102/365: 1983-1984

Friday, 05 September 2008.

 

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]

An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

 

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

 

Year 16: 1983-1984

 

In 1983, the Detroit Tigers had finished the season in second place in the American League, after a decade of mostly uninterrupted losing. I was convinced that 1984 was our year, and I devoted all my energies to making it happen. I was certain that the games required my attention in order to be won, so I was never far from a radio. When summer came, the screaming matches grew louder and more constant at home, and I retreated farther into my daily ritual. I would take two dimes down to the liquor store at the corner and purchase one copy each of the Detroit Free Press and the Detroit News. Back in my room, I pored over the sports sections for any nugget of information or analysis I could find on the Tigers, and cut out the articles I wanted to save. When I was done, I would turn on the radio and await the start of the game.

 

Over the course of the season, I missed five games out of a total of 162. There was nothing more important to me. With things deteriorating quickly at home, I looked to baseball for something shiny, urgent, and reassuring. I cried when the Tigers lost, and I quietly celebrated when they won, having reaffirmed my belief that there was still something to hope for. When World Series tickets went on sale by lottery, my family put in orders for two games, not expecting to get either. We got both.

 

We sat in the right field, lower-deck area for game 4 of the World Series. It wasn't the best vantage point, but Johnny Grubb tossed us a dirt-scuffed ball during warmups (later autographed). It all felt a little unreal. The atmosphere as we arrived the next day for Game 5 was so thickly charged, I could swear my skin was tingling. The Tigers were now 3-1 in the Series, and could win the whole thing that night. It had been grey and overcast all day, and I willed the rain away as hard as I could. We sat in the centerfield, upper-deck bleachers, while the crowed worked its way into a constant hum and buzz from the introduction of the lineups to the starting pitch. It never let up. Finally, in the top of the 9th, ace screwballer Willie Hernandez got Tony Gwynn to pop a gentle looper out to Larry Herndon in left field for the final out.

 

As soon as the ball hit Herndon's glove, the stadium and the sky erupted. The long-delayed rain came down as the flashes popped. The players dogpiled each other on the infield, and the fans poured over the walls, unable to contain the need to celebrate with their heroes. In the outfield, people ripped up pieces of turf as souvenirs, tossing still more pieces up into the upper-deck for those unlucky enough not to be on the field. We caught a small piece, and tucked it away in a popcorn box to take home and plant in our yard. When we left the stadium, having been forced out at last by the ushers, we walked down Michigan Avenue to Lafayette Coney Island for some ritual post-game coney dogs.

 

I know what people saw on TV that night. I know about the overturned and burning squad car. I know about the supposed riots that have made Detroit references a running gag every time some ailing rustbelt city wins a championship. I make no excuses for that, but I was there, and that's not what I saw. I saw a city celebrating the long-awaited arrival of good news (good news having been hard to come by for many years). I saw an outpouring of joy and relief, generosity and brotherhood. As we walked Michigan Avenue, people greeted each other with tears and smiles, offering their hand to shake, and often giving their shoulders an "Aw, what the hell" shrug and going in for the full hug. It was clearly a mixed crowd. There were obviously wealthy people hugging obviously struggling folks. Old men bent over to shake the hands and pat the heads of young children. Black men and white men patted each other on the back, and said with a whistle, "Man, did you see that?" It didn't matter who you were yesterday, or who you would be tomorrow. Today you were one people, united by a simple game, and a hope that, against all odds, you might see a little joy in this town again.

 

Who am I?

 

I am always sitting in those bleachers.

 

The seats in Tiger Stadium are long gone now. The team retired the old stadium and moved into a new concrete monstrosity down the road a piece. But, no matter where I sit in any ballpark, my mind and my heart are always in those centerfield, upper-deck bleachers, and the sky is always about to unleash the pent up frustrations and aspirations of everyone who looks to the game for respite from their complicated lives.

 

Old Tiger Stadium was a magical place. It was built high and closed-in, and when you sat in it, you couldn't see anything around it. Only sky. It was like sitting in a bowl of baseball, and everything else just fell away. It could not have been more perfect for a city or a person who needed to escape for a few hours.

 

Moreover, the great swelling of the city's heart, and the outpouring of genuine affection that followed the Series, profoundly moved me. If a game could do this, what other human connections might be possible? How many other arms outstretched could be met with handshakes? Might it be possible that disparate parties with disparate interests could find some peace? All the fighting and tension, in the world and at home, suddenly seemed incredibly unnecessary. I was so moved by the event, that I retold the story in my college interviews the following year. It remains one of the most formative moments in the development of my sense of community and connection, written across my heart in turf and rain and hugs from strangers.

 

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Done