All but a handful of baseball’s 30 teams have moved in the past three decades. Take the Cincinnati Reds, who trained in Tampa for 41 years before moving to Plant City, Florida, and are about to move again, this time to Arizona. Or, the Los Angeles Dodgers, who created Dodgertown 61 years ago in Vero Beach – and just bolted for Arizona, too.

In this amoral environment, the Detroit Tigers stand as pillars of fidelity. Except for three years during World War II, when they trained in Evansville, Indiana, the Tigers have trained in Lakeland every year since 1934.  That's 73 seasons, for you folks scoring at home -- by far the longest marriage in the major leagues. 

But why Lakeland?

It’s not the nightlife. Hall of Fame broadcaster Ernie Harwell told me, that when he started visiting Lakeland in 1941, “nothing happened here but morning, noon and night -- and sometimes they skipped one of those."

But as many divorced couples can tell you, looks aren’t everything. The most important consideration for any major league club is the facilities – and Lakeland’s are simply the best, paid for by their taxpayers, and maintained by their city workers -- right down to installing the bulletin boards and emptying the trash cans. 

But the real foundation of this rock-solid relationship is the unlikely friendship forged decades ago between two men: former Tigers' president Jim Campbell and a guy named Joker Marchant.  You probably have heard of Campbell, but most Tigers fans only know Joker Marchant’s name because the club named the spring training field after him.  Officially, he was the director of Lakeland's parks and recreation department for 35 years.  Unofficially, Joker Marchant was the "Boss Hog" of Lakeland, getting things done no one else dared.

Marchant was a small, wiry guy, only about five-eight.  But he carried himself so well, with his big white Stetson, leathery skin and deep Southern drawl, that many people I talked to remembered him being about six feet tall.  He always drove a pick-up truck, never a sedan.  His only indulgence was leaving work every day at 5 p.m. to go home and watch re-runs of "Gunsmoke.”  Then he’d hop in his pick up truck and get back to work.

One of Marchants employees told me Marchant “would never, EVER, let you down. His word was his bond, and Campbell was the same way.” Despite their differences in background and demeanor, Campbell and Marchant both saw in the other a kindred spirit. 

A little story: In the eighties, the Tigers had a minor league pitcher who brought a huge boa constrictor to spring training. (And yes, movie fans, this predated “Major League” by a few years.) When one of Joker’s young workers asked Joker what to do, he told him to put the snake in an extra room in the cafeteria. For the Tigers, Joker would do anything. That’s how much respect Marchant had for Jim Campbell. 

But when Campbell heard about the snake he was “hotter'n a firecracker,” the worker told me. Campbell was giving him the business up one side and down the other, using every expletive in the book – and even threatened to fire him. Finally the worker mumbled, “Well, Joker said it was ok.'"  At that, Campbell stared at the young man, bulged his eyes, clenched his jaw -- and simply walked away.  The worker had just said the only thing that could have gotten him off the hook. That’s how much respect Campbell had for Joker Marchant. 

Near the end of their long careers, and longer lives, Jim Campbell -- a famous, rich guy from a big northern city -- and Joker Marchant, a small town parks and rec guy from central Florida – would sit down together every morning in the team’s cafeteria, eat breakfast, and talk about old times. 

 They had become the closest of friends -- as unlikely a relationship as the one they would leave behind: between Jim Campbell’s Detroit Tigers, and Joker Marchant’s little Lakeland.  

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