At 2:30 Sunday afternoon, I left the press at Ford Field and looked for humans. Many of them had gathered across the street at Comerica Park, where on Monday the Detroit Tigers, the new darlings of the American League, will play Kansas City.
Lots of people were doing what I planned to, which is poking their faces against the gates and looking for signs of spring. I wanted to see grass, and the fourth gate I tried, I did. It was beautiful. There was smooth otherworldly green grass broken up only by smooth brown dirt basepaths.
And speaking of broken up, there was a statue of Ty Cobb, and even in the statue his spikes were high, which means he was trying to break up a double play or spike somebody because he could. I would love to see the reaction of the fielder awaiting the throw.
Of course there was a little boy and his dad peering into the ballpark. Maybe they, too, were looking for spring -- despite the winter coats they were wearing.
After returning to Ford Field, I still was not in the mood for media. The truth is, I kind of like to be alone, especially after so many days and weeks around others. Solitude is easy to find at Ford Field. I found it in Section 347, Row 21, seat 1, the top row at one end of the court.
It is a terrible seat, I must say. It would be like going to the top of Charlotte’s biggest building – I better not say which one because I’ve been gone most of the last two weeks and some bank might have built a new one.
And once you get to the top of the building, you look down and see what could be people performing an act that could be dribbling.
But when you move toward midcourt the view improves markedly. I sat in the upper rows of the sections in which the Davidson fans will sit today. The seats aren’t bad.
In the You Know You Are Old Department: You know you’re old when, on Saturday night on the road, you walk two blocks to a neighborhood restaurant and eat clam chowder and Lake Superior – an underrated lake, I must say – whitefish while watching the first half of the North Carolina-Louisville game on a little TV in the corner of the room.
And you leave at halftime and go back to your hotel room to watch the second half. Then you fall asleep and wake up 9½ hours later thinking, “Man, that was a pretty good night.”