Birmingham — He awakens at 4:30 a.m. to start compiling notes on the Tigers’ upcoming opponent. By mid-morning, he’s in the midst of a one-hour workout. By early afternoon, he’s on his way to Lansing for a charity golf outing. Kirk Gibson’s body fights him with every movement, frustrates him every day, slows him but never stops him.
Too much to do; too many ways he can help. It’s not an option; it’s a personal mandate. A cruel irony of having Parkinson’s, at least for Gibson, is that his resolve grows exponentially as his body weakens. His fight now is a decade old, and if you thought he was tired or discouraged, he’ll happily present evidence to the contrary.
He does fewer Tigers telecasts as a concession to the disease, although he’s reluctant to make concessions. Gibson, 66, sounds like a man entering a critical phase of his life, when the next big accomplishments will be among his last, and his most lasting. That’s the twist with Parkinson’s, a progressive brain disorder that affects the nervous system and causes tremors, muscular rigidity and speech alterations. Rather than destroy quickly, as many diseases do, it forces you to live with it, often for quite a while.
So if he’s gonna be around for a while, Gibby’s damn sure gonna make it worthwhile. What he’s learned since being diagnosed in 2015 is how much support a Parkinson’s patient needs, and how difficult it is to find. He has the means to get the medicines and therapies, but many people don’t. So Gibson, World Series champion with the 1984 Tigers and 1988 Dodgers, puts his celebrity to ever-lasting use: to raise awareness and funds, more urgently than ever.
His Kirk Gibson Foundation for Parkinson’s is expanding its mission with the goal of building therapy centers for Parkinson’s patients in southeast Michigan because insurance usually doesn’t cover long-term care. The latest fundraising push includes two major events. The “Strike Out Parkinson’s” bowling event is Sunday at Bowlero Lanes in Royal Oak. The evening includes a 1984 World Series Q&A with Gibson, Alan Trammell and Goose Gossage, who delivered the pitch that Gibson clobbered into the Tiger Stadium upper deck to clinch the championship. Some tickets remain and can be purchased at KirkGibsonFoundation.org.
The sixth annual Kirk Gibson Golf Classic is Monday at the Wyndgate Country Club in Rochester Hills. That event is sold out, but the foundation always seeks volunteers to join “Team23,” a grassroots fundraising team bearing Gibson’s uniform number.
He’ll participate in all of it. It’s taxing but also joyful. Gibson likes to surround himself with people who make him laugh, even though Parkinson’s effects make it harder to smile.
“It doesn’t go away,” Gibson said. “It’s a bad situation, and you want to find something uplifting out of it. You really learn what makes you go and who’s there for you and who isn’t. Whether you have Parkinson’s or not, there are times in people’s lives, as they get older, where there’s a deeper thought process. When you’re younger, you don’t have a worry in the world. Then all of a sudden, your first call of duty. Then your second. I don’t know what call I’m on now, but it’s a helluva long-distance one.”
The initial duties were all about sports, from All-American football player at Michigan State, to World Series hero for two teams. It’s fitting that his most famous feats were clutch longshots against the toughest opponents. His home run in 1984 off Padres’ great Gossage clinched the decisive Game 5 for the Tigers. In the 1988 World Series, he limped to the plate and slugged a ninth-inning pinch-hit home run off Oakland great Dennis Eckersley to win Game 1.
Building hope
One call of duty never changes, with his wife, JoAnn, sons Cam, Kevin and Kirk, and daughter Colleen. Gibson has played in the major leagues, managed in the major leagues, now broadcasts in the major leagues, usually surrounded by family. Cam works for the foundation after a five-year stint as an outfielder in the Tigers’ minor-league system.
In Gibson’s Birmingham office, the latest, loudest call is growing. One wall bears the words of his mission — Hope, Inspiration, Help. He sits with Steve Annear, a business consultant and motivational speaker from Australia, and their goal to build therapy centers has advanced well past the dream stage.
There’s no cure for Parkinson’s, and because life expectancy is about the same as a non-afflicted person, treatments can last a long time at enormous cost. The disease often leads to isolation, which can lead to depression. Gibson and Annear are trying to build hope, in the spiritual sense and the bricks-and-mortar sense.
“What we’re learning is that movement helps deal with the symptoms,” Gibson said. “You get diagnosed, they give you some prognosis, you get three to four weeks of paid therapy and after that, you’re on your own. What happens generally is, people go to the therapy and then stay home because they can’t pay for it, or they’re just lazy. So I talk to them and I say, where do you live? I’ll come get you, we can talk. You want to participate, do it. If you don’t, don’t.”
If that sounds blunt, well, he means it to be. No room for self-pity in Gibson’s mission.
“For anybody with Parkinson’s, you just have to get up every day and say, f— you,” he continued. “At first, you’re motivated, but we want to have insurance extend and pay for group therapy. We’ve found when you bring everybody together, it’s like a big family, like a team. You see a totally different personality, you see people not worrying about their arm shaking, or that their hand is in their pocket. We’ve looked into these centers, and people walk in, and right away, they smile.”
As he talks, the passion rises. This might be his most competitive endeavor yet. Gibson supplies the inspiration, then turns to Annear, who organizes the plan.
In his Aussie accent, Annear delivers the same uplifting message. When he was 11, he lost his left leg due to a blood circulation malformation. It could’ve been saved with today’s technology, so he knows a little about the urgency of medical advancements. He grew up in the Western Australian Outback and made his way to Harvard Business School and eventually to Michigan. He’s an avid golfer, and he completed the Free Press marathon in 2022, running with crutches, the last to finish at just under nine hours.
Annear met Gibson on a golf course a couple of years ago, when he spotted this stranger hustling up the 9th fairway trying to join their group. They welcomed him, not knowing who or what they were about to encounter.
