Sports Frog

Swamper hassgocubs has posted a tremendous story about his last trip to Tiger Stadium and agreed that it be posted here. Here is it in its entirety. You can also check it out and respond in The Swamp and check the pictures.

My sad and pathetic attempt at gallows humor went something like this: as we turned onto 10 Mile off Campbell, I said to Julie, "I have to admit, I've never gone down to the ballpark this early."

Julie, being the gracious wife, replied, "What, no 8:00 a.m. starts?"

"No, the player's union isn't that big on them."

Thus began our drive down to Tiger Stadium this morning. Having won the one thing I desperately wanted to win (the section sign from the section I sat in the first time I went to Tiger Stadium in 1981), I could pick it up starting at 8:00 a.m. I heard rumors that other items might be available, so I wanted to get down there as soon as possible. Julie took the first two hours off from her job, and I received a dispensation to arrive late from my boss, so we planned on heading down first thing Monday morning. I had agreed to drive down, if only because I knew where the ballpark was. Julie, however, was more concerned about my ability to drive, as I started to cry on my way to the freaking Speedway to get my morning Diet Coke. I managed to pull it back together enough to go in, purchase it, and get back in the car.

Back out on the road, we headed south on Mound. This is the "back" way of getting downtown, because it avoids the three-lane part of I-75 (and tends to be pretty quick in the morning). We drove down Mound to Davidson, through the parts of Detroit that would depress even the most hardened of supporters of the city. At some point, Julie made a joke, which ellicted no reaction from me. This was a drive that I had been dreading since winning the auction. I thought about just having someone else go pick the damn thing up, but as the winning bidder (me) had to show up with photo ID, there was no way around it.

Davidson goes from roadway to freeway, and I set cruise control. I scoped out the clock: 7:55, which is six minutes fast, so it's really 7:49. I was doing fine on time when I saw the backup on the ramp onto the southbound Lodge.

"Fuck!" I shouted. "Don't worry," Julie replied. "It'll be fine."

"What if there's a line? I'll bet there'll be a ton of people there!" I said, something between a statement and a shout.

Julie, wisely, said nothing.

This wasn't the way I'd normally go down to the ballpark. I would always take I-75 south to Rosa Parks, then take Rosa Parks back across the freeway to Michigan, then turn left. I would park in a small lot that was nearly kitty-corner to the Stadium, where I knew the lot attendants. One of them would always have a Tiger Den ticket for me at face value ($20), and we'd chat about how lousy the team was (since it was the mid-90s, that was a given). (sidebar: He once backed out of a sale when he saw me pull up, infuriating some guy. "What the hell?" he screamed at the attendant. "My money's no good to you?" The attendant nodded at me. "He's here 20 times a year. How often's your white ass come down here?" Stunned, the guy walked away.).

Traffic on the Lodge was crawling, then picked up again, then slowed at the Wayne State exit, then opened up. It was now 8:09 minus six, so 8:03.

"What exit do we want?" she asked.

"Rosa Parks."

This was the first time I had driven on the Lodge since they reopened it after a complete renovation this summer (not that I had much of a reason to drive it anyway). All of the signs were brand new, in the new Clearview font. I knew that, from the Lodge, you exit via I-75, then take a ramp there to exit onto Rosa Parks.

Well, it actually isn't Rosa Parks: it's Trumbull. As in "Michigan and Trumbull." And the new signs replaced the old ones that had Tiger Stadium on them: it's no longer "Trumbull Avenue/Tiger Stadium," just "Trumbull Avenue." As we made the turn onto the I-75 ramp, the Stadium appeared...the fortress, in her white siding. Unlike the Michigan
Central Depot (the old train station closed in 1986 and still standing), it looked, from the outside, ready to go, as if we had just stumbled upon her in the offseason.

I pulled off onto the service drive, and turned left. The players parking lot (which used to be Kaline Drive), still fenced off, was empty save for two security guards. We were at the northeast corner of the stadium: the bleacher entrance.

"Where do we go?" Julie asked.

"I'm not sure. I guess we'll drive around and see."

We drove south on Trumbull to Michigan. Passing the business entrance, you could still see where the old plaques hung to honor both Ty Cobb and Tiger Stadium. Illitch moved them to the new facility, in one of
the most bastardizing moves of all time. They deserve to be in a museum, not hanging on some pseudo-retro ballpark with the charm of tract housing.

