“And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land….”

Spring is a time for impetuousness, so I took off in the dark yesterday morning, drove the five hours to Detroit, and met up with some friends for the Opening Day at Comerica Park. Of course, “impetuousness” also implies “last minute”, so I had to rely on the redoubtable Gary Gillette, through my buddy and fellow Hungerdunger Stu Shea, to get me a ticket. Gary didn’t disappoint, and neither did the weather, but the Tigers did, but who cares? It was Opening Day!

The area around Grand Circus Park was crowded and jumping by the time I got down there and tried to find parking. With the bead necklaces, plastic beer cups and drunken slags, it was a lot like Mardi Gras if they made you wear something/anything with an old English “D” on it. The morning was 60 degrees and sunny–not your average Opening Day. I finally met up with Stu’s pals in front of the stadium as they were giving away schedule magnets advertising the new book, Tigers Corner, which was edited by Gary and published by Maple Street Press. Maple Street’s owner, Tim Walsh, flew in from Boston to commemorate the season. Throughout the day, the baseball trivia these guys were spewing was mind-blowing. I felt like an idiot most of the time, since I didn’t have an opinion about some sportswriters I’d never heard of and I couldn’t identify a player who’d had a total of 8 at-bats for the Tigers during the 1968 campaign. Then again, these guys are all involved (or work for) SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research, so I didn’t feel too bad. They were the true believers. Here’s what the copy of Tigers Corner looks like. Go buy a copy and make Tim feel like the trip was worth it.

Maple Street Press also published Wrigley Season Ticket, edited by–who else?–Stu Shea. Go out and buy a copy so Stu will by everyone more drinks this summer.

Every time I go back, Detroit never seems to have changed. Sporting events are one of the few times that large groups of white people will ever venture into the city. During the opening ceremony, amidst all the goodwill generated by the Tigers’ World Series appearance (well, some of them showed up, anyway), the fans mustered a rousing chorus of boos for Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick. I know nothing about the local politics and whether or not Kilpatrick is doing any kind of good job, but it was pretty pathetic for all the fans from suburbs 20, 30 and 50 miles away to heckle a guy they never voted for. Hey, they’re die-hard Detroiters! Except that they never set foot in the city unless they can park their car in a secure lot and be sure the police presence is heavy. The only black faces I saw in the park, save two, were selling hot dogs or working security. Like I said, most things never change there. Thank God that WRIF keeps up with all the latest music!! Rawk on baby!!

But when you buy a sports ticket, you have to put up with the meatheads. It was a gorgeous day, the view from the upper deck was grand, and both teams played well until Fernando Rodney lost it for the Tigers in the 10th. After the game, the SABR posse headed up to a dive bar in Hamtramck called Whiskey in a Jar and tipped a few, then walked around the corner to the Polish Village Inn for galubkis and dill pickle soup. Ah, memories. Hamtramck was a great hangout back in the day when I was young and reckless. Most places never asked for ID, and old men would buy me and my friends beer and tell us filthy jokes. I remember eating pizza on my 21st birthday at Savina’s, then getting mighty polluted at some place called The Senate, as we partied with members of the Warren Polka Boosters Club. It gladdens my heart to know that there’s someplace in that bombed-out city where a person can go for a little fun.

Then, just to stay in the impetuous mood, I drove back to Chicago that night. Pulled in about 1 a.m., after spending the previous hour singing disco songs at the top of my lungs to stay awake as I drove. I’ll never do that again, at least until the mood strikes me.