A Ballpark Visit

Podcast - A Ballpark Visit . . .

“Are the Tigers playing at home?”

As an avid baseball fan, a question I’ve asked many times during my Alumni travels preparing to visit Detroit, MI.

However, this time I found that question printed in a tattered, yellowing, newspaper clipping from the Detroit Free Press dated Saturday, September 25, 1948, carefully tucked away in a scrapbook.

The ball-club was and two young boys realized a dream, I can only imagine what that was like . . .

Let me get you up to speed. While going through a box of old files from Lori’s father I came across an article titled Youth’s First City Visit.

A piece co-authored by 15-year-old Gerald (Jerry) Davies from the farming community of Marlette, Michigan about his experiences visiting Detroit.

The photo journal and article was a promotion sponsored by The Detroit Free Press as a student exchange.

Gerald Davies from Marlette MI would meet his namesake Jerry Davies from Detroit, together they would visit and work on the Davies family farm, take a trip to the city, and attend a big-league ball game.

Their weekend highlight was The Corner, the nickname for the intersection of Michigan and Trumbull Avenue, Briggs Stadium, (later re-named Tiger Stadium 1961).

During their Ballpark visit, the two young boys were the VIP guests that day, they met Tigers manager Steve O’Neil and chatted with star players from the 1948 Tigers.

The photo caption read, "Gerald was particularly impressed with outfielder Hoot Evers," (Walter Arthur Evers) who batted .314 in 1948.

Reading through that tattered article 70 years later, I can only speculate what game they saw.

Scanning the Baseball Almanac, I'd like to think it was the 1948 pennant-winning Cleveland Indians. A ball-club powered with such greats as Bob Feller, Lou Boudreau, and Larry Doby. The Indians whipped the Tigers 9-3. I'm going to dig deeper in that box, maybe I'll find the ticket stub? That would be pretty cool.

Be it nostalgia, the love of the game, or simply the longing to recreate the past, to this day, I’m able to follow the Detroit Tigers, via my iPhone and MLB’s At Bat app.

Obviously not yet, the 2021 Baseball season won’t start until April 1st.

It's as if there’s a connection somehow.

Hmm, maybe there is . . .

This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening. See you in the next episode.

Comments

Anonymous said…

I knew a Marlette...

January 15, 2021 at 11:35 AM

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...

On The Fly

Search This Blog