Back in June, while my husband and I were visiting family in Detroit, my brother, Tom, treated us to a game of baseball at Comerica Stadium featuring the Detroit Tigers versus the Arizona Diamondbacks. It was a searing Sunday, one of the hottest days I had ever experienced in Detroit, made all the more obvious as we were sitting in the standing-room only section without shade in the sold-out venue. I even stole away to the women's room a couple of times to soak my shirt in the sink for some cooling relief.
The Tigers that day were celebrating the life and times of beloved manager, Sparky Anderson. Right from the start the day was looking to be quite special.
The Tigers pulled ahead right away in the first inning with a home run. But in the second inning, the Diamondbacks were ahead by 2 - 1. For the next several innings the score remained the same. Then in the 8th inning something happened that I have never seen before. The Tigers scored 7 runs without any home runs, all in the same inning. The crowd went wild.
Meanwhile, I had brought a small plastic egg filled with my brother, Joe's, ashes because it was my intention to spread those ashes onto the ball field. "Say what?" you might be asking. It's like this... Joe died last December. While he and I had "emigrated" to California back in the late '70's, we both spent our formative years growing up in a Detroit suburb. Motown was where Joe became a man. The ground that Comerica Park stands on is where Joe spent his wild teen years.
Anyway, as the game drew to an end, and I was contemplating how to sprinkle Joe's ashes onto the field, I noticed a pronouncement on the marquee: It was "Kids Day" which meant that after the game, kids could run around the bases. I then enlisted the aid of my newphews Charlie and Peyton, who both were too weirded out by the idea, so I decided to do it myself.
As Mark distracted the usher who was directing kid traffic onto the field, I slipped behind him onto the field, clutching my ash-filled plastic egg. I remember thinking how quick the transit was from home plate to first, and before I knew it I was advancing upon second base where the Tigers' esteemed, and very tall, mascot, "Paws," stood, cavorting with the kids. As I approached him, with my left hand rising in a high-five, I surrepticiously opened the egg and unleashed the coarse bits that had once been my brother, there in the center of the field.
The rest of my orbit around the bases and into home was a blur and I may have even forgotten to tag third base. When I arrived at home base, Mark, Tom and the boys were there to high-five me.
Mission accomplished.
And when I recently learned that the Tigers had entered the Playoffs, I was, curiously, not surprised.
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