R.I.P. Mickey Lolich: The Beer-Drinker’s Idol, the Workhorse Lefty, and the One-Year Met Who Wouldn’t Ice His Arm

There are Hall of Famers, and then there are baseball lifers—guys who looked like they could’ve been sitting two stools down from you at the bar, but instead went out every fifth day and took the ball like it owed them money.

Mickey Lolich was that guy.

Lolich, who passed away on February 4, 2026 at the age of 85, described himself as “the beer-drinker’s idol,” and nobody ever accused him of false advertising. With his sturdy frame, soft belly (which he insisted was “all muscle”), and no-nonsense delivery, Lolich looked less like a Greek god and more like a guy who just finished mowing the lawn and decided to throw nine innings.

And usually, he did.

Born September 12, 1940, in Portland, Oregon on the same day the Tigers were fighting for a pennant Lolich’s baseball story was never supposed to be neat. He wasn’t sculpted. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t throw 102 with a social media team following him around. He threw strikes, took responsibility, and stayed on the mound long after most pitchers were waving for help.

A childhood accident turned him into a left-hander. A stubborn streak kept him in the game. And a career built on endurance, guile, and grit made him unforgettable.

Lolich grew up throwing rocks at anything that moved, served as a batboy in the Pacific Coast League, set strikeout records in Oregon amateur ball, and signed with Detroit as a teenager. The minors didn’t go smoothly. He bounced around, refused demotions, briefly quit, struck out semi-pro hitters back home, and eventually found his way back through Portland—where someone finally told him the secret that changed everything:

Stop throwing so hard. Start throwing strikes.

From that moment on, Mickey Lolich stopped being a thrower and became a pitcher.

By the mid-1960s, he was entrenched in the Tigers rotation, racking up strikeouts, piling up complete games, and earning a reputation as a left-handed workhorse who never wanted the ball taken away. His delivery was smooth, his curveball was devastating, and his approach was simple: get ahead, let hitters get themselves out.

And then came 1968.

Baseball fans remember the Year of the Pitcher, Bob Gibson’s ERA, Denny McLain’s 31 wins—and if you’re paying attention, you remember that when Detroit needed a hero in October, it wasn’t McLain.

It was Mickey Lolich.

Three complete-game victories. A home run in the World Series despite being a career .110 hitter. A Game 7 win on two days’ rest against Gibson himself. Picks off Lou Brock. Picks off Curt Flood. Finishes the job.

The last pitcher ever to win three complete games in a single World Series.

World Series MVP.

If you’re looking for the definition of “they don’t make ’em like that anymore,” you can stop looking.

Lolich followed that masterpiece with some of the heaviest workloads baseball has ever seen. From 1971 through 1974, he threw 300+ innings every single year, striking out hitters by the hundreds, leading the league in Ks, and treating bullpen phones like decorative wall art.

He didn’t ice his arm. Ever.

After games, Lolich stood in the shower with scalding hot water running over his pitching arm for half an hour, turned bright red, and declared himself ready to go again in two days. Pitching coaches suggested ice. Lolich suggested they mind their business.

Eventually, the Tigers faded, the run support vanished, and in one of those trades that still makes both Detroit and New York fans wince, Mickey Lolich became a New York Met, and Rusty Staub a Tiger.

And this is where the story gets very Mets.

Lolich arrived in Queens in 1976 after spending nearly his entire career in Detroit, and while he never embraced New York, he absolutely gave the Mets everything he had. He finished the season with an 8–13 record classic Mets math but posted a very respectable 3.22 ERA on a club that wasn’t exactly bludgeoning opponents.

His finest Mets moment came on July 18, 1976, when he shut out the Braves at Shea Stadium on just two hits, no walks, and total command—because of course he did.

But Lolich clashed with Mets trainers and coaches who wanted him to run more, ice his arm, and modernize. Mickey Lolich had been pitching deep into October while half the league was still stretching, and he wasn’t about to change now.

So after one season, he retired.

Not traded. Not released. Retired—because sometimes the most Mickey Lolich thing to do is walk away rather than compromise.

He came back briefly with San Diego, even reinvented himself with a knuckleball (because why not), and finally stepped away from the game for good in 1979.

After baseball, Lolich ran a doughnut shop. Seriously. Because nothing says “World Series MVP” like selling crullers in suburban Michigan. He coached at Tigers fantasy camps, stayed active in charity work, and remained exactly what he’d always been: approachable, modest, and unmistakably real.

He never made the Hall of Fame, despite numbers that scream for a longer look—217 wins, nearly 2,900 strikeouts, 195 complete games, and a postseason ERA that barely broke a sweat. But to generations of fans, especially in Detroit—and yes, even to those of us who remember his one gritty year in orange and blue—Mickey Lolich represented something bigger.

He represented baseball before pitch counts.

Before openers.

Before five-and-dive was a thing.

He represented taking the ball, trusting your stuff, and finishing what you started.

The beer-drinker’s idol is gone.

But somewhere, there’s a left-hander still standing under hot water, arm red as a stop sign, ready for the next start and refusing, as always, to come out of the game.

Rest easy, Mickey. And thanks for the innings.