The Cornejos: Oh, What Coulda Been!

After about 36 hours of nonstop computer rehab, I’m back online and putting my time and energy to good use: following the never-ending trail of minutiae available from the Internet. Settle in, friends, and follow me on this one.

Back in December I wrote that the date of the Willis/Cabrera trade, Dec. 4, was a popular one for deals over the Tigers’ history. I haven’t run the numbers but methinks March, with all its roster-wrangling, is likely the most-active month for trades in Detroit.

Here are a couple of examples close to today’s date in Tigers history:

On March 14, 1980, the Tigers traded infielder and former White Sox manager Jerry Manuel to the Expos for catcher Duffy Dyer. And on March 13, 1979, the Tigers traded lefty Ed Glynn to the Mets for righty Mardie Cornejo.

When I read about the latter I thought to myself: I wonder if Mardie is Nate Cornejo’s dad. Lo and behold, he is.

The elder Cornejo saw his first and last big-league action 30 years ago with the Amazin’s (4-2, 2.45 ERA, 3 saves).

Unlike his dad (a 21st-round pick by the Mets), Nate had big upside. Ten years ago he was a first rounder, the second of the Tigers’ two first-round picks. Detroit selected Jeff Weaver at number 14 and Cornejo at number 34. (Nate would wear #34 in Detroit. Spooky.) Oh, and Carlos Pena went at number 10 to the Rangers.

Like Weaver, Cornejo was expected to be a mainstay in the Tigers rotation. Unfortunately, he shared little more with Weaver than the distinction of another first-round bust selected by former GM Randy Smith.

In four years with the Tigers, Nate racked up a 12 and 29 record with a 5.41 ERA. In 2003, he threw nearly 200 innings which, in retrospect, is probably why his career was essentially over in 2004.

It’s too bad that Mardie Cornejo didn’t see time with the Tigers. He and his son could’ve been a father-and-son tandem before Steve and Jason Grilli.

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Things will be quiet on The Daily Fungo for the next couple of days. I’m heading out of town for a weekend getaway — without my laptop. Imagine.