters “WS MVP” that adorned a Pontiac Trans Am he drove as his prize for being named the ’84 Series MVP. Morris’ trophy case was centered by two jerseys: a Tigers road shirt, and a red-and-white Twins top that’s a testament to his hometown, St. Paul, Minn., as well as to the championship he won with the Twins in 1991. There is in the Morris museum a baseball from his ’84 no-hitter against the White Sox, and his ’91 World Series award. As with Trammell, there also is a ball glove from his boyhood — a cracked-leather fossil from when he played shortstop and pitched at Highland Park High. These will be treasures not as important, perhaps not as eternal, as the bronzed names to which they belong. It’s the men, after all, the players, and their sustained excellence, that have made this weekend in Cooperstown one more soulful pilgrimage for baseball’s fans and followers. Hallowed town Friday afternoon in Cooperstown was straight from baseball’s and Americana’s joint foundry. On a main street flanked by three-story buildings, some of brick, some of wood-colonial inspiration, there strolled along the sidewalks fans wearing baseball jerseys, families stopping for ice cream, or sole wanderers toting shopping bags loaded with goodies from Cooperstown’s apparent major industry: souvenir shops. The shops, of course, all have theme names — Shoeless Joe’s, Safe at Home, etc. — but what distinguished the wanderers’ faces and words Friday was a kind of serenity, a noticeable dearth of decibels in voices as they ambled along main street’s walkways. It was as if they had indeed descended upon a place both hallowed and happy. Trammell and Morris were tucked away somewhere with the other baseball deities, preparing for a weekend that will seem to them as moments from a different cosmos. But together, the players, and the people who have come this weekend to commend them to Cooperstown, had to have understood Friday that in life there are times and moments that cannot be overstated. Getting into this Hall of Fame, after all, is what you might cite as a baseball version of Scripture: Many are called. Few are chosen. lynn.henning@detroitnews.com twitter.com/Lynn_Henning Induction day What: Tigers greats Alan Trammell and Jack Morris will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. When: Sunday, 1:30 p.m. Where: Cooperstown, N.Y. TV: MLB Network<doc-sep>
Detroit Free Press staff The roars are still heard from 1984. Alan Trammell and Jack Morris helped the Detroit Tigers end a 16-year World Series drought in '84, and in the process they created lasting memories for fans in Michigan and beyond. The Free Press asked readers to share those memories ahead of Trammell and Morris' induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame on Sunday. And they didn't disappoint. Here's a look at how fans remember two of the greatest Tigers of all time (submissions were edited for grammar and clarity): Elevator encounter "In September 1984, me and a bunch of friends went to Toronto on the train to see the Tigers play the Blue Jays. ... We stayed at the same hotel the Tigers stayed. On Saturday morning, I took the elevator down to get a paper. I was the only one waiting for the elevator, that is till Tram walked up. I didn't know what to say. Tram started the conversation with me. 'Going to the game today?' he said, among other things. What a cool, down-to-earth friendly guy. Couldn't have been nicer. When the elevator arrived after a few minutes and the door opened, there was Lance Parrish and Roger Craig on the elevator. I didn't say a word on the way down; just listened. Never forget it. By the way, the Tigers swept the Jays to go nine games up in the division. HOF, way to go Tram. A great player and a better man." — Tony Arna A (grass) cut above "Back in the early 1980s — through the World Series — Trammell lived in Redford Twp. on Inkster Road during the baseball season. My family and I lived in the subdivision behind his home — within sight of his back yard. We could see him puttering in the yard before game time, and cutting the large lawn on his riding lawn mower. We'd ride our bikes around the area, waving at him if he was outside. He was always friendly, just a regular guy. He never got caught up in his fame, whether we saw him at home, or at a baseball card signing event. He was our favorite Tiger — and still is!" — M A Miller Crandall Joy 'at a very sad time' "My favorite memory of Jack is not his great pitching career, but something very personal that I hold dear to my heart. In 1989, my 17-year-old son, a left-handed varsity pitcher and first baseman, was dying of a malignant brain tumor. Jack was one of his idols. Jack came to our home and visited with my son. This meant so much to my son and brought some joy into his life at a very sad time. I will be forever thankful to Jack for that moment of kindness that meant so much to our entire family." — JoAnne Tappan [Read more of our Baseball Hall of Fame coverage: Once-combative Jack Morris just wants to be loved] A defensive clinic "It was the only baseball clinic that I have ever been to, and I will never forget it. In 1992 Alan Trammell talked to some of my teammates and me at Detroit Mercy. He taught us how to field ground balls properly and many things that I teach my nephews. My fellow Southwestern Prospectors and I won our high school championship game at Tiger Stadium, and all I could think of was, 'This is where my favorite team plays.' " — Lester Bryant No-hitter-versary "I was married on 4/8/84. We had an afternoon wedding, with an evening reception. After the wedding, we were all standing around outside the new mother-in-law's place. The guys and I decided it was too warm in those tuxedos, and we were going to go to the house to wait it out. Turned on the game, and had a wonderful afternoon. For years, when my wife asked if I knew what was coming up, I replied: '(XXXX) [sic] years ago, Jack Morris tossed his no-hitter.' That went over well." — Herb Berg TV time "I was sitting directly behind home plate at Comisky Park for Jack Morris’ no-hitter on April 8,1984. You can see me in the last-pitch video that was used by MLB for many of its 'Game of the Week' games for years." — Jeffrey Wittman Fond farewell "In 1991, I ran into Jack Morris as I was leaving for Washington, D.C., at the Metro Airport in Detroit.