DETROIT — It’s a Monday night in Michigan, and the greatest World Series hero of them all stands at a podium, speaking in front of a crowded room.

As he begins his speech, he unfolds his hands and reveals a handkerchief. He holds it up for all to see.

“Before I get started,” Kirk Gibson says, “there are certain things that go with having Parkinson’s. Some of them really aren’t that appealing. You may see me with one of these in my hand because we tend to drool a little bit.”

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The juxtaposition remains jarring, even 10 years into Gibson’s diagnosis with Parkinson’s disease. Forty-one years ago, he was the wild and raging player jumping up, hands raised and fists clenched, hitting a home run off Goose Gossage to help the Detroit Tigers win the 1984 World Series. Thirty-seven years ago, he was the hobbled Dodger hitting that impossible home run off Oakland closer Dennis Eckersley, pumping his fist as he rounded second base, an iconic portrait of perseverance.

Today he is 68 years old, dealing with the awful effects of a disease that eats away at cognitive abilities and motor functions. Parkinson’s is a degenerative condition that impacts muscle control, balance, movement and more. Once a person displays the motor symptoms related to Parkinson’s, studies suggest they have already lost 50 to 80 percent of the dopamine-producing neurons in their brain.

Gibson walks now with his knees bent, his back hunched, shuffling more than striding. When he speaks, he takes long pauses or often appears to be looking into the distance. His voice these days is gruff but soft, most of the time monotone. There are the tremors, and a left arm that likes to stay locked tight to Gibson’s side, his elbow bent at a sharp angle. Little things, like typing or buttoning a shirt, remain daily challenges.

Gibson spent years envisioning and planning the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness before opening it this month. (Courtesy of the Kirk Gibson Center)

As with Michael J. Fox or Ozzy Osbourne or Muhammad Ali, Parkinson’s does not care who you once were. But this is still Kirk Gibson. He often refers to his affliction as “Parky,” a playful name for a pesky nemesis. A few days after he pulled out that handkerchief at the grand opening of the Kirk Gibson Center for Parkinson’s Wellness, he was racing, in his own way, around the center in Detroit’s northern suburbs. One moment he’s playing on a small, wooden ring-toss table, the type of activity that is good for his mind and hand-eye coordination. The next, he’s toward the back of this new center, reaching for a ping-pong paddle. Gibson loathes sitting still. He does not waste time.