2007/06/21 19:30
Who's Your Tiger?
"Are you from Detroit?"
I'm getting the question a lot these days. Michiganders notice my hat and, feeling the natural protective ownership of local boys done good, want to make sure I haven't merely leaped onto the bandwagon following the Tigers' run to the World Series last year. My stock answer of "No, but my stepfather is" probably doesn't win me any points with the Comerica faithful, but the whole story is too long to foist on some random person in the supermarket.
In 1991 (I think), my stepdad decided that we needed to see where he was from. So during our spring break in April, we all hopped on a plane to visit his parents in Canton Township. This was before I kept any sort of journal, so for the most part, my memory of that trip comes in bits and snatches: His mom cooked the same way my maternal grandmother did. The hotel pool had a waterfall. Cemeteries (which we frequented for his genealogy research) all looked the same. There sure were a lot of small towns mashed together. Swimming in a lake in Michigan in April is probably not wise.
But clarion in my mental archives is the facade of Tiger Stadium. In an inspired move, my step-grandfather got us tickets, and walking through that gate felt like living history. We had seats in the lower bleachers along the third-base line, maybe fifty feet from home plate, Mickey Tettleton and Alan Trammell warming up right in front of us. I had my gripes about the trip, but here in the seats at my first major-league baseball game, they melted away for three hours.
It wasn't even that great a game. Cecil Fielder didn't play, and the fresh-out-of-the-World-Series A's were just too quick and too strong for the aging Tigers. And it didn't necessarily click for me right away -- until then I'd been sort of a lukewarm Pirates fan (because what the heck, they were contenders every year and I already liked the Penguins).
But it touched me. And eventually I realized that it made sense. Being a big proponent of rooting for the hometown club, I could justify cheering for Detroit, especially after the Albuquerque Dukes moved to Portland and the Isotopes started feeding the perpetually-shredded Marlins. When I got my first Tigers cap (the 1994 alternate, with the big cat threading its way through the D), it felt right wearing it.
So I'm a Tigers fan. And I'm not from Detroit. Live with it.
I'm getting the question a lot these days. Michiganders notice my hat and, feeling the natural protective ownership of local boys done good, want to make sure I haven't merely leaped onto the bandwagon following the Tigers' run to the World Series last year. My stock answer of "No, but my stepfather is" probably doesn't win me any points with the Comerica faithful, but the whole story is too long to foist on some random person in the supermarket.
In 1991 (I think), my stepdad decided that we needed to see where he was from. So during our spring break in April, we all hopped on a plane to visit his parents in Canton Township. This was before I kept any sort of journal, so for the most part, my memory of that trip comes in bits and snatches: His mom cooked the same way my maternal grandmother did. The hotel pool had a waterfall. Cemeteries (which we frequented for his genealogy research) all looked the same. There sure were a lot of small towns mashed together. Swimming in a lake in Michigan in April is probably not wise.
But clarion in my mental archives is the facade of Tiger Stadium. In an inspired move, my step-grandfather got us tickets, and walking through that gate felt like living history. We had seats in the lower bleachers along the third-base line, maybe fifty feet from home plate, Mickey Tettleton and Alan Trammell warming up right in front of us. I had my gripes about the trip, but here in the seats at my first major-league baseball game, they melted away for three hours.
It wasn't even that great a game. Cecil Fielder didn't play, and the fresh-out-of-the-World-Series A's were just too quick and too strong for the aging Tigers. And it didn't necessarily click for me right away -- until then I'd been sort of a lukewarm Pirates fan (because what the heck, they were contenders every year and I already liked the Penguins).
But it touched me. And eventually I realized that it made sense. Being a big proponent of rooting for the hometown club, I could justify cheering for Detroit, especially after the Albuquerque Dukes moved to Portland and the Isotopes started feeding the perpetually-shredded Marlins. When I got my first Tigers cap (the 1994 alternate, with the big cat threading its way through the D), it felt right wearing it.
So I'm a Tigers fan. And I'm not from Detroit. Live with it.
Well, it always amused me - until you explained it awhile ago - because I did live in Detroit and still hate the Tigers. *lol* But then, I just hate sports.
When you put it that way, I kinda feel bad that I'm not a Tigers fan. I mean, I like them enough, they're just not my favorite team. But I will always fondly remember that game, since it was our first major league game. It feels weird looking back on the game. Knowing that we got to see a game in that stadium feels like we were, at least in some small way, attached to a great part of baseball history.
well, i keep live it with it I am still going to have to constantly root against you and the Tigers. Go Twins! Thankfully, for me they have finally picked up their game and are only 5.5 games back from the Tigers.
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