Baseball Love: The Tiger in Michigan's Heart

Motown Magic Working in the Hearts of Millions

One out, bottom of the ninth inning, Brandon Inge of the Detroit Tigers is up at home plate. It's chilly in St. Louis, and the field is wet. It's been raining all day and the noisy red crowd of Cardinals fans are ready to send the Tigers back to Detroit without a World Series title. My hands are clenched at the bar. I'm smoking a cigarette and sparsely touching my beer bottle. I imagine every bar in Michigan, at once: thousands of fanatics drinking, chain-smoking and cheering on the television; countless smoky spaces filled with navy blue and orange. It is not a dream to me, it's the Tigers - the Tigers are about to lose the World Series. Third basemen Brandon Inge swings and misses at the first pitch - strike one. I imagine a half-drunk bar-patron in Livonia or Saginaw; his heart drops an inch and he exhales a small breath, adjusts the rim of his Tigers hat. Here I am, one hundred and seventy-something games into the season, and Brandon Inge is batting with two out, and one strike. He watches the next pitch go by, it's a strike and I can feel the heart of Michigan collapsing - all the air in the bars, clubs, restaurants, and living rooms is being sucked out with each strike. The Tigers are on the brink of losing the World Series; a black wave is rolling across the state. The pitcher sets up - here it comes, Brandon Inge lifts his left leg slightly, torques his body towards the pitch, and swings. No pop of the bat. No silence as we watch the ball soar; only the smack of cork and leather into a catcher's mitt. Inge strikes out and the hopes of millions of fans are gone until next April. The Cardinals storm the field in lurid celebration, the crowd of red shirts and raincoats is pulsating and cheering, taking no notice of Inge wallowing off the field, defeated, deflated - at the summit, but unable to plant the flag of Detroit in the rocky soil.