The Fredösphere

I interrupt the criminal neglect of my duty to my widespread blog audience (hi, Aunt Virginia!) to report on a trip to the Big House.

Michigan Stadium and I have experienced a rocky relationship, one consisting of a few hours together followed by more than 20 years of resentful separation.  My one previous visit remains a miserable memory:  packed into a row that was overfull before we squeezed into it; a complete inability to see the field, not to mention the players; enjoying only passes in a game that contained all too few (this was Bo Schembeckler's three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust era); and--worst of all--a growing suspicion I was in the presence of tens of thousands of fools, since attending a UM game was obviously a fool's exercise.

I'm honestly befuddled by the dramatic difference between that experience and Saturday's.  Although in the end zone, our seats gave us a perfectly fine view.  Getting into the stadium took time, especially because skybox construction interfered with some of the stadium entrances, but my expectations were so low, they were exceeded magnificently.

I would not have chosen to return to the Big House were it not for Der Drübermensch's pleading.  My fine young 10-year-old sports fanatic had been dreaming of this day ever since attending a tailgate party fund raiser for his boychoir last fall, where he found out that UM football is a very, very big deal.

Like the devout of all other religions, practitioners of UM football worship attend carefully to its rites and rituals, eschewing any deviation from tradition.  Of all details, I was most charmed by the gleaming white gloves worn by director Scott Boerma, which must have been a real sacrifice on what was a warm late summer day.  Note in the photo the band with its line of tuba bells; the student section behind them can be seen by the line of demarcation where the yellow shirt-wearing students end and the fatcat alumni in their center-field seats begin.  Note the luxury skyboxes towering above, which, even in their incomplete state, make the ancient press box look seedy by comparison.

Football is the stuff dreams are made of, and not doubt many in the crowd envy the (true) freshman quarterback who lead the defeat-weary UM team to a convincing victory.  Others might envy coach Rich Rodriguez whose name the crowd chanted.  For me, my moment of envy came late in the game when Neil Diamond's voice blasted from the speakers:

Sweet Caroline!
[ooh-ooh-ooh!]
Good times never seem so good

and 109,017 voices sang his song with him.  They'll be singing it long after the men of the gridiron are broken down old men, and forgotten.

Labels: Culture, local, Religion, Sports

Fans of the Detroit baseball have a fondness for the Tigers' triple-A farm team and its loopy name: The Toledo Mud Hens. The team has a history almost as ancient as the Tigers themselves.

Sadly, until Saturday, this Tiger born 'n' bred had never attended a Mud Hens game. Der Drübermensch was begging to attend a Tigers game, but I (wisely) negotiated him down to a Mud Hens trip: cheaper, easier access, closer to the action at home plate, and having the charm of the second tier. (I have an intense allergy to the hype that usually surrounds the king of the hill.) Der Drü regards no sports team as unworthy of his attention, no matter how minor the team (or, for that matter, how obscure the sport; lacrosse, anyone?) so he agreed.

The game was a sell-out with a crowd of 10K. The park is new. The Mud Hens dominated the game until the last two innings, when their relief pitcher's wild fastballs let the opposing team make things interesting. The crowd's impatience with that pitcher amazed me; the crowds I'm used to (at classical music concerts) usually allow quite a few more mistakes before they begin yelling "get 'em outta there!" The game's impresario understands that baseball is . . . (heresy alert!) . . . dreadfully slow-moving most of the time, so entertainment was provided between innings by Frisbee-catching dogs. Der Drü loved them, having (along with the Maharincess) a limitless sentimentality toward all fur-bearing creatures. Oh, and the fireworks at the end completed the non-athletic portion of the total entertainment package in a spectacular fashion.

On the drive home, Der Drü consulted the local sports schedule and familiarized himself with the ECHL, the double-A hockey league. Toledo's team is the Walleyes. He noted a team located in Elmira, and I jokingly speculated that must be a Mexican team. When he didn't immediately reject this idea, I ran with it, weaving a web of lies about Mexico's centuries-long tradition of hockey dating back to the Aztecs, the first ancient civilization to develop refrigeration. I figured when I described mounted warriors riding ice skate-wearing horses, he'd see through it. He was deeply skeptical but couldn't quite abandon his faith in the basic honestly of his dear old dad. That'll learn 'em.

(Tomorrow, the sport gets ever more exotic.  Is jousting obscure enough for you?)

Labels: Sports