The late Mark "The Bird" Fidrych had an unscripted role in the indie film named after him. Here, his improv is with Jack Cramer, the director's son (who played the main character's son).
Courtesy MIKE CRAMER

Fidrych with director/actor Mike Cramer and his son, Jack.

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The year was 1976, and the United States was in a reflexive mood. Bicentennial festivities had the country remembering its glorious beginnings, but celebrations were clouded by pessimism. The post-Vietnam, post-Watergate blues were thick, topped with a dollop of recession, polyester and feathered hair. There was a savior, though; one able to take Americans’ minds off of the troubles with an energized flip of the wrist.

Mark Fidrych was a tall, lanky sort with long arms and legs, and a mane of curly blond hair crammed under his hat. A rookie pitcher for the Detroit Tigers who was called up from the minor leagues unexpectedly, he held the nation’s fixation with his elongated and exaggerated pitching form, eccentric acts on the mound (was he really talking to the ball?) and, most importantly, his ability to strike out batters en masse.

The country watched Fidrych with wonder, nicknaming him, “The Bird,” due to his resemblance to Sesame Street’s Big Bird. The pair even appeared together on the cover of Sports Illustrated that year. During that long, eventful summer, the young pitcher was both perfect entertainment and a hope for all those who aspired to hit the big leagues someday—whatever the calling.

This notion fuels Dear Mr. Fidrych, a new film screening this Sunday at the Gene Siskel Film Center. Directed by Oak Park resident Mike Cramer (who also penned the script and stars), the coming-of-age tale follows a baseball-obsessed youth in mid-’70s Detroit into adulthood, where past dreams and aspirations are sidelined by family obligations and work at a Chicago advertising agency.

The scope is impressively ambitious. Broken into two equal halves, Dear Mr. Fidrych essentially tells two separate stories linked not only by protagonist Marty Jones’ lifeline, but also thematically.

The first half is devoted to Marty’s youth and finds the 12-year-old (played by Cramer’s son, Noah) balancing a love of baseball with an obvious talent for writing and poetry. He longs to play ball in a more advance league and Fidrych’s rags-to-riches story provides the inspiration and impetus to make it happen. Fast-forward thirty years and adult Marty (Mike Cramer) finds similar troubles. A part-time poet and full-time ad man, he struggles to stay true to himself as an artist, father and husband. When an unexpected life change hits, he sets off with his son (Cramer’s other son, Jack) on a cross-country trip to find long-lost hero Fidrych — a journey that proves both nostalgic and affirming.

Its compelling story notwithstanding, Dear Mr. Fidrych is undeniably amateur. The acting is sub-par and borderline embarrassing; the editing is choppy; dialogue is near indecipherable at times due to poor audio mixing; and, at almost 2 hours in length, the film drags with needlessly long sequences that should be on the cutting room floor.

These minuses are unfortunate since the film was undeniably a labor of love. The “let’s get the gang together and make a movie” moxie is undeniable. For this sense of community, Dear Mr. Fidrych must be commended. Cramer and company do hit the right buttons to evoke mid-’70s glory, though. The fashions, attitudes and sounds — Frampton and Zeppelin — ring absolutely true.

On a more somber note, Dear Mr. Fidrych allows a final glimpse at The Bird himself before he was killed tragically just as the film was finishing production.

The final appearance of Fidrych, retired from baseball hustle-bustle and living on a rural New York farm but still exuding a warm love of the game, marks the film’s place in sports history.