We reached The Corner, and turned right. The electronic sign was still standing (no one bid on that: $15,000, and the user was responsible for removal). The Tiger Plaza was still there: much of it's advertising covered with "BUD BOWL" ads from Super Bowl XL 20 months ago. Driving east to Cochrane, we turned right again.

"That's where the TV production trucks would park," I said, pointing at the massive empty space next to the Stadium. "And over there," pointing to the left "is the parking. You'd have all these official-looking guys trying to wave you in. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that you did not have to follow the scraggly guy with a red flag just because, you know, he had a red flag." Julie smiled.

We reached the I-75 service drive and made one more right. By now one of the big metal gates had opened up. "I guess this is the place," I said. There was no one else here.

Two quick rights and we were at the gate. The security gal walked up to my window. "I'm here to pick up an item for the auction."

"Do you have your e-mail?" she asked.

"Sure do," and I handed her the printout along with my drivers license. Her assistant came over and explained to her that if they had a "winning auction" e-mail, that meant they could come in. They went back and manually opened the gate and waved me in.

I pulled into the parking spot directly across from the open gate. I got out of the car and looked past the gate. It was directly opposite from the center field gate of the playing area. Everything was wide open, which meant I could see right into the Stadium. The gate area was blocked with some plywood, acting as a counter.

From there, I could see the green grass, and where they had removed all the seats from the lower and upper decks. I could see the visitor's dugout, and the rooftop seating. Without its seats, it looked empty, odd.

A gentleman approached me. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I won an item from the auction, and I'm here to pick it up." I thrust the e-mail towards him, along with the drivers license.

"Very good! Congratulations! Do you know what lot number you won?"

I looked back at the e-mail and scanned it: "Lot 273...the section sign for Section 436."

"Okay, hang on." At this point, his partner walked up. "Hey," he said smiling, "isn't that the thing I ran over this morning?"

No one laughed.

The first gentleman walked away to go retrieve it, and I started explaining what I could see from the window to Julie. But I didn't break my stare of it. As odd as it sounds, I sensed my long-term memory clicking on and hitting "record." It seemed so far away...so distant...as if it might have been in another time zone, not 100 feet away from me...on a television.

The gentleman returned, holding a three-sided sign, maybe 24x24 on each side, with a light blue background and the number "436" hand painted in white. I had only seen it from a distance before. Up close, you could see the brush marks, the small indicators the painter used to help himself ensure it looked nice. By this time, a woman arrived behind me. He put it on the ground beside me.

"Okay," the gentleman said. "I'm going to need you to sign a couple things. Be right back. Ma'am, I'll be right with you." He turned around to a small table, where a laptop a clipboard, and two boxes of envelopes sat. He grabbed the clipboard and brought it back. "If you can print your name, sign, and indicate..." and here I can't remember what he asked for, either the lot number or my paddle number "...I'll get your letter of authenticity."

I filled out the form. My name was the first. He came back with an envelope and a box of stickers.

"Now," he continued, "this is a sticker of authenticity. I can either put the sticker directly on the sign, or I can put it on an index card."

"Index card, please," I replied. He riffled through the stack to find the correct sticker. He put it on the index card. "And you're all set!"

I stood there. My throat was bone dry. "I have one favor to ask."

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was..." My voice trailed off; my eyes filled with tears; let out a quick, sharp breath: a quiet sob; "...if it was at all possible..."; tried again, and failed again; my lungs were empty; I was a goner; just needed to get this question out; I turned away from him and stared at the open gate; "...I'd..." and my shoulders heaved and I feared I wouldn't be able to get the words out...

"Of course," he replied. "Go right over there. Take as long as you'd like."

I sobbed. Turning back toward Julie, she struggled to get the camera strap off her wrist. Part of me wanted to rip it off her; he might change his mind, you know. She finally did, and handing the camera to me, I walked through the opening and towards this gate. Just I had done hundreds of times before...walking through another walkway at Tiger Stadium, with the green grass in the distance.

The cement floor had been ripped up...I was walking on dirt as I approached the field. There were no lights...only the natural light from the sun. The thing with the Stadium was that it looks like a fortress, so there isn't a whole lot of natural light in the concourses.

