Tigers vs. Brewers June 12th

It was bound to happen what with the sheer amount of games being ingested over one summer. I thought it was meeting Milton Bradley at the Negro League Museum. Then I thought it was getting a foul ball. Or seeing the Future Home Run King hit one out of the park. Or seeing the bears of Sequoia. I thought it could have been any of these things, and those thoughts could very well have come to fruition were they not dwarfed by the incredible sports moment I was priviledged to witness.

June 12th, 2007, as I sat in the far right bleachers of Comerica Park in Detroit, I witnessed Justin Verlander throw a no hitter.

12 strikeouts.

Great plays in the field.


Incredible.

Only two times in my life have I ever felt like a part of something incredible in the sports world (aside from Georgia Football). Once was in the plaza of the Hotel De ville as France came back from 1-0 in extra time after blocking a David Beckham penalty kick in the opening round of the 2004 Euro Cup. The other time was this.

For some people a no hitter is the epitome of why baseball is not fun. The execution of the game to perfection resulting in nothing happening. These are the same people who despise soccer and claim to enjoy high scoring sports such as basketball. These are the same people who have adult ADD, watch movies like Crank, think that commercials on T.V. have gotten too plot centered, and have no concept of foreplay. For them the action is all about scoring instead of the culmination of events leading up to the score. I pity these people for missing the heightened sense that every single pitch could be the one that ends perfection. 120 opportunities for another professional to succeed in his specific battle of bat vs. ball. The ninth inning, when the entire ballpark finally acknowledges what is happening--the girls stop talking, the guys stop drinking, the dads quit trying to explain things to their kids and just tell them that they need to watch. The crowd goes wild as Verlander steps off the mound with one man left to settle himself down.

I have no allegiance to Detroit, and no qualms with Detroit either. I couldn't have cared less about two midwestern teams in an Interleague game slipped in between couch stays of two very good friends. But for the last inning of what will almost surely be the last no hitter I will ever see, time stood still for every pitch, and I existed in a state of anxious anticipation of not wanting to see perfection crumble. And when it was all said and done, I slapped hands with strangers, exchanged knowing glances with old men, smiled to myself, and watched millionaire adult men from all over the globe gather in the center of a diamond and celebrate like children.

F.S. Player: Kris

Kris actually seemed genuinely excited for me to be showing up to take advantage of her place for three days. Having just completed my week of solitude across the Great West, I was genuinely excited to have company, a shower, and a landscape that didn’t swish past me at 77 miles per hour. These two things added up to me being a huge wuss when it came to going out and experiencing the city. We did, however, make it to the beach, where the lovely Chicagoans entertained us and the entire shoreline with their loudly voiced personal stories and incredibly over-reactive abrasive parenting styles. It was like being on a Carnival Cruise in the middle of the Mid-West. Aside from that, the Rib Fest and the Blues Festival were both going on, but because of my malaise we didn’t make either—regrettably so with the Blues Fest. Instead Kris locked me into her apartment and made me do unthinkable things. Things that no man should talk about. Things that no man should admit to. Yet things everyman has caved into at a certain point in his life. It has been a while now, and I think it would be cathartic to tell you what she reduced me to that first night. Hours in front of the T.V., watching Elf, Grey’s Anatomy, and two episodes of Army Wives. Don’t worry though, I hated every minute of it, and thought of sports the entire time (except for when Addison was on Greys, then I was as focused as a man can be). The Lesson learned from the weekend? Don’t ever put your weakened mental state in the hands of a Psychology Grad student, she can warp and twist it into whatever she wants, and you’ll never see it coming.

Chicago

Chicago turned out to be very different than what I expected. Aside from the atmosphere coming as close to resembling the south with SEC stickers on tons of cars and pastels polos on half the people, the city itself was crazy. Crazy like there was a beach a mile away from Linkin Park where I was staying. On top of that, it was a freshwater beach because it was on a huge friggin lake. Big enough to have waves, and no shoreline in sight and a sandy beach. The question I want to know is if the sand on the beach is brought in to make it a beach, or if it is legit sand, borne of the dead bodies of the life once lived in the lakes, before they caught on fire. But Cleveland comes later. Some things that you should know about Chicago. Chi town as it was once referred.

1. First, there are Irish pubs on every corner. I don’t know if there was a Chinatown in Chicago, but if so, then there is probably a hO’chi MinCallisters on the corner. The area of town is probably called Chinacago, and there are lots of Asian men with remarkably thick moustaches talking broken Chicago English der, eh?


2. Secondly, Chicago is a lot like going back to college. Everyone lives in Dorms. Everyone has parking permits for their cars. Everyone is from somewhere else.


3. Lastly, everything you’ve seen about Chicago from The Blues Brothers is dead on, whether it be the L Trains, lots of transplanted Southern Black culture, or the affinity for Blues (I just so happened to be there on the weekend of the Blues festival), The Blues Brothers Movie nailed it. I halfway expected the entire city to break out into organized dance moves on the park steps when I went by, but alas, I missed the rehearsal.

The Women. How much for your women?

Chicago