A Saturday afternoon at Comerica Park.
Beer, peanuts and a little bit of baseball history.
Friday, June 9th, 10:22 PM.
There’s something about baseball, how the past, equally esteemed, complex and occasionally enraging is just as prevalent, as important, as both the present and a yet-to-be-known future.
A rich tapestry of overlapping layers - the spilled ink of yesteryear, as beloved as today’s digital typeface.
I’m reminded of it, as my Dad and I cross the border, moving from the wind farms of Essex County to the bright lights of Downtown Detroit. The Tigers, more than most, have seen both sides.
Founded in 1884, they are a charter member of the American League, winners of four World Series championships and have bolstered some of the sport’s all-time talents, both long-ago and still living:
Sam Crawford, Ty Cobb, Hank Greenberg1.
Hal Newhouser, Al Kaline, Justin Verlander. Miguel Cabrera.
A “who’s who” of legends.
And yet, sports are a “what have you done for me lately?” business, baseball especially.
Detroit hasn’t made the playoffs in eight years or had a winning season since 2015. They reached their nadir, rock bottom, in 2019, finishing 53½ games back, sputtering to just 47 wins, 114 losses (one game, lost to a rain-out, was never made up) and an horrendous .292 winning percentage.
To their credit, they’re still in the mix this season, the benefit of playing in an abysmal AL Central. As of Friday morning, they were only 3½ games back of the Minnesota Twins, (who, at 31-32, are leading the division) despite the Tigers being mired in a seven game losing streak.
Point being, it isn’t impossible to suggest that they could still make something worthwhile of their summer.
If only for Miguel Cabrera to end things on a high note.
Having turned 40 in April, “Miggy” is an elder statesman relative to the increasingly young man’s world of pro sports. He announced earlier this year that the 2023 season would be his last.
Cabrera, like too many before him, for all his talent, for all his brilliance, is stumbling towards the end, clearly, having held on just a touch too long.
In 31 games this season, he’s slashing .202/.286/.253 and as the calendar moves ever further into June, has yet to hit his first home run. And even as a fan of an opposing team, it is sad to see, if only because this Miggy, batting .202 with no homers 30+ games into his final year, will be all that some fans remember - although it shouldn’t be.
For a time, he was baseball’s apex predator, one of the greatest right-handed hitters the sport had ever seen: four batting titles, a World Series champion, a Triple Crown winner in 2012. He is a two-time MVP, with 507 career home runs to his name.
In 2021, the Tigers set up a “Miggy Milestone” counter in left field, to track his chase towards home run 500 and career hit 3,000, two of baseball’s most cherished individual achievements.
He hit that storied homer against the Jays, in Toronto, later that summer (of course) and last season, collected his 3,000th hit, becoming just the seventh player in MLB history to record both milestones (additionally, he is only the third to have at least 500 homers, 600 doubles and 3,000 hits).
And sure, that counter hasn’t moved much recently. But anything can happen in baseball, right?
Saturday June 10th, 1:04 PM, six minutes before the opening pitch.
As you enter Comerica Park, there is a modest statue, that of long-time Tigers broadcaster, Ernie Harwell, the voice of the team for 42 years. Beloved in south-east Michigan, there was public outcry when he left the team at the conclusion of the 1991 season, his contract, not renewed.
After working part-time for the Angels, he returned in 1993, retired in 2002 and when he died in 2010, his body, lied in repose at the ballpark in which his voice had become synonymous.
But as I make the way to my seat, some rows up from behind home plate, public address announcer Chris Butzlaff greets me instead:
“Are you ready for America’s pastime?!”
Am I? I’ve already wolfed down a quarter bag of Tigers-branded peanuts and as Dad finds me a few minutes later, we both settle in and start working on our first beers of the afternoon.
Now I’m ready.
Bottom of the second, 1:42 PM.
The crowd is already dispirited.
Earlier in the inning, Arizona’s Nick Ahmed, facing down a 2-0 count, lifted a two-run homer into the left field seats.
Unlike Detroit, the Diamondbacks are a team on the rise. Atop the NL West, they’ve spent the better part of their weekend so far humiliating the Tigers, beating them 11-6 on Friday night.
But then I feel… something.
What the hell is that?
Then, it clicks - it is anticipation, an electric current, moving through the entire stadium, the hair, on the necks of some 40,000 people, concurrently standing up.
Miguel Cabrera is in the on-deck circle.
As he steps to the plate, Butzlaff begins to introduce him. Or, rather, he tries to. He doesn’t get far, the crowd, happily, doing most of the work.
NOW BATTING FOR THE TIGERS, NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR, DESIGNATED HITTER, MIGUEL CABRERA!
The story has become familiar, the franchise player, the all-timer, that fans wish would stick around for one more inning, one more at-bat, even if their skills, their bodies, time, fought, pushed back, raged against them.
Thing is, even with that .202 average, it should be well known by now: Miguel Cabrera isn’t most players. He never was.
Ryne Nelson, the Nevada-born, second-year pitcher, dots the outside corner with a perfectly placed fastball. Miguel watches it zip by.
0-1.
Pitch two, is promptly fouled back, down the right field line.
0-2 now.
Nelson throws, an 87-MPH cutter, his first off-speed pitch of the AB, clearly aiming for that same spot as before. But it gets away from him. Outside.
