It's hard to process the idea that Sparky Anderson is gone. He hadn't worn his No. 11 jersey with the Old English D for years, but in my mind's eye, it's easy to see him bounding out to the mound (hopping over the baseline out of superstition) as "Captain Hook" taking a tiring starter out of the game. I see him hitting grounders and slapping backs during batting practice. I see the impish look in his eyes as he throws out a Yogi Berra-esque non sequitur in a post-game interview. He might have looked old when he took over the Tigers in 1979, but even in his later years you still got the distinct feeling he loved every moment of having spent his life around a boy's game.

What I'll really never forget is how he singlehandedly brought the Detroit Tigers back to life. I grew up a Tigers fan, but I always had "other" teams I rooted for, like the Phillies and Pirates. Why? Because during the mid-to-late 1970s, the Tigers were an afterthought. Aside from the one-hit wonder of Mark Fidrych and the made-for-TV-movie story of Ron LeFlore, the team had lost its connection to baseball relevancy when Al Kaline retired. The 1968 World Series win was a generation removed. The Tigers were nowhere.

And then they hired Sparky Anderson, and they were on the map. Sparky Anderson? The guy who made Cincinnati into The Big Red Machine? And suddenly, the Tigers had a chance. It didn't happen overnight – I remember Sparky sparring with Al Ackerman, who called him "Fifth-Place Sparky" after his first couple seasons with the Tigers. But soon enough, Al would be saying "Bless You Boys!"

Sparky had the baseball acumen to know how to get the most out of talented kids who needed some confidence, like Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker. And he had the gravitas to stand up to the talented kids who had too much confidence, like Kirk Gibson and Jack Morris. Better yet, he made them into a team. Even after the euphoria of the 35-5 start and the '84 World Series was gone, and after the close call of 1987 had faded, and as the neglect of the Monaghan ownership years set it, you still felt like the Tigers had a chance because Sparky was running the show.

Then he wasn't. And you knew that we were screwed. We were. Detroit became a baseball ghost town for a decade after Sparky left. Once the lights were turned back on, and the Tigers had returned to the World Series in 2006, a wonderful moment happened. Before Game 2, a couple former Tigers walked onto the field during warmups. First was Tram, who had failed to bring his shortstop magic to his time as Tigers manager, but was still getting a warm welcome from the home crowd. But then, starting from a small burst of applause, a roaring standing ovation. Sparky was on the field. Everything stopped. Players running sprints in the outfield turned around and gravitated toward Sparky. Same with broadcasters, umpires, opposing players. There was the guy who loved baseball, and the city that loved him. The ballpark felt like home again, and Sparky was the life of the party.

Sparky. Ernie Harwell. George Kell. Mark Fidrych. Too many losses, too close together. We were lucky to have them all. But right now, spring training is entirely too far away.