Spring
In the early days of this 2008 Major League Baseball season a friend and I went to see a Thursday afternoon Detroit Tigers game at Comerica Park while they played host to the visiting Texas Rangers.
It was a mildly warm and sunny April day – clear skies abounded - Perfect for baseball - with no rain in the forecast. I had brought along another co-workers camera in hopes of getting some close-up shots of some Rangers and Tigers players.
I recall joking with my friend that it was Career Day – he’d recently been laid off from our workplace.
Josh Hamilton – who has easily been the Texas Rangers MVP this season, was just beginning to hit his stride in what has been a truly amazing year.
However - much to my dismay – the cat calls and heckling still remained at a premium at this time.
Did Hamilton ’s large 6’4” frame chalked full with tribal tattoos project a tough guy image – and therefore one who was deserving of the seedy side of trash talk?
Was this some shameful thug with a drug-riddled history - deserving of an intense daily orator’s ass whuppin’ – all while trying to play the game he was born to play?
The past drug problems we’re well documented - and true.
But the verbal diarrhea bestowed upon this great man - to me – just didn’t feel right.
I’d followed Josh’s story since his belated rookie season in Cincinnati - and was aware there was more to this man than meets the eye – and definitely more to him than his speckled past.
I felt bad for him – but sat quietly as the innings progressed.
Both my friend and I hoped – especially for the young kids around us that it would stop as the game went on.
It didn’t.
In fact, it just got worse.
Each inning the Comerica Park beer helped alter a few tipsy Tigers fans into an intoxicated bleacher crowd who felt it necessary to falsely impress those within earshot with their witless candor.
“Hey Hamilton – want some more crack!” and “Hey Hamilton need a crack pipe!?” rained down from the upper deck.
Sadly - this is the “PG-13” heckling fit for print.
Arrows of misguided vocal hate shot towards the big mans shoulders as I asked my buddy…
“Do you think he can hear them?”
“Probably” my friend quipped.
“I hope not” I calmly whispered - secretly wondering if I was the only one who thought this was wrong.
The juvenile banter was not only a harsh personal attack on a man who had made significant strides in dealing with his personal demons – but it was an embarrassment to me – a longtime Tigers fan who wished the class acts would move to another section – or better yet – go home.
And yes – I understand - and advocate route route routing for the home team and jeering the opposition.
But for one - these “fans” had not ventured out on this day to enjoy a baseball game.
They were there to get drunk and while there, get their rocks off by yelling obscenities – during an afternoon game – surrounded by grade school children.
Most of these kids, I was guessing, had came out to see a Tiger’s game – not an inquisition.
They wanted to see their local heroes like Pudge and Mags - not listen to a watered down version of Andrew Dice Clay lay into a player who only an hour before game time was witnessed delivering an impromptu autograph session along the first base line for as many adoring fans as he could during the Rangers batting practice.
Unfortunately, as the rubble rousers grew - and the ales flew – one of Josh Hamilton’s loudest critics on this particular day seemed typically egged on by some surrounding fans supportive laughter.
To be continued…
