I have a new hero and his name is Dave Kindred.
I will name my next dog in your honor and speak well of you throughout Slappyland.
Denial of ego? Perhaps self-effacing Mitchie forgot the Mitch Watch, which told tales of his appearances in SE Michigan; such tales included berating a coffee shop waitress over his order and rejecting a school group that wanted to him because he didn't make appearances during the Stanley Cup Playoffs -- even though the Wings were long gone. Or the immortal start to his column on Tom Monaghan selling the Tigers to Mike Ilitch, one that had two wait two weeks until he returned from vacation. His lede? "I'm back and I have good news..." An oxymoron, but if the guts of the story were posted here, it would be a d_b of a d_b of David Aldridgesque proportions.
And I end this with two thoughts: One, bravo Mr. Kindred (sorry, Jim; but as usual, we will have to meet on a videotaped Dexter school bus and agree to disagree).
Two, the one saved edition of the Mitch Watch I have left, from Tommy Amaker's hire at Michigan. I miss those emails...
Tommy, buddy.
You've been in town five days, and there's no doubt you've heard of me by now. I'm Mitchie. Mr. Media. The man who can make your life wonderful or a living hell.
And there's a few things that you need to know before settling in to your cushy job at Michigan.
It has nothing to the goings on at U-M, although everyone knows I am THE expert in Ann Arbor. (Did you catch my books - Bo and The Fab Five?)
It has to do with me. And Tommy baby. there's no one who knows more about everything than me. You just have to trust me.
For starters, let me dispell the first myth you might have heard about me. You might have heard that I am a short, egotistical fella with a maniacal desire to hype all the irons in my fire.
Not true. We prefer to be called little people.
You also might have heard that I am soft on interviews, that I lob more softball questions than a Red Wings-Tiger Wives charity game (I know them all. I can get you tickets.). Or you might have heard that I never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Not true. I am a hard-hitting journalist. And you will find this out as soon as you come into my studio at WJR. (I would go to Ann Arbor, but my busy schedule usually precludes me from attending most sporting events, unless it's in the national spotlight like the Super Bowl or the Final Four.)
You might have heard that I care more about my radio show, my TV show, my appearances on ESPN, my TV work (Did you see Christmas in Connecticut?)
Most people didn't but now I know Dyan Cannon and Kris Kristofferson personally. I can let you see my autographed pictures), and my books from my column writing days for the Free Press. (Want an autographed set of Live Albom I-IV?) Not true. I care about them all, because it helps people realize the true me.
But enough about me, the person. Let's talk about me, and what you can do for me if you shmooze with me.
For starters, nobody in this market can do more for you than I can. Forget those other writers. The fat guy went to Michigan and he's not objective like I am (Did you read my book on Chris Webber?). The other columnist at the Freep also went to Michigan and all he does is bad mouth the school. (Besides, he's been jealous of me since I got my own private editor so the people who run the paper aren't allowed to edit so much as a comma in my copy.)
And the Ann Arbor News? Even though they go to games, attend practices and actually talk to players, most of them don't have a clue as to what goes on in athletics.
TV guys? You don't want to listen to them. Channel 2 and 50 don't have anyone who understand sports. Bernie's schtick on Channel 4 is growing tired. (Did you see my stuff on MSNBC, where I challenge two dogs - a mutt and Don Shane - to do NCAA tourney picks? Neat, huh? No one's ever thought of that before.)
Trust me. I'll never bad mouth you until the bus is packed and headed out of the station. Ask Brian Ellerbe, Alvin Gentry, Doug Collins, Wayne Fontes, Scott Mitchell, Ron Rothstein or Dennis Rodman if I ever wrote a bad word about them until the handwriting was on the wall.
While you're here, I'll be warm and kind... Excuse me a second. "HEY!!! I ASKED FOR AN EXTRA BUTTER PATTY WITH MY TOAST! CAN I GET SOME SERVICE HERE, TOOTS!?!"
Sorry for the interruption.
Anyway, I'm back and I have good news. No one can help you more than I can. I know everybody. I know Geoffrey Fieger (big ego) and Jeff Weaver (some kind of sports player guy). I'm in touch with the common folk. No one knows the area from 14 Mile to Quarton, from Evergreen to Farmington Roads like I do, baby.
Tommy, buddy. If you have a player that has a sad story, like his grandma could only afford a Blazer instead of a Navigator, I can help. I write this annual column called "Dreams Deferred" where I make my yearly foray into the common folk who have actual problems. (Some of these stories hadn't been seen in the paper, prior to my writing them, for days!) You help me, I help you.
See, you need me. When you left Seton Hall, you implored Jerry Isenberg of the Newark Star Ledger to help you with your image. Forget him.
Allow me.
I can make you seem smoother than Coach K, Special K, or Danny Kaye.
Forget this Izzo guy. All he's doing is winning and making me actually have to go to his tourney games. (Do you know how much of a drag it is flying from Detroit to Memphis, to New York, back to Memphis, back to Detroit in two days because his games interfere with my ESPN gig?) All you need to do is win a few games, look good and put fannies in the stands.
(But not too many more. Don't want you to get more people watching your games than I get watching my TV show).
A couple of 1-on-1 interviews with me in the paper (when I'm off of this grueling NCAA tourney pace) or on my radio show and I'll make you seem like someone only ax murderers couldn't love. And even then, I'll make them like you.
I can help. I'm on your side. I'm in your pocket ? usually the front one.
Got a question, need advice? I'm here for you. Just ask. No one else will do this for you. We're gonna be close, babe. Whether we are or not, I'm gonna make sure everyone thinks we are, so you might as well climb aboard.
Trust me. I am not making this up.
