Tiger Stadium- June 28, 2020

An Essay from The Common Bridge Vault

1960. Briggs Stadium. Orange Paint on the pillars. I’m not yet 5 years old. Trudging up the cement ramps with Dad.

Then its Tiger Stadium. The pillars are now green. Many games. Usually center field bleachers but sometimes, if one or both grandfathers are with us, it might be grandstand along third base.

Last game together at Michigan & Trumbull was 1999 Father’s Day. First base side. Second deck.

Dad’s favorite place? Center field bleachers. A little to the right of dead center. In the sun. 50 cents a ticket.

Parked free on Michigan Avenue by Michigan Central Station and walked up. Or took the Michigan Avenue bus from Wayne. Never paid for parking.

Mom didn’t often join us and was content knowing father and kids were enjoying baseball. She had her passions and hobbies. Yet I knew she would want to be with Dad.

No better place to spread their ashes.

June 28, 2020. No major league baseball at the site for two decades.

Now named The Willie Horton Field of Dreams. As a 16-year-old high schooler, Willie blasted a 450 foot homer to right field roof. He went on to slug 325 major league homers. Won a World Series Championship as Tigers’ All-Star Left Fielder. A famed local hero who is a beloved part of the Detroit Tigers organization.

The diamond looks great. Surrounded by condominiums. Townhouse style.

Found center field easily. Turn off Trumbull and park amidst some construction materials. The distinctive fence bridging the power alleys where the wall once held the 440 Sign.

Watching a baseball game in process, a multi-generational family seated on their balcony overlooking the field. Ask permission to spread human remains. They are not only approving, but encouraging.

I find a spot in the fence. Reach through. Sprinkle some of Mom and Dad on the warning track. Talk to them both. Words aren’t important. There’s sunshine on a Sunday afternoon. A baseball game is underway. Feelings of peace.

The family in the condo. He is retired Detroit Police. She works at Quicken Loans. Grandfather is there, surrounded by teenage grandkids.

The owner of the condo asks if I’d like to see the field from their rooftop. He says there are a lot of stairs. Swiftly we are three floors higher. Stairs, not ramps, but the excitement is the same.

There it is. Exhilaration as the magical green expanse appears. A high sky. Light wind. A great day for baseball.
Infielders aligned. Shortstop deep. Catcher crouches. No one working in either bullpen. All in perfect order.

Everything and everyone precisely where they belong.

Precisely. A little to the right of dead center. In the sun. 50 cents a ticket. Sometimes a double header. Shirts off.
Eating the penny candy we bought before leaving Wayne. Maybe a bag of chips or a hot dog. Has to be a ballpark frank. With mustard of course

Tiger Stadium Pepsi. Flat. Ice melted. A paper cup covered with cellophane.

Players on the field are skilled. Under 17 tournament. They are well coached. Catcher’s mitt pops with each fastball. Outfielders are deep. Maybe some will become professionals and play at Comerica Park.

Right-handed hitter. Big kid. Solid contact. Surprising velocity as the ball leaves his bat.

The gentle arc of the ball in flight on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I lean forward. Would it make the distance? Was there enough power?

Dad loved the home runs. He preferred the high scoring slugfests over the pitching duels. Squinting into the sun as the ball reached its apex and began descending.
In the 1960’s and 1970’s the last few feet in right field were obscured by the old stadium’s design.

Today that upper deck is gone. The view is clear.

I can see the right fielder retreating to the cinder warning track.

His eyes are tracking the ball. And then his shoulders wilt in resignation.

The ball clears the right field barrier.

The umpire points upward and circles his finger. The big hitter slows to a home run trot.
Suddenly I am euphoric. Suddenly I am drained.
And then I am strengthened. It’s the last homer.
Rest in peace Mom and Dad.