Destruction

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.

Humble Pie

Tiger Stadium. As I write this, Tiger Stadium is slowly evaporating.

I remember sitting in the right-field bleacher seats with my grandfather and twin brother when I was twelve or so. The Yankees were in town to play the beloved home team, the Tigers. Throughout the course of the game, my brother and I derided the Yankee right-fielder wearing the number twenty-one which had been stitched into the back of his jersey.

“You’re not good enough to have your name on the back of your jersey,” we repeated over and over again. Passionate we were, knowledgeable we were not. It would be at least three more years before I learned of the Yankees tradition to omit last names on the back of jerseys as a nod to the significance of the name of the front of the jersey over and above the name of the back of the jersey. This is a lesson almost completely missing from the modern professional landscape in which baseball players have their names on their jerseys, gloves, and even (depending upon your status) engraved into the wristbands resting on one’s forearms.

On the way home, my grandfather delivered some important news. “Boys, do you know who plays right field for the Yankees?”

“No. All we know is that he does not have his name on his jersey so he must not be that good.”

“His name is Paul O’Neil. He’s one of the best hitters in the game today.” A silence fell over the car. A silence not too different from the silence of a principal entering a classroom in which the substitute teacher has had it, relinquishing all authority to The Principal.

“Oh,” was all I remember offering in response to my grandfather. I made a mental note to myself that I would, at least when it came to sports, do my homework before I would make grandiose claims. By the way, I recently went back and looked up O’Neil’s stats from this year—he won the A.L. batting title.

Humble pie. A big ol’ slice of it.

Josh, Kite Runner, Leno

Josh Ross spent the weekend with us. He taught at our annual young adult formation retreat. He also preached (with me) three times on Sunday morning at Rochester Church (four if you add CC:M). He is truly a gifted teacher and preacher of the Jesus Story. He got to see two of the Tigers well-publicized losses while in the D. Maybe he's bad luck. No . . .maybe the Tigers are simply "fat cats" . . .

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Kara and I watched The Kite Runner tonight. I read the book this summer during our Florida vacation. I sat on the beach, paralyzed by this story, perhaps one of the great redemption narratives of our generation. Movies are never as good as the book. Never.

Yet, I admit, this movie is almost as good as the book. I'm going to be teaching our mid-week service tomorrow night about spiritual friendship using this book as the beginning point.

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Heard on Jay Leno tonight. "The Tigers are 0-6 (actually, now they are 0-7). That's incredible. They are scoring less than Mayor Kilpatrick." Nice, Jay. Kick us while we're down. We'll be back.