What got me Sunday morning about the Jose Lima news bulletin was how it affected certain players in the Tigers clubhouse.

Ramon Santiago, specifically.

He sat in his locker cubicle, in the beautiful dark suit Lima had bought for him when he was a rookie, and his face was the essence of forlorn shock. Lima, the Tigers' teammate spanning two stops in Detroit, the man with a voice and gregariousness made for the stage, was gone, at age 37, apparently from a heart attack.

Some might not have been great fans of Lima or his theatrics. Personally, they seemed so natural, so geyser-like, they never were bothersome. It would have been like telling Robin Williams to cool it.

But on the day Santiago got to the big leagues, Lima asked a rookie who knew nothing of big-league life: "What do you need?"

And then Lima had his tailor make Santiago five custom-made suits, so the kid could travel like the other big-leaguers who are required to dress in suits and sport coats when the team hits the road.

That was Lima. More than the stagecraft, he had a tremendous heart. Ask the guys with whom he played. They were dealing with their own degrees of grief Sunday.

Times have changed

Al Kaline, Willie Horton, Mickey Lolich, Mickey Stanley, Bill Freehan, Jim Northrup, Gates Brown, Denny McLain -- the 1968 Tigers who still live in these parts and who that year won a World Series must be rolling their eyes when they hear the Tigers' best hitter will miss two days for his baby girl's birth.

It wasn't that way even 20 years ago. Your father-in-law passed away? Oh, we're sorry. Your wife will be there, won't she?

Jim Leyland, the Tigers manager, spoke Sunday about baseball's different consciousness when he said Cabrera's absence from the Mariners series would be "for the right reasons."

This return to his wife's bedside is, in fact, significant and reflective of the man Cabrera is in 2010. There are too many instances in professional sports where husband and wife are so detached that going home for a baby's birth would not be the athlete's first inclination.

This was a no-doubter. The Tigers realize there are moments in life that transcend a baseball game. Be glad the sport has changed just enough to allow for occasional bows to a new and improved set of values.

Still 'interesting'

Coming into the season, one word seemed irresistible when people asked how the Tigers would do in 2010.

"They'll be interesting," was the usual response.

Not necessarily a winner -- in fact, the guess always has been they will finish at or near .500 -- but "interesting."

And just past the one-quarter mark, the word still applies.

Austin Jackson. Brennan Boesch. Johnny Damon. Jose Valverde. The situation at second base. The big changes and topsy-turvy nature of Leyland's pitching staff.

It was bound to be a season of intrigue at Comerica Park. And it is just that.

The team has actually done better, significantly better, than someone would have predicted two months ago. This has been a brutal stretch, with all the West Coast travel and with the Yankees and Red Sox on the early schedule, and here are the Tigers, with a handful of hitters who can't hit and with an unpredictable starting rotation, and they're 25-19.

The belief is that it will be this way right to the wire. A division winner? Probably not. A team that will entertain all the way into October? Absolutely.

Scary sight

Jackson's frightful beaning in Saturday's game was, in my experience, as bad as it gets. This incident was so dreadfully close to being tragic that it makes you shudder.

Now, the question: Can a brilliant rookie shake off the psychological effects of having nearly been maimed, or even killed, by a mid-90-mph fastball to his forehead?

David Wright, the once-spectacular third baseman for the Mets, has been in a tailspin since San Francisco's Matt Cain hit him in the head last season.

Baseball history is filled with awful stories of players not coming back after taking pitches to the head or face. Tony Conigliaro's glorious career -- and nearly his life -- all but ended with just such a pitch in 1967.

Everyone seems to believe Jackson has the stuff to step back into the box and get on with a career that could be special. He was in good spirits Sunday, for as awful as he looked with an eye shut tight because of the swelling. He hadn't lost his sense of humor.

But, necessarily, we will be watching closely in coming days to see if the trauma lingers.

Saturday's incident made one's blood run cold. Jackson never even saw the pitch until it was on top of him.

This game requires extraordinary talent. And just as much courage.