Cardboard Birds, Concrete Cats, & The Diamond In The Rough
Detroit, Michigan is my kind of beautiful. She’s the metropolitan version of a former teenage beauty queen now in her mid-to late thirties – turn your head a little to the right and you’ll catch a glimpse of her magnificence and all the glory of her breathtaking qualities, while a slight turn to the left will give the view to her aged and worn features born out of trials, tribulations, and the prom kings and fence post boys that have left her abandoned and experienced in ways she never once imagined in the long gone days of her youth. She’s industrious, musical, and has a bit of a reputation. She’s the home of the Cadillac, The Ice Man, The Nuge, Iggy, MC5, The Brown Bomber, Smokey, Stevie, and Aretha. She is perfect in her imperfections. Yes indeed, she’s my kinda beautiful.
Wedged between the rough and tumble and the corporate symbols that drive the city, that can also be seen imprinted on the vehicles being driven on highways and back roads across this great country, is a diamond named Comerica Park. A jewel which sparkles like no other diamond I’ve seen with my own eyes at any point of my baseball fanaticism. A structure which houses not only a baseball team but a small amusement park, the spirit of past legends such as Ty Cobb, and is guarded by giant concrete tigers perching and prowling in poses in the midst of the urban jungle.
COMERICA PARK - DETROIT, MICHIGAN
I awoke at 6:30 a.m. on the morning of the 28th of July still trying to register in my brain the fact that less than 24 hours before I’d witnessed a no-hitter by Ervin Santana in Cleveland, Ohio. Although I was fatigued from the drive the day prior, I was excited to get on the road to Michigan as I would not only be following my pursuit to visit yet another baseball cathedral, but the Los Angeles Angels as well. The game would be the first in a series between the Tigers and Angels, two teams vying for a playoff position. I was curious to see if yesterday’s performance in Cleveland would somehow turn into momentum for L.A., and I had something I needed to do once I arrived at Comerica Park. So with backpack strapped and ticket in hand, I made my way in northwestern direction toward the Motor City.
It had been quite sometime since I’d been in this portion of the world, let alone the baseball universe. Eight years to be exact. There was once a young woman I had been infatuated with from the Toledo, Ohio area. It was nice that my journey to the unseen and unknown was a chance to be reminded and have a smile put upon my face of that time. I recalled our time together when one afternoon when we drove by the home of the Toledo Mud Hens for the first time and how strange it was now I was attempting to visit all of these parks beyond the Ohio region. However, it was not the love or heart of a woman I was on a quest for as I motored across Interstate 75 toward Detroit, but to pay tribute to a wonderful baseball personality and out of love of the game. Although I am no doubt a torch carrier when it comes to matters of the heart, it was what I’ve carried in my wallet for years that gave me great purpose on this day. Though I am not a Tigers fan, for several years I’ve carried a 1977 Topps #265 Mark Fidrych baseball card, a personal tribute to one of baseball’s more non-traditional players.
I was too young to experience the spectacle that was “The Bird”, but the legend that surrounded him and his on the mound antics made me appreciate what he brought to the game during his short tenure with Detroit in the late 1970s. Before the antics of modern-day hurlers such as San Francisco Giants closer Brian “The Beard” Wilson, there was “The Bird” , a shooting star in regards to pitching, who made his debut for the Tigers in 1976 winning 19 games and posting 24 complete games in his Rookie of the Year winning season. Aside from his statistics, it’s hard as a fan not to be drawn to a player who was not only lights out on the bump, but had a notion to talk to the ball, himself, and looked like Sesame Street’s Big Bird. So while I often wax poetic on the reverent elements of the game of baseball, it’s also those irreverent and filled with youthful exuberance which make it such a draw to me. Fidrych represents not only what the game so often lacks to those who view it as a boring sport filled with overpaid millionaires, but a contrast to another famous former Tiger personality that made the drive from small town Jackson, Ohio a necessary task, the legendary and polarizing Ty Cobb.
During my time in Lakeland, Florida back in March, I was seated behind home plate at Joker Marchant Stadium during a spring training affair on the afternoon of March 16th between the Tigers and St. Louis Cardinals and I had intended to leave the Fidrych card there as I felt it was a fitting gesture. However, my tribute somehow got forgotten in between Albert Pujols’ grand slam and text messages to and from “my therapist”/bikini model/friend Dr. O’Malley. Long story short, I left without completing my mission. It was something I had to do this time around as we come this way but once. However, the question was where exactly would be the right place to leave it? I suppose sometimes questions such as this answer themselves and the moment would indeed come. But knowing that I was seated behind the Tiger dugout in Section 134OD Row 12 Seat 4 it would seem mere sacrilege to leave it perched in a cup holder or in the seat itself. However, as I said, the answer appeared eventually.
