PSA

Blogging will be light. I'm heading to Detroit tomorrow to see the league-leading Tigers. I'm taking my three oldest boys.

I loved baseball while growing up. I spent hours poring over the Baseball Encyclopedia, memorizing stats, from Ty Cobb to Carl Yastrzemski; played Strato-matic baseball; watched games; followed league leaders every morning in the Detroit Free Press; went to at least one game a year, courtesy of my father. When the Tigers ravished the MLB in 1984, I was ecstatic. In 1987, I scored tickets to one of the AL playoff games.

Then came the strikes. Combined with a serious downturn in the Tigers and the pressures of adult existence, my enthusiasm waned to almost nothing.

And then a few months ago, I remembered my sons, especially sons 2 and 3. They both love to play baseball, but they've never been to a Tigers game, and they know nothing about the sport, except what they've seen in their coach-pitch league. They can't consistently identify the Tigers uniform; they don't understand standings. They don't know about the National League and American League, the 1968 World Series, the 1919 Black Sox, 1927 Yankees, the Gashouse Gang, Hugh Duffy or Ted Williams or Walter Johnson.

I was ashamed, but I'm trying to remedy it. I've started watching games with the boys, and they're catching on a little, but their interest flickers on and off. For the most part, they seem baffled and a bit lukewarm.

I'm hoping tomorrow changes that. There's something about a major league game that inflames the imagination (in a good way). Of all my trips this summer, I'm most excited about this one. Pray for a successful outing.

Tigers Stadium