“I love the game because it’s so simple, yet it can be so complex.
— Ernie Harwell, the voice of the Detroit Tigers for 52 years
There’s a lot of layers to it, but they aren’t hard to peel back.”
My mom came to most of my little league baseball games—when she wasn’t working. From tee-ball to 10th grade, she was there. I could hear the usual pitter-patter of claps from a few parents in the stands. Above the modest applause, I’d sometimes hear her holler, “Hot dog!”, whenever I did something well.
Standing on the mound in my baggy baseball pants and oversized number 14 jersey, it felt like those two words burst out of her. She didn’t say it every time. Mom knew baseball, so she only launched the emphatic “hot dog!” when I triumphed at critical moments: a line drive up the middle, the last strikeout of the inning, getting the opposing team’s best hitter out or knocking in a game-tying run.
Middle: Rob Ziegler, Peter Flavin, Jimmy Scheffer, Scott Bone, Tim Broyles, Richard Fritz
Front: Doug Jones, me, Steve Bertapelle, Steve Ainsworth, Tim Taylor
I could feel her excitement and that she understood the game’s nuances. She knew when it mattered; she paid attention to the game of baseball, to the preciseness of a player’s successes and their failures, so her enthusiasm felt good.
On another hot summer day—maybe a day later, maybe a week—I’d have nothing to do but lie in my room on top of my now-hideous polyester bedspread, stare at the ceiling, and toss a tennis ball up and catch it a thousand times, trying to snatch whatever breeze that made its way through the open window.
Mom was outside that window, enjoying her summertime leisure. She would lie on a towel in her one-piece bathing suit, various shades of tan and brown, under the hot Michigan sun with Coppertone tanning lotion on her glistening skin. With her eyes closed and arms by her sides, she listened to the Tigers’ game on a small transistor radio. As always, Ernie Harwell called the game:
“The outfield is straight up, deep on Parrish. He’s the DH today, and there’s the swing, there’s a drive to left and that one is gone! Parrish lays into that first pitch for his 14th home run of the year!”
“Hot dog!” Mom cheered, with her eyes still closed, her arms by her side, and taking in the rays.
Pausing to hear what happened, I threw the tennis ball a half-inch from the ceiling, caught it, threw it, caught it, threw it … and the summer day rolled on like there was no beginning and no end.
Written April 4, 2022
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