1-2.
You can see him thinking, adjusting, debating, the pitch clock, winding down as he throws another fastball, 96 MPH, right down the middle and -
BANG!
Cabrera connects.
There’s a sharp exhale - everyone, it seems, was holding their breath - that quickly builds into a frenzy.
“C’mon, Miggy! Keep going!”
At first, I think it is somebody nearby, cheering him on, the ball dropping deep into the outfield, rolling against the wall, as he digs hard around first.
But no - it’s me, standing, clapping, the chameleon, the faux-Tigers fan, apart of a spontaneous standing ovation for one of baseball’s greatest hitters, who coasts harmlessly into second, having hit a stand-up double.
He waves politely, both to the dugout and towards the crowd.
In the outfield, the “Miggy Milestone” tracker turns over from 3,108 hits to 3,109.
“He’s still got some pop left, huh?” Dad says.
No kidding.
Top of the fifth, 2:12 PM.
Former Blue Jay, Lourdes Gurriel Jr, who was traded this past winter, takes advantage of Matthew Boyd’s low-hanging curveball, sending it four hundred and eighteen feet to left. A three-run homer.
5-0 Arizona.
The crowd groans, a smattering of boos and disappointment. Detroit’s offence has, predictably, struggled this afternoon. It seems doubtful they’ll mount a legitimate response.
I, on the other hand, am rather conflicted. I liked Lourdes during his time in Toronto, even if it was best for all parties to move on, after a difficult 2022.
Should I clap? No, probably not. I do anyway. Internally.
Dad draws my attention to the outfield, where, next to the “Miggy Milestone” tracker, is the Tigers wall of honour, where former players, deemed deserving, have their names and corresponding jersey numbers prominently displayed (with the exception of Ty Cobb, who played in a time, over a century ago, before jersey numbers existed).
“Alan Trammell. I remember him, when he played in the ‘80s.”
I recognize the name.
“The shortstop.”
He nods.
“Him and Lou Whitaker. The best double play tandem ever.”
He goes back to his beer.
Sometime during the seventh inning stretch…
I’m on the Jumbotron.
Pop superstar Taylor Swift is playing two concerts at Detroit’s Ford Field this weekend, giving the in-game entertainment team plenty of reasons to play the hits.
As Shake it Off echoes throughout the park, beer in hand, I’m casually rocking my sunburned head back-and-forth in time to the beat. Why not? (and in fairness, that song is freakin’ catchy, man)
Thing is, I don’t realize that the 40,000-odd people that were watching Miggy earlier are now watching me too.
Some dude a few seats over shouts out:
“Hey, buddy! You’re on the screen!”
I turn, look, notice, however briefly and laugh in surprised embarrassment before the cameraperson takes pity on me, moving the show to the upper deck.
The guy who yelled out, drunk no doubt, works his way across, giving me an enthusiastic high-five as he does.
“Let’s go!”
Dad, who was lost in his own world, scrolling, looks up, confused.
“What’s going on? Why are we yelling?”
Bottom of the ninth, 3:29 PM.
Unable to get much of anything going offensively, the Tigers are limping along to their final few outs. A comeback, while possible, seems increasingly unlikely.
But there’s that current again. Coursing through the park.
It seems as though Butzlaff doesn’t even try this time, the crowd, doing all they can to make their voices heard:
“NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR, DESIGNATED HITTER, MIGUEL CABRERA!”
He seems to relish it, working the count, even in a game where the outcome seems all but decided. Is it something only the greats possess? The drive, the feeling, that necessity, to always “get their pitch?”
He does. On a 2-1 count, he swings and once more -
BANG!
As he slides into second for his second double of the game, Butzlaff announces, as does the Jumbotron, that Cabrera has just tied another Tigers legend, Ty Cobb, for the 15th most extra-base-hits in baseball history2.
The crowd erupts, euphoric, a small piece of history witnessed, from a game the Tigers will lose just a little while later - when infielder Andy Ibáñez, pinch-hitting, flies out to end it and they drop their eighth contest in a row.
In that moment though, it doesn’t matter much, the cheers of the crowd, heard from Windsor.
“MIGGY! MIGGY! MIGGY!”
The milestone counter, as if inspired by the raucous enthusiasm turns over for the second time today, from 3,109 hits to 3,110.
Again, Cabrera waves, appreciative. But try as he might, he can’t hide his smile.
And, as we all stand to applaud once more, Dad can’t either.
“How ‘bout that”, he says.
How ‘bout that, indeed.
Hank Greenberg, despite his many accomplishments, is, for my money, baseball’s quintessential “what-if” story, even more so than Ted Williams. Greenberg served parts of five seasons overseas during World War II, forty-seven months in total, the longest of any major-league player. Noted for his fantastic plate discipline and powerful swing, he led baseball in home runs four times, including a career-high of 58 in 1938. Jewish, he was known for his professionalism in the face of rampant discrimination, bigotry and abuse from fans, opponents and sportswriters alike. He died in 1986, having played parts of 12 seasons with the Tigers and one with Pittsburgh. He is one of the greatest players in the history of the sport.
An extra-base-hit (XBH) is anything that isn’t a single - so doubles, triples and home runs, those are all extra-base-hits.
I need to get down to Comerica Park after this read 👍🏼