“I don’t have Parkinson’s,” Annear, 62, said. “My connection is Kirk, learning about the disease from him and being inspired by him. That day, I had no idea who he was. I went home and searched him to see what the fuss was about, and all of a sudden, I see ‘84 and I see ‘88, and I understand he’s this Michigan hero. But the hero I see is not a baseball hero. It’s a person that’s committing to lead a great life, but also helping others who have the disease.”
Strong team
Annear was a CEO and turnaround specialist for 30 years. He attacks adverse situations, in the corporate world and in life. Watching the two interact, it looks like a friendship more than a partnership. From different backgrounds, facing different challenges, they realized their practical skills could be mutually beneficial.
“I was pretty good at hitting in clutch situations, but I don’t know if I was the right guy to lead day to day,” Gibson said. “(Steve) is like an angel that I’ve met late in my life. He has experience dealing with what I’m dealing with. He ran a marathon on one leg! That’s incredible.”
Annear began by volunteering with the foundation, then got more involved and now is the managing director. Finding a cure remains the ultimate goal, and there are encouraging breakthroughs. Actor Michael J. Fox’s foundation is the beacon, having raised more than $100 million since the actor was diagnosed with Parkinson’s 32 years ago.
Gibson’s foundation is trying to fill in the other empty spaces, enhancing people’s lives while they wait for a cure. Gibson found his purpose shortly after the disease found him. Annear found his purpose when he found Gibson.
“Like anybody, I’ve had my lumps in my life,” Annear said. “I don’t feel that I’m disabled or unfortunate. Actually, I feel very lucky. Part of that fortune has been meeting Kirk. This has given me a deeper sense of purpose. Gibby’s crazy, relentless, and part of the changes at the foundation are to take the operational load off him so he can be doing his stuff, getting the message out. With the right resources, we can have such a great influence on people’s lives.”
Gibson already has. I’ve attended his golf outings and been amazed by the people with Parkinson’s who drive from across the country to speak with him. Their emotions flow, and Gibby, the grizzle-faced growling Tiger, is the one who soothes them. Many of his sports buddies, from Alan Trammell to David Wells to Jack Morris to Dave Rozema to Tom Izzo, donate time and memorabilia. At the bowling event, Gibson promises an entertaining discussion with Gossage, who famously insisted on pitching to Gibson instead of walking him.
As a baseball star, Gibson admits he had less time for others, busily carving his career. Looking back, he dislikes the aloof persona he presented. When he sees old tapes of himself, he believes symptoms started creeping in 30-plus years ago. He was diagnosed after he froze up before the Tigers Opening Day telecast in 2015.
“It’s scary, but then I realized it wasn’t a death sentence,” Gibson said. “I’m still intense, not as intense. It bothers me that I’m not as athletic. I was pretty good at quite a few things. It’s a challenge to accept that it’s not that way anymore.”
He gets quiet. Reflective, but not somber. He’ll still absently stick his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking, his gait can be halting, his voice can fluctuate. He knows people see it and hear it, and he’s not afraid to talk about it, even as he detects the disease’s slow advancement. The point is, if he can handle it, so can those in less public settings.
“There are times the disease kind of creeps through me and I feel lethargic, achy,” Gibson said. “I was running on the treadmill the other day, and my legs just don’t move like they used to, like I’m losing my limbs a little bit. We’re playing golf after I get done here, so I know I gotta slip a couple pills so I can kick his f—— ass.”
Gibson nodded at Annear, who responded with a wink and mumbled, “He wishes.”
There’s always room for laughter, but it only comes when people are comfortable with who they are. That’s the purpose of this, to help pull Parkinson’s patients from the shadows and recognize there are many like them.
“The (research) side of it is very well funded,” Annear said. “What’s not funded is helping people live with the disease. The disease is very isolating, people get embarrassed by it when the symptoms are occurring. They withdraw. They can lose their jobs. There are all sorts of complications, but if you get involved in activity-based programs, you can really improve the quality of life. That’s become the mission, and it’s so consistent with Gibby as a person and how he lives his life.”
It starts with actual movement, exercise and interaction. It was a painful adjustment for Gibson, but he likes who he has become, even if he hates the mortal restrictions.
“I’ve been somewhat of a private person, socially nervous when people approach me,” Gibson said. “Totally the opposite now. Because I just feel it’s rewarding to know you’re helping people. When you help somebody, they find somebody. That’s my new normal, and I’m gonna continue to try as many things as I can, within reason.”
‘My new normal’
He means fundraising events. He means personal contact. He means balancing his regular life, and it’s not easy. He says his family is basically afflicted with “Parky” by their connection to him.
He also means living by example. He golfs almost daily but had to give up pickleball after knee-replacement surgery last June. He’s in his 14th season over two stints in the Tigers broadcast booth. An announcement promoting his foundation appears during telecasts and shows Gibson bundled in gear, standing on a frosty landscape. He says to the camera, “Where are we?” He answers to the camera, “Who cares?” and smiles.
So, where were you?
“Alaska, and I’m going again this year,” he said. “We got on an airplane in our waders at 8 a.m. and flew out to the middle of the tundra. We landed on a little lake, carried our disassembled raft up over the hill and slid down on our asses. Then we reconstructed it and floated in the river with the bears, and fished all day.”
When he meets people newly diagnosed, these are the stories he tells. That so many things are still possible, but there’s no clear path, and no path at all if you don’t try to carve one.
“I can only tell them what I did and why,” he said. “I can make some suggestions what they could do, this, this or this. Or you can do nothing. It’s your choice.”
True for him, true for all patients, true for all of us, really. A lifetime is finite, a dream is infinite. For Gibson, doing nothing has never been an option.
bob.wojnowski@detroitnews.com
Twitter: @bobwojnowski