Baseball killed The Bird. Not literally, of course. Sadly, Mark (The Bird) Fidrych, a shooting comet that captivated all of sports 13 seasons ago, was found dead yesterday under a 10-wheel dump truck on his Northborough, Mass., home, the victim of an apparent accident. He was 54.

If you didn't know The Bird, if you're not old enough to recall his Disneyesque 1976 season, you missed perhaps the most captivating, quirky and endearing figure of of a generation. A 10-round draft choice in 1974, he reached the majors two years later and took a no-hitter into the seventh inning in a complete-game two-hit 2-1 debut win over the Cleveland Indians.

That night was just the beginning. The kid became the quintessential phenomenon. He led the league in ERA and won 19 games. He pitched 24 complete games (twenty-four!), including two successive 11-inning complete game wins. He pitched before sellout crowds in Detroit (generating $1 million in extra revenue, according to estimates), and huge throngs on the road. He finished second in the Cy Young to future Hall of Famer Jim Palmer.

But forget pitching: It was what Fidrych did between pitches that ignited the legend. He "manicured" the mound between pitches, smoothing out cleat marks on his knees. He talked to the ball. He talked to himself. He circled the mound like a ostrich after each out. He tossed out balls that had "hits" in them, demanding that they be removed from the game.

He was young. He was original. And he was having the time of his life.

Baseball needs The Bird, but would never tolerate him today.

First his manager would pitch-count him into extinction. Complete-game gems? Please. Last year Toronto's Roy Halladay led the majors with nine. No pitcher's had as many as 15 since Jack McDowell in 1991. No one's had 20 since Bert Blyleven (24) in '85.

So we'd never see an an 11-inning complete game masterpiece on SportsCenter. (Of course, Fidrych's young arm threw 250 innings that rookie season, which may have led the torn rotator cuff he suffered a year later, though it went undiagnosed for eight years. He pitched just 161 innings over the next four seasons, and won but 10 games.)

More important, The Bird would be clipped. Individuality and enthusiasm in baseball today is frowned upon deemed by too many as arrogant (Manny Ramirez), immature (Jose Reyes) and showoffish (Francisco Rodríguez).

A boring player is somehow deemed more "professional" than one who shows passion, enthusiasm, fire.

Talk to the ball? Try to throw it out because it has a "hit" in it?

The guy would be lit up like fireworks on opening night. Opposing pitchers would seek payback, bench-clearing brawls would ensue and sports writers would vilify him.

Too bad. Maybe this is just another vestige of the steroid era, which seems to suck the innocence, if not the life, out of the game.

Or maybe we can blame the wave of national conservatism exhibited by Newt Gingrich (version 1.0), Rush Limbaugh and others just too angry about God knows that to have any fun.

Whatever the cause, we all need to lighten up and have the kind of fun the Bird had, on an off the mound. He once said: "When you're a winner you're always happy, but if you're happy as a loser you'll always be a loser."

I miss the fun, the quirkiness, the game that tolerated its quirky brethren. Even celebrated them.

And baseball misses The Bird.

Corbis photo