Bidding Farewell to a Priceless Diamond

Sometimes you leave home; sometimes home leaves you. I realized that about a month ago when I attended my last baseball game at Tiger Stadium. Like most boys growing up in Detroit, I followed the Tigers faithfully, reading the box scores daily, listening to the games on WJR and going to Sunday doubleheaders with my buddies. But this would be the last time I visited the old, wooden park because next year the team moves to a modern multimillion-dollar corporate-sponsored, taxpayer-supported stadium. An important part of my youth would be lost forever. It’s not as if I haven’t lost other parts of my past, but this seems--is--more significant than most.

I left Detroit a couple decades ago to live in places like Seattle (it wasn’t until after I left Seattle that it was considered to be so “livable”; I suspect there is no connection), “inside the Beltway” (D.C.--the only industry town that makes Hollywood look good) and, finally, the Valley. Gradually, my connection back East became more and more tenuous as friends moved, relatives died and a flight to Detroit now required four costly tickets for my family. And now, Tiger Stadium will be set firmly in my past, like a high school girlfriend or 31-inch waist, never to be seen again.

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My first game at the ballpark was with my Cub Scout pack, troop, whatever we were called, and we sat in left field. Actually, we never sat, we stood, noisily bouncing our seats up and down, hoping the bedlam would compel the Tigers to win. I also remember hoping some player, even a hated opponent, would hit a home run for me to catch. It never happened. I suspect fate likes symmetry; it didn’t happen during my last game at Tiger Stadium either.

My family joined me for this final homage. I was especially glad to have my 9-year-old daughter there. Mara played softball for the first time this year (skillfully enough to be the all-star shortstop for her league; come on, no dad could resist mentioning that) and I wanted to share this moment with her, to pass down some kind of legacy. Growing up in L.A., where she has no relatives and the oldest building around is a Starbucks, I wanted Mara to know something about roots, my roots.

It wasn’t just my past I was handing off to her--my dad had gone to Tiger Stadium when he was a teenager. Remarkably, the Tigers have played on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull since the 19th century. But now the team will be moving a few miles east to Comerica Park, which will be a terrific structure, I am sure. It is also, for sure, the end of an era, because the new stadium will have no real connection to the past, especially my past.

Some of my best memories of Tiger Stadium have nothing to do with baseball. From junior high until college, I sat next to my father, bundled up in our 50-yard-line season ticket seats, watching the Detroit Lions play, among others, the Los Angeles Rams (perhaps losing a team is worse than losing a stadium), sharing just about the only “guy” thing we ever shared.

Because I never had an abundance of dad-son experiences, I try to do a lot with my daughter. Before the game, Mara and I scooted down to the front row to get autographs, but all she got was the pitching coach.

Sitting alone near us was an older man wearing faded checked pants, the kind that were possibly in style in the ‘70s, and a polyester pullover shirt that was possibly never in style. He conscientiously kept score in his program, and around the seventh inning stretch, he pulled out an old camera and asked a stranger to take a picture of him in the stadium. I felt bad that he was alone, that he didn’t have anyone, a grandson, a nephew, to share that moment with as I was sharing it with Mara.

The game seemed secondary to the experience, but, in fact, it was a good game--actually, a great one; the Tigers rallied in the bottom of the eighth to win. Too bad the game was about as important as any Dodger game of late; that is, not at all. But the crowd cheered as loudly as if this win put our Tigers into the World Series. Maybe we cheered out of habit, maybe out of respect, maybe out of desperation, as we left the stadium for the last time.

Walking down the ramp to leave, I thought about the ghost of Ty Cobb sliding, spikes high, into second base; about Babe Ruth hitting his 700th homer here; (as he rounded the bases, the Babe yelled to the fans, “I want that ball, I want that ball.” A boy gave it to him for $20, an autographed ball and a box seat for the rest of that game. Today the kid would have auctioned it off on EBay). About how Hank Greenberg had refused to play a World Series game in that stadium because it was Yom Kippur; and how I had cheered for 20 years for my idol, Al Kaline, to get two hits each game.

I thought about my dad going to Tigers games when he was a kid and him taking me to Lions games when I was a kid, and now I took my kid. I hope she remembers.