Tigers and Baseball Belong to All of Us

It’s just plain different. Period.

Baseball is sacred to Americans.

It’s our game, it’s marked the passage of time for more than a century, and it, unlike any other game, unifies us all.

Our grandfathers talked of the game’s greats of their era, as did our parents to us, as we do to our kids, and as they will to theirs — each generation comparing statistics, impact and status of their favorite players and teams.

DiMaggio and Williams, Mantle and Mays, Ryan and Clemens, Pujols and Jeter — each name highlighting endless conversations between generations of baseball fans. Who is better? Where do they fit in list of all-time greats? What if Williams played today, or Pujols played then? 

Baseball is a common thread woven through the tapestry of many families in this country. Even those who aren’t baseball fans know of someone close to them who are, and know the names Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb.

Most importantly, though, baseball is a game of lasting memories. 

Dave Rozema and a simple toss in 1979

My uncle took me to my first baseball game in 1979 when I was 8 years old. 

We sat no more than three rows back from the field at Tiger Stadium, just a few seats behind the home dugout along the third base line. 

I remember walking down the three steps or so and leaning against the concrete wall that separated the stands from the field. 

Several Detroit Tigers played catch in front of the dugout, loosening up before the game got under way. I watched wide-eyed as my baseball cards suddenly came to life.

My heroes, players such as Lance Parrish, Steve Kemp and Jason Thompson (I played first base for my Little League team at the time) stood before me like they had popped from the pages of a comic book — larger than life.

Then a ball got away from one of the players and rolled past the dugout, coming to rest just a few feet away from where I stood. I watched as Tigers pitcher Dave Rozema jogged to where the ball rested, and I remember my heart pounding in my chest. 

The photo on his 1979 Topps baseball card flashed through my mind confirming his identity. It was really him, no doubt. 

Rozema came to a stop directly in front of me, bent over to scoop up the ball with his glove, then stood tall. 

“You a Tigers fan?” he smiled.

I shook my head “yes” nearly as fast as my knees were shaking. 

“You play baseball?”

“Uh huh.” 

He flipped his glove subtly in my direction and the ball, an official Major League Baseball, floated toward me. I reached out with both hands and snatched it from the air.

“Good catch, kid,” he said.

With that, he turned and jogged back to the team.

I remember holding the ball like I had stumbled upon a great treasure, which it was, mind you. 

That ball sat on a shelf in my bedroom for years and years, and that memory, no matter how many days I live, will never leave me.

It’s just plain different. Period.

As baseball fans, we can’t wait for the postseason to start.

The fact our team is in only sweetens the nectar.

However, the outcome of each game isn’t nearly as important as we might think it should be, or as it is, really.

Whether the Tigers or Yankees win this upcoming series is overshadowed by memories we’ll make with our sons or daughters or fathers or uncles or whomever it is we hold dear — whomever it is that shares this love we have for baseball.

This is what makes this game so unique, so special, so sacred to us all.

And, although the World Series titles and league pennants are something we all can be proud of, it's the memories weaved within this game that we'll hold most dear.