Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Excitement fills the air as we leave Hockeytown Café for Comerica Park.  A policeman halts traffic  on Woodlawn Avenue to allow pedestrians to cross. Mingled in the crowd are scalpers offering to buy and sale tickets.  Up next to the old Fox Theater is a young man preaching the gospel, his voice loud and clear thanks to a small portable sound system, but his good news is tempered with his focus on the approaching judgment.   Maybe we need to hear the message because in the mood of mistreating some visiting angels from Los Angeles .  Personally, I’m hoping their halos are knocked off and their wings clipped.  Across Woodlawn, an old man plays a banged up horn, its case opened in the off chance someone wanted to reward him for his efforts or to help him afford some music lessons.   

We follow the crowd into the stadium, walking  under the large statues of tigers posed like gargoyles above the gate.  Before heading to our seats, we find the Michigan’s Baseball “Hall of Fame” memorial and take photos of Bernie next to it.  Bernie was our local high school coach and his name is on the memorial for having nearly 300 lifetime wins.   Afterwards, we take our seats on the upper deck, right above the catcher.  The sun is bright and it’s warm but humid.  Both teams are on the field, stretching, warming up, and running sprints.  A few minutes later, they line up for the National Anthem, and we all take off our caps in respect.  Then the umpire shouted “Play ball,” and we sit down to enjoy the game.    

The game proceeds rather quickly and is a bit boring, but that’s okay.  I feel blessed just watching what little action takes place as I smell the hot dogs and sip an overpriced beer.  The Tigers go ahead in the third and hold a one nothing lead until the eight.  But there do seem to be real angels at third and in left field, as both players make incredible catches that keep us from adding to our sole run.  We sing during the seventh inning stretch, while the “Ace Hardware” ground crews smooth out the sand in the infield.  Everything is commercialized.  In the eight, they tie the game, as clouds begin to form and a breeze cools us off.  Nobody scores in the ninth as the clouds climb higher.  At the top of the tenth, the Angels score two.  Someone on a smart phone looks up the weather and announces that a line of storms are moving our way.  I don’t want to leave, but agree and we head downstairs to where we can watch the game while standing near a gate.  It’s the Tiger’s final chance to tie or take the lead.  They fail on both accounts and we rush to the parking garage behind the Fox Theater.  This time, we passed another street preacher, a young African-American woman who speaks of approaching doom as distant thunder rolls through the city.  About the time we pulled out of the garage and onto the busy streets leading from downtown Detroit to the suburbs, the storm hits.  We get on 10, heading out of the city and it’s bumper-to-bumper.  It’s a good thing the line of cars are only moving five miles an hour, any faster and I wouldn’t be able to see a thing as the windshield wipers are already working overtime. 

We made it back to this side of the state safely, having enjoyed out trip even if we did get baptized were unable to pluck a few feathers from a faux-angels from LA. 
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On a sad note, keep the families of the firefigters killed in that wildfire in Arizona this weekend in your prayers.  Yesterday, I learned I knew one of the guys when he was a teenager, growing up in Utah.  Prayers for his wife, children and mother.