The Michigan Review article
January 23, 2007
by Amanda Nichols
The prodigal son has returned home. I speak, of course, of Chris Webber, the University of Michigan basketball star-turned-sometimes-NBA star and his recent signing with the Detroit Pistons. Webber made it clear that he signed with the Pistons out of his hope to win a championship, an accomplishment that has eluded him since he came to Ann Arbor in 1991. Within this reunion of hometown and hero, however, there is an undeniable aspect of redemption.
Webber needs redemption for the sins committed during his time as a Wolverine. You know, the infamous “time-out” incident of the 1993 NCAA Final Four, or the scandal with U-M booster Ed Martin that brought the banners down from the Crisler rafters and several penalties upon the current basketball program, to name a few. Yes, there certainly is a magic in that hometown vibe, for Webber was almost universally cheered by the Palace crowd as he appeared courtside at the Palace of Auburn Hills on Tuesday.
Webber is here now, but he has not been around since 1993, when he left U-M early to enter the draft. Maybe he’s noticed already, but in that time, we Detroiters have become a bit picky about who we let assume that hometown label. Take former MSU basketball standout and “Flintstone” Mateen Cleaves; he might have been a local boy, but fans made him earn his stripes—and he didn’t. Now, he no longer plays professionally.
But don’t let that fool you. Every so often, there is a sports figure who we in this struggling city grasp onto as our own. After all, why not? There isn’t much else left to take hold of.
Imagine this: it’s the summer of 1986. Right around the time that yours truly is making her debut into the world, the Tigers are battling it out for the AL East, the Pistons have most of their “Bad Boys” lineup in place, and the Lions are coming off a 7-9 season—and are about to go 5-11 (some things never change). And, at Joe Louis Arena, a brand new coach—a French-Canadian with his heart on his sleeve (the worst kind of French Canadian)—names a soft-spoken, peach-fuzzed, twenty one-year old kid captain of one of hockey’s most storied—but, in ’86, squandering—franchises.
Now, twenty-one years later, the number of that boy—yes, I can call Steve Yzerman a boy because, surely, at that time he was one—flutters next to those of some of hockey’s all-time greatest players. Perhaps you’re one of those kids, who, like me, knew no other captain in their lifetime. Perhaps you never saw a single season draw to a close without Stevie Y gracing the ice at least once, if not every night. Perhaps you are a bit older and remember the years before the Angel Yzerman came down from Peterborough, Ontario to save the team. Maybe, like me, you saw one of the countless articles written about Yzerman in recent days that lays claim to his class and dignity, his talent, and his leadership both on and off the ice.
