12 | michigan history

Image of Detroit’s Briggs Stadium in 1942, by photographer John Vachon for the Office of War Information.

uring the summer of 1954, my dad came home from work with a surprise. “What is it?” I anxiously asked.

He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, opened it, and hesitated a moment for dramatic effect. Then, in a voice loud enough for my mother to hear in the basement, where she was doing laundry, he said, “I have two tickets to the Detroit Tigers’ game tomorrow. They’re playing the Yankees, and we are going.”

I can remember the delight I felt when he showed me the tickets. I must have studied them, front and back, for five minutes, or at least it seemed that long. “Dad, where did you get them?” I asked. He replied, “It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we are going.”

He was right. I tried not to worry about it, even though I had overheard my parents talking about Dad not clearing much money at his employer: the Packard plant. When he did save a little extra money, he took me to places he could afford: like the corner soda fountain for a malted milkshake (strawberry being my favorite). However, this time he outdid himself. This time, he was taking me to a

professional baseball game—my first.The Tigers hadn’t fared well against the Yankees that

season. In mid-May, they’d lost all three home games to the Bronx Bombers by two runs each. But it didn’t matter to me; I knew we had a team that was just as good, if not better.

The next day—June 22—was the biggest day of my life to that point, and I took in everything that was going on around me. I reveled at the stadium vendors, the souvenir salesmen, and the fans singing, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” My senses were at their height, and the smell of peanuts, popcorn, and hot dogs smothered in mustard and relish tantalized me even more. I was in heaven.

The game started at 2:30 p.m. with a blue sky dotted with white, billowing clouds. It was a perfect day for the more than 9,000 fans attending the game. I sat on the edge of my seat wearing my baseball glove, eagerly hoping to catch a foul ball.

The first couple innings were exciting, but uneventful. Both sides were hitting, but no one was scoring. Then, in the bottom of the third, things began to click for us. I

for the Home Team

Root, Root, Root

By Donald L. Dereadt

JULy/aUgUst 2012 | 13

didn’t have a scorecard, but I knew every player by his jersey number and from my baseball cards. First, Red Wilson singled to the shortstop; this was followed by a Yankee balk, which moved him to second base. Next, Steve Gromek kept things rolling with a successful bunt, putting him on first and Wilson on third. The crowd was getting noisy, and so

was I. Then, Frank Bolling singled and Wilson scored, with Gromek moving to second. The Yankees pitcher balked again, advancing Gromek to third. Ray Boone came to bat and singled to right field, driving Gromek in for another run. By the end of the inning, we were leading by two runs on four hits.

During the sixth inning, the excitement began to get to me. I needed another soft drink and popcorn, which my father bought from the roving vendor. I shoveled the popcorn into my mouth while concentrating intently on the game.

In the bottom of the seventh inning, Bob Nieman walked and Ray Boone advanced him with a base hit. With Nieman positioned at second base, Walt Dropo—our first baseman—hit a driving single to left field, which brought Nieman home. Boone was sitting at second, and we were leading 3 to 0.

The crowd rose to its feet when Bill Tuttle smashed a solid hit to left field, enabling Boone to score. It seemed like there was no stopping us. By the time the inning ended, we were ahead 4 to 0. The crowd was ecstatic and so was I.

The only threat to Detroit came in the eighth inning. That’s when Yankee Joe Collins singled to center field and Mickey Mantle doubled into right. Yogi Berra followed them with a sacrifice fly that enabled Collins to score. When the inning was over, Detroit led 4 to 1 and that’s the way it stayed.

I didn’t want the game to end, but sadly it did. As the

players walked off the field, the crowd rose to their feet cheering and applauding for the home team. I wasn’t tall enough to see above the adults, but that didn’t stop me from cheering along with them. As people rushed out of their seats to leave, I asked my father if any players were available to sign autographs. Unfortunately, none were. But I got over it. I watched my Tigers win a home game against the Yankees, and for me that atoned for the home games they had lost in May.

I went to bed that night and placed my baseball glove on my bedroom dresser as I always did. Only this night was special. My glove, embossed with the words “Genuine Cowhide, Pro Model,” seemed to glow as the moonlight came through my bedroom window. I couldn’t wait until morning to grab my glove and run down to the nearest park to practice and play my next game.

I never had an opportunity to attend another Tigers’ game in my youth. The best I could do was to collect their trading cards and swap for better ones as the careers of my heroes skyrocketed. As time went on, not getting an autograph faded from my memory because I had something just as good. I had the ticket stub from the game in a scrapbook, sitting on my dresser as testimony that I was there the day the Tigers beat the Yankees.

Both the ticket stub and my scrapbook are long gone. But my childhood dream of getting an autograph was fulfilled when Al Kaline came to an auto dealership in Washington Township in 2008 to sign autographs. On

that special day, I ran out and purchased a baseball imprinted with an Old English “D” and waited in line with throngs of other fans. When I got to the head of the line, I mentioned the June 22, 1954

game where I saw him and the rest of the Tigers defeat the Yanks, and I thanked him for being such a positive role model. He smiled, shook my hand, and thanked me for being a fan. He was very gracious and agreed to have his picture taken with me. Today, when I look at the autographed ball and the image of us together, I know, without a doubt, it was worth the 54-year wait.

Retired Air Force Officer Donald L. Dereadt was born

in Detroit and currently resides in Shelby Township. He enjoys writing about his life experiences, and has had articles published in Reader’s Digest and Reunions magazine.

remember the time |

By Donald L. Dereadt

Above: Briggs Stadium postcard, courtesy of CardCow.com. Below: The author with Tiger great Al Kaline in 2008.