Tiger Stadium sits at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull in downtown Detroit.
It’s old.
Old as World War II, worn-down tennis shoes and my grandfather’s nylon mesh General Motors hat. In America, we know what to do with old things. At least we think we know what to do with things that pass their prime. We destroy them. We abandon them until they look shabby enough to justify our destruction.
“Build a mall,” we scream. “Some condos would look nice.” “We could put a highway right there,” says another. “What this city needs is a new skyscraper.”
The wrecking ball rips through the right field wall where all of baseball’s greats once stood. The ground near home-plate—where Cobb, Horton, Greenberg, Cash, Kaline, Gibson, Trammel, and Fielder planted themselves before launching little white balls to the moon— is desecrated because of a city council plan to make condos.
Something’s missing in Detroit. Life is concentrated around work and home. Mundane universes often revolve around job titles, salaries and what’s happening with a son’s third grade science project. This is not bad. Having a job that is meaningful is life-giving and increasingly rare in today’s economic climate. Focusing on one’s family is also good because it’s a core responsibility.
But we don’t have a lot of other places. Church used to be an other place. Starbucks poses as one though I doubt its longevity. Tiger Stadium is a sacred space to so many not merely because of the games won (and lost), the athletes, the drama, and the great hot dogs. Tiger Stadium is a space where, for a few moments on a warm summer afternoon, men not known for their ability to share hopes and dreams were able to hope and dream together. Something to cheer about. Something to grieve. Something to look forward to next year.
The wrecking ball tears the walls, fences, cement, structures of Tiger Stadium. They not only tear what is visible. They also tear the things that are invisible. And, of course, it’s the invisible that is often more real than the visible. It’s the invisible that lasts beyond any of us.
I don’t know the answer. I only know that when our other spaces go down, we are never the same. The park, the library . . . or even Tiger Stadium. When we destroy—whatever it is we destroy—we are never the same. Today, that’s what I believe.
4 comments:
Luke 13:6-9
"A man had a fig tree, planted in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it, but did not find any. So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, 'For three years now I've been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven't found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?'" 'Sir,' the man replied, 'leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.' "
I look back at some of my past experiences and grieve some when I observe examples of where I chopped when I should have persevered… especially relationships. I try to constantly ask myself all the time what is it I need to be taking the time to be putting fertilizer around, instead of looking for an ax or the wrecking ball?
By the way I found the writing of this post to be addictive (in a way that kept me wanting to read more). Great visuals, and style.
Phil: Good thoughts. Way to bring the text into this. I had not made this connection.
When this discussion of destruction moves from "places" to "people" it gets real real interesting. You've given more to think about.
JG
some work for BBT i presume? how is class?
This was a "creative" you-have-ten-minutes to describe destruction. This is what I came up with.
The class has been fantastic. Can't wait to share more with you.
JG
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