“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” — Yogi Berra
The first time my dad took me to Tiger Stadium in Detroit, it was probably 1973 or ’74. I was seven or eight, led by the hand through a sea of people. At that age, the city felt alive and a little dangerous—every corner of Motown buzzing with energy and grit. The streets were grimy, the air heavy with industry. But the stadium…the stadium was another world.
After a long walk from the car, through leaky corridors and up a dark tunnel—I was stunned . Sunlight poured onto the field like a spotlight on perfection. The grass was greener than anything I’d ever seen. The air was filled a mix of hot dogs, beer, and people. In that moment, I fell in love—with a place, a game, a vibe.
Every summer, we made the two-hour trek from Saginaw for one game. I saw Al Kaline, “The Bird,” LeFlore, Staub—then later Whitaker, Trammell, Gibson and Parrish. I laughed at the characters both in the stands and on the field—Billy Martin’s fire, the cartoonish Sparky Anderson, and Herbie Redmond, Detroit’s dancing groundskeeper who turned the infield into a stage to the delight of thousands. And nothing beat the moment Dad raised his hand to the hot dog vendor, hauling what looked like a two-hundred-pound steel oven filled with the best-smelling dogs on earth.
Get some mustard!
More than fifty years later, I got the chance to take Dad back to that hallowed ground.
Dad turns 85 this summer. His steps are slower, his eyes still bright, his memory still sharp. Easter weekend, 2026, I drove him from Nashville back to The Corner.
It’s different now. Tiger Stadium is gone—demolished in 2009—but the field still holds its shape. A modern park for kids with a respectful nod to the past. Everything has changed, but the original flagpole still stands in center field, rising above it all—defiant, as if to say: things may change around me. I’m staying.
We walked the turf near third base. I could almost hear the faint echo of a crowd stretching out, “Looooooooooouuuuuuuu.” Time marched on, but being there with Dad felt the same. I took a few pictures of him, knowing that one day I’ll walk those steps alone.
A mile up the road at Comerica Park, I got the tickets, the peanuts, the hot dogs—like a baton had been passed. The Tigers were playing the Cardinals, bringing back ’68—a World Series Dad still talks about like it was yesterday. “I won five bucks on that one,” he said, grinning. “Off my boss—and he was a dick.”
We laughed.
Different ballpark, same game. Older, but still us.
Funny how love hangs on like that. Baseball just gives it somewhere to live.
Dad stands in front of Kaline’s Corner in right field.
