Original Illustration: Tiffy Thompson
My father’s psychological state relies on two factors. The Detroit Tigers and the Toronto Maple Leafs. Winning = unmitigated joy, losing = plunging to the depths of despair.
For their honeymoon, my dad surprised my unimpressed mom with a trip to the ballpark. We were instructed from infancy to love the Tigers and hate the Blue Jays. We made the exodus to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull to the now defunct Tiger Stadium every year of my childhood. Summer vacations revolved around the Official Schedule. Al Kaline, Sparky Anderson, Alan Trammell and Lou Whitaker were household names. The radio was dominated by Ernie Harwell’s play-by-play one liners: “He stood there like the house by the side of the road, and watched it go by.”
We’d drive from Sault Ste. Marie down the ‘mitt’ of Michigan, check into a shady motel in Flint, venture into the city and park at least an hour’s walk from the Stadium. He’d leave the car in a burned-out lot under the watchful eye of a grizzled, toothless man who would ‘keep an eye on it’ for $20 USD.
Dad would leap out of the car and literally sprint to the warmup, leaving mom trotting behind like a pit pony saddled with diaper bags. She would ignore the game and read or crochet. Dad remained glued to his seat and laser focused, refusing to even go to the bathroom. A win would send him into a frenzy of whooping. A loss (or series of losses) would equal a terse ride home, where he’d sit in the car, brooding, as my mother went outlet shopping. The ideal time to ask for money or treats was early in the season before everything went off the rails. Spring always held the promise of real changes in the bullpen and the ‘rebuilding’ of the farm team.
The nineties were a dark time. With both teams in a perpetual slump, the situation had become untenable. Winters were long and bleak, with the relentless sucking of the Leafs. His allegiance to them was unfathomable to me. It seemed like a toxic, passive-aggressive relationship with a lousy boyfriend who would make all sorts of promises but relentlessly disappoint. It all made him distracted and anxious. He’d sit at the dinner table, steepling his fingers and staring into space. I once hurled a pork chop at his face to get his attention. He merely rose from the table and hissed at my mom: “Talk to your daughter.”
When things started to turn around for the Tigers a few years ago, his demeanor changed significantly. They were no longer a sad, predictable cliché. They were a glimmer of hope in the ruins of downtown Detroit. It was a welcome reprieve from an exhausted economy, a stopper to a city circling the drain. He was buoyant, gleefully recalling the highlights to my blind, elderly great uncle, and fantasizing about a return to the World Series. As a young man he had seen the ’68 Series (a year after the city had exploded into the Great Riot of 1967) and attended the World Series in 1984. It was in his blood to stick with them.
We would absorb his moods through osmosis, and when Valverde struck out the smug Alex Rodriguez, beating the Yankees 3-2 in the deciding game of the American League playoffs last year, I was a few hundred kilometers away but knew he was going ballistic.
He suffered a mild heart attack a few months ago. When the doctor asked him what time he had started to feel chest pains he replied “I guess it was right after the Leafs had pathetically lost, again.” Time and space are secondary to the game. Studies show that testosterone levels increase just by watching your team win. Watching your team lose can result in a spike in blood pressure and accompany other adverse heart effects. I’m not blaming his heart attack solely on the Leafs (I also blame tax season – he’s an accountant).
What promotes this insistent need to be subsumed by your team? To allow your emotions to be batted around by the careers of people you will likely never meet, but feel you know intimately? They are accountable for your emotional state and paid through your unflagging devotion. They will be your dysfunctional family, the black sheep kid who messes up but then turns it all around and surprises everyone.
I have seen grown men cry over soccer games. Fans running amok in Vancouver. Spouses widowed by football. Maybe this fandom is the replacement for some primordial urge— a connection to community, the thrill of the hunt, the agonizing blow of defeat. It makes us feel alive simply by watching – by standing like a house on the side of the road.
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