Freep photographer Kirt Dozier was a talented journalist, and an even better guy
Eating dinner Friday night — ribs of all things, how weird that it was ribs — I glanced at my phone and saw an email that... ugh, no, this can’t be true.
“I have some sad news to share,” wrote Kathy Kieliszewski, Free Press senior news director for visuals. “Longtime Free Press photographer Kirt Dozier passed away this afternoon.”
It stopped me cold. He was only 65 years old. “Kirt has been an amazing friend and colleague to many on the staff,” she wrote, “and through his nearly three decades as a sports photographer at the Free Press, he’s captured some of the most indelible sports moments in this town’s history.”
Stunned.
Absolutely heartbroken.
And now I’m scrolling through pictures on my phone, with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, looking for photographs that I took of Kirt.
Then it hit me — somehow that seemed fitting.
Because Kirt’s life was an endless series of photographs, although he was usually the one shooting them.
He was the one who took some amazing photos of Miguel Cabrera’s last game, capturing the essence of that magical moment.
He was the one who took that joy-filled photograph of Jahmyr Gibbs, who had jumped into the stands at Ford Field and ended up in the arms of a fan.
He was the one who took that floating-inmid-air photograph of the Orchard Lake St. Mary’s baseball team celebrating a state title.
He was the one who … well, it would be impossible to list all the amazing photographs he has produced at the Free Press.
He was, simply, one of the best photographers I’ve ever met.
His talent was unquestioned. He always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. He had a knack for capturing not only a moment but the humanity inside it.
And he made those pictures look cool as heck.
But there’s something else. Something way beyond those photographs — he was one of the coolest dudes I’ve ever met, and he became a friend, not to mention a housemate.
Snowbirds
For several years, the Free Press has rented a three-bedroom house in Lakeland, Florida, for spring training. "We are the only news outlet with three people down here," he'd say proudly.
Evan Petzold, our young, talented Tigers beat writer, took one room. Dozier had the one by the door, and I slid into the one in the middle.
The young kid and two old dudes, all sharing a house together.
But man, it worked.
Because Kirt was such a great teammate. Kirt worked his butt off and was extremely competitive, something I truly appreciated and admired, always wanting to beat the Detroit News, wanting to get up earlier than them, wanting to be more creative, wanting to outwork them, wanting to do something different.
He was beautifully old-school that way — he was as competitive as one of the players we were covering.
And last spring, we seemed to hit the perfect stride.
“I’m going to tell the bosses that we gotta keep doing this,” he said. “This is the best spring we’ve ever had.”
All three of us were just on the same page. We would work all day and go back to the house and talk and set up the plan for the next day and bounce ideas off each other, and the communication was so strong, everybody was so aligned, the direction so perfect that everything just clicked.
“We are crushing it,” he’d say, proudly. Nothing seemed to make him happier.
There were countless times when I would see him at lunch and say, “Hey man, I’m sorry to do this to you. I shoulda told you earlier, but I’m doing a piece on Alex Lange.”
Or team president Scott Harris.
Or anyone, really.
“I already got a ton of him," he'd say, flashing a confident grin. "It’s in the system.”
And when young Evan talked me into shaving my head one night in Lakeland, postponing our dinner and taking me to a barber shop — follicly challenged, I was long losing the battle and
ready to take the plunge — I joined Dozier in the land of bald heads.
"Looks good," Dozier said, nodding his head and breaking into a smile. "Not everybody can pull it off."
And then he taught me how to shave my head.
A cool dude
So, I keep scrolling through my phone, going back years.
I find a picture that I took of him in 2021, the COVID year. He’s wearing a mask, standing behind a fence, shooting the Tigers from long range — man, that was a strange year.
He’s wearing shorts, a dark T-shirt and a floppy hat.
It was like his uniform in Lakeland.
Then, I find one of him crouched on the ground next to a batting cage — he moved like an athlete, subtle and effortless, always finding a new angle, always trying to uncover something new, with several cameras dangling from his neck.
Then, I find another one of us sitting together on the back fields in Lakeland, resting on a wood bench in the shade. He’s wearing shorts, crisp white sneakers, a dark T-shirt and a floppy hat, of course. A cross was dangling at his chest. A camera with a massive lens at his feet. Ready to be picked up. Ready to use.
He was always prepared.
After a long day of work — and the days are always incredibly long at spring training — Dozier and I would go back to the house and sit and drink cheap beer and talk and laugh. He shared some incredibly intimate details — it's amazing how writers and photographers can turn into a family because we're around each other so much.
But mostly, we talked about the old days at the Free Press.
About all the crazy stuff that journalists do. Or at least, used to do.
“It’s so different now,” we’d tell Petzold. Dozier told stories about taking a bus trip 20 years ago with the West Michigan Whitecaps, a team that included Don Kelly and Mike Rabelo.
“We gotta do that again,” he’d say to me, gently nudging. He was always thinking about the next great story.
Best ribs in Lakeland
As our friendship deepened, we started to eat together.
“You ever been to Jimbo’s?” he asked. “What’s that?” I asked.
“You like ribs?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“We are going to Jimbo’s. But we gotta go early. Because they sell out fast.”
So, we went to Jimbo’s, an old-fashioned, drive-thru rib joint.
“Get the plate,” he said.
So I did.
Just incredible.
And then we went back.
And back again.
We’d bring it back to our house in white plastic containers and eat with plastic forks and we’d watch college basketball on TV. I loved listening
to him talk about basketball. His perspective was so insightful because he got to sit on the baseline and watch the game from such a different view.
Dozier loved sports. Understood sports. Understood what made a great story. He was just so easy to work with.
But he was so much more than a photographer.
He’d gush about his family — oh, he was proud of his family. And he’d talk about fishing — I deeply regret now, that I never went out on his boat.
He kept hinting to me that 2023 might be his last spring training. That he was thinking about retiring. That if they were going to offer a buyout, he would take it.
But as the months passed, I saw him at Comerica Park — on those hot summer days, he’d sit out in the blasting sunshine, always working his butt off, trying to get the best shot ever, sweat slicking his head — and I saw him at the Breslin Center for MSU basketball media day and I saw him at the Lions. He was just so comfortable to be around.
Back to Lakeland
Just the other day, I made the last payment for the house in Lakeland for this spring.
We got the same three-bedroom house; and in my mind, as I did my expense report, I pictured Evan in one room, me in the middle and Kirt by the door.
I was getting excited.
Thinking about going back to Jimbo’s with Dozier and Petzold.
Thinking about trying to find some kind of new angle with the Tigers.
Trying to match Dozier’s strong work ethic and drive and desire to do something different — something creative and revealing.
One year, he came up with the idea to do a piece on the fans who stand outside the fence, trying to catch home run balls.
So, we did it. He’d sneak around, trying to keep it quiet, just so the Detroit News didn’t know what he was doing.
And last spring, I had a crazy idea. I wanted to do a story on all the Tigers' tattoos.
“It shows a different side of them,” I said. “We can really capture who these guys are. Each tattoo is like a story.”
But I didn’t need to explain it. Dozier got it instantly; and he found different, creative ways to shoot the Tigers’ tattoos.
Man, he was special.
And now, I’m just shook.
I’m sure another brilliant photographer will take his spot at spring training — the Free Press photography department is loaded with talent.
But I’m just so incredibly sad, especially for his family; but also for us at the Free Press, not to mention our readers — Dozier’s photographs raised our journalism to another level.
To say he will be missed is an understatement.
In about a month, I will leave for spring training. I will slide into that room in the middle, and on that first night, I will go to Jimbo’s.
But it just won’t feel the same.