A Tiger Graveyard

I don't remember the last time I was in Tiger Stadium, but considering the last game there was played in the summer of '99, I couldn't have been older than eleven. But, I don't know if I saw a game there that season, or even the one before that. Nor do I remember how many times I went there as a child, though it was certainly more than a dozen. None of those times really differentiate themselves from one another, not for a kid that young. I remember third baselines, green grass and white uniforms, but nothing all that concrete. Not wins and losses or opposing teams. The one memory which truly stands out is of the stadium's low-ceilinged tunnels that seemed to me then like some sort of primeval caves.


As a kid the ballpark itself was the important part, not the game itself. Sure, I enjoyed watching baseball, but my attention span wasn't long enough to really appreciate the game. But the hot dog vendors, the cheering masses, the wave, the peanuts, and my dad sitting next to me are what still stick out in my mind.

I know my dad was at the last game in Tiger Stadium, on September 27, 1999. I don't know for sure if I saw the game on television, but it seems like I did. I feel as if I watched Robert Fick hit that grand slam which would be the last hit the Stadium would ever see. But it could just be a pseudo-memory or a hope.

At the tail end of summer, Caleb, Stef and I headed into the city for Michigan and Trumbull and parked in a gravel lot right next to the stadium. I hadn't been there in years, but I still remembered the feeling of elation as the claustrophobic tunnel opened up to get a view of a bright green field and thousands upon thousands of people. This time was different, though it brought back all the same memories. Tiger Stadium was deserted as we approached the fence, the infield covered in piles of rubble ten feet high. The only part of the stadium left standing were the walls behind home plate, rising high above the refuse, gutted. It looked as if an earthquake had hit it, or a bomb. We slipped under the fence and wandered between the piles of debris towards the towering structures above. The field was covered with concrete, steel, dust and strewn among the debris were hundreds of broken seats... everywhere bright spots of blue and orange among the grey and rust-hued remains. Heading away from the rubble, the outfield was clear, clean... looking more like the field of a park than what once was an immaculately kept lawn.

Standing out there was an awe-inspiring moment, thinking about all the people who had filled the Stadium throughout the century, since before my grandparents were born. All the games it had seen, the joys, the sorrows, and simply the life that had happened.

Despite the utter destruction around me and the sadness that of what was left behind, the joy of the experience was unmistakable. I was at Tiger Stadium once more and on the field for the first time in my life. My only regret is that I hadn't brought a baseball and a bat or maybe a glove, so the field could experience baseball one last time. I'm not usually one to personify or believe in spirits or ghosts, but there is part of me that thinks it would have made a difference. Maybe some of that concrete had soaked up the experiences of the century or they had seeped into the soil I was standing upon, the ground that had been known as Bennet Park, Navin Field, Briggs Field and finally Tiger Stadium. At least, I would like to think so, because there is not much left otherwise.