When I arrived to the ball park my first order of business, as it always is when driving to a stadium, is the matter of parking. I hate to say it but after the Pittsburgh experience, I judge a lot about a “church’ visit by how easily I can place my vehicle in a lot or parking garage in relation to the stadium. As with my other past experiences, aside from Pittsburgh which was a nightmare and Chicago’s Wrigley Field (a yet to be written account) which I walked five miles to visit, parking was an easy task. In fact, the lot I chose was a short walk from the park and merely ten dollars in cost, unfortunately I only had twenty-dollar bills and the attendant said if I wanted to pull up and wait he’d get me change on the next car through. I offered to just let him have it all as I was excited to get to the stadium and just wanted out of the car which I’d been inside of for five hours to his surprise no doubt. So I parked my car as he yelled to the Hispanic gentlemen also attending the lot, “put him where he can get out easy!”.
Perhaps one of the best parts of this visit was the walk from the lot to Comerica, down side streets and alley ways with a full view of the rough and the rugged as well as the more modern and cosmopolitan architecture the city has to offer. It was slightly overcast, which made me call on the spirits of The Bird and Ty Cobb to bless me on this day so that my arrival at yet another temple created by HKO/Populous would not be greeted or cut short by rain. Lucky for me and other patrons of the park that day, my prayer was answered and we were blessed with all one could expect from a day at the park, a Miguel Cabrera home run, Manager Jim Leyland being ejected by the umpires, a disgruntled Brad Penny arguing with his own teammate, catcher Victor Martinez, in full view of the fans, and the sun peeking from behind the clouds.
I spent the first seven innings of the game taking it all in, snapping photographs and conversing with those next to me, about the park, the game, baseball in general, and the magic I had witnessed the day before in Cleveland. I left my seat in the final two innings to tour the grounds and stand in the center field concourse where fans were yelling at the Angels outfielders with various heckles and insults that couldn’t help but put a devilish grin on my face. But the true draw for me in the outfield area was the monument of Ty Cobb.
If Fidrych was my draw to this team for his quirky spirit, Cobb’s allure spoke more to my dark side. In fact, I would go so far to say that both personalities best exemplify my nature. Where Fidrych is the childlike joy within me, Cobb is my demon seed that unfortunately rears his ugly head with a sharp tongue, piercing eyes, and spikes high intending to harm abrasive nature. While The Bird is a symbol of greatness cut short, The Georgia Peach is the symbol of greatness realized but so full of angst that it pushes away all that it has loved or is loved by and haunted by mistakes and memories that go beyond simple childhood games on dirt and grass. Fidrych represents the part that attracts, Cobb is that which repels others with a “fuck you all” brash and lonesome bravado.
I exited the stadium before the final out, to bask in the glory that is the giant concrete tigers surrounding the park. On the sidewalk outside the gate were bricks with the names of former players and the dates they played for the Tigers and there came the answer to where I would lay to rest the piece of cardboard I had held in my wallet all these years. I searched until I finally found it, a small brick square engraved with MARK FIDRYCH (1976-1980). I waited until no one was nearby and took the baseball card from my wallet and placed it on the ground. I snapped a few quick photos and walked away. I can only hope that some appreciative Tigers fan stumbled upon the bubble gum card and with excitement and wondered how it ever came to be there, or maybe a gust of wind simply blew it away in a quick swoop, just as fast as The Bird’s career had come and gone. Either way, I was at peace. Just as I always am leaving the hallowed ground of a baseball stadium. I stopped just long enough to have my picture taken in front of the tiger statue at the front gate I was so enamored with and lucky for me the crowd had died down to the point I was able to do so without interference.
I then stopped to give money to a man panhandling outside of the stadium which is a common scene I’ve come to notice of late. “God bless you.”, he said humbly. “God bless you.”, I replied, then headed back down the alley ways toward my trusty “Supernova”, back to the grind and gridlock of the highway and real life, wondering where I was headed next on the road map of baseball and all places in between. Leaving behind the cheers and feel of another visit to another house of worship in the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball for the surroundings of the highway, its racing lights, and the yellow lines I try to stay between both on the road and in my mind.
Until next time…
Diary Of A Mad Fan 