As soon as I stepped onto the warning track, I lost it. I was on the field of the most wonderful place in the world, for one more time.

To my relief, the place didn't look that bad. I dreaded seeing the place as some disaster area, but it looked okay. Well, with the exception of the vast majority of the seats gone.

I stared towards section 436...upper deck, right field...where the sign had been. I looked around the ballpark...starting taking pictures. All of the advertising signs were gone. It looked like it would've looked in 1981. The padding was gone from around the walls. I stood next to the flagpole. I started taking pictures, trying desperately to keep my hands still so the damn things would look okay. The press boxes (lower and upper) were still there and in good shape (though there was some of the metal covering pulled away). The scoreboard on the first base side was still there; the third-base one was stripped away.

The upper deck still had its blue and orange seats throughout foul territory. The lower deck had all its chairs stripped. The light posts still looked regal, proud, overlooking the field. I stepped onto the grass...thinned, but still there. I stood in center field at Tiger Stadium and let the absolute silence of the place wash over me. I never, in my wildest dreams, thought I'd be able to have one more moment here, and yet here I was! I remembered standing in the Stadium in 1999, just absorbing it, wondering if I'd ever get to see it again, and I was! I turned around and looked up at the bleachers, and saw the painted signage (the stuff they couldn't tear down). The row letters, painted on concrete, up Section 501. Time had miraculously stopped.

I took more pictures (including an shot looking straight up that flagpole). I'm sure there were places that showed their age more than others, but from here...center field...it looked like an old friend, putting on one more show.

I don't know why I felt it was time to leave; I guess I felt that I had seen enough. As I walked back through the gates, I took one last picture of the red "EXIT" sign above the entry way. I couldn't keep the damn shot still. I took another and another and another and another and I couldn't fucking get a clean shot, and I was more and more frustrated. Finally, I got the sense that it was okay...the old girl was happy to have a friend stop by.

"Thank you," I whispered, and touched the cement wall.

I walked back to the entrance, underneath the metal overhang signed "KALINE NR TRUMBULL." Julie stood, with a smile on her face. I turned
back to the gentleman. "Once again, I can't..." and I started tearing up and losing my voice again.

He smiled. "I'm glad I could help."

I walked through the little wooden opening. The other woman had her items (a mens room sign and a couple exit signs), and I reached down to pick up my sign. It was dirty, and messy, and beaten up. We took it back to the VUE, and I placed it in the back seat (Julie had graciously put her dress coat underneath it.). I climbed back into the car.

"Are you sure you want to drive?"

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'll be okay."

I started the car and backed up, and pulled out of the space. The guards pulled the big metal gate open. I rolled down the window. "Thanks!" I yelled out the window.

We took a few more pictures of the outside. I made a left onto Trumbull, then crossed over I-75. I made a left onto the service drive, then made another left onto the Rosa Parks crossover. I grabbed the camera and took one more photo: the sun, rising over Tiger Stadium, with the light towers darkened out. I noticed for the first time that the old, blue neon "TIGER STADIUM" sign that hung over the home plate corner was gone. By that time, a car had pulled up behind me, and I turned left back onto the service drive, then onto the ramp.

I pulled over onto the ramp. Julie took a few more photos, and then I turned off the hazards and pulled back onto the ramp.

Julie told me on the way home that the guy was moved when she told him the reason I wanted that item ("I'm so glad that some of this stuff is going to people it means something to," he told her). She said the security guy was anxious when he saw me go in and warned the first guy, to which he responded "It's my stadium for the next ten days, and I'll let in whom I want." And the other woman found out the mens room sign she bought because her bathroom was black and white themed was really old: the gentleman said they found the original black paint underneath where the sign was attached: they believe it was, indeed, from 1912.

When we pulled up to the house, I went to unlock the side door, then came back to the car and pulled out the sign. Ayana was sniffing around me as I brought the sign in. I took it downstairs, cleaned off some space on top of my entertainment center, and placed Section 436 on top.

"Ayana," Julie said to our dog, "you're in Section 436. Make sure you have your ticket ready!"

I stood and stared at the sign.

Someone noted on the Ken Burns documentary Baseball that it can't be a coincidence that home plate looks like a home. And in baseball, that's what your objective is: you leave home, and you put yourself at risk, hoping like hell you get to go 360 feet and end up where you started.

I was happy. I was Home.