Detroit '67

Detroit ‘67

By: Aaron Zaremski

It was like a cemetery. Here lied this building, this is where the Pistons used to play, just rubble now. Here is where the Tigers played, a space fenced in by a rusty gate. Some buildings were still up though. I did not know why, I do not think buildings have pride. But, if these buildings could tell stories, I would definitely like to hear them.

If it was not for my father, I would have felt like I was the only person there, the Omega Man with an entire boulevard to myself. All I saw was the broken down ruins of what was. I could not help but stare though. It felt like a piece of art that was ugly to others but somehow I understood, captivated by the arches, the acres and the afterthought.

My father noticed my interest as I gazed in wonderment from the passenger side window, “You’ve heard about the Midas touch, right son?”

 “Uh, yeah… yeah. I know who he is.”

 “Well, then you know how everything he touched turned to gold.”

I nodded my head in acknowledgment even though my eyes had already wandered back to the passing brick facades.

“What you are looking at is the Detroit touch. Everything they touched turned to rust.”

***

            My alarm clocked sounded. It was 6:15 in the morning on July 23^rd. I always set my alarm to the AM news station and I set for 6:15 and 6:45 a.m. because those are the times when they up date sports. But this time was different; they were broadcasting a historical archived broadcast from the riots of 1967.

            It was amazing to hear the broadcast. “Breaking news into WWJ 950. There appears to be a riot spreading rapidly from 12^th Street.” I sat there like a grandchild listening to their grandfather tell story. Then they aired the audio from the Tigers game the afternoon of the riots. I heard Ernie Harwell’s voice, always so delicate and calm, somewhat tremble when he made note of smoke rising beyond the stadium walls.

            I went downstairs for breakfast and told my parents about what was on the radio. They grew up in and near Detroit. They were kids when the riots happened. My father took me in the backyard one time and pointed at a tree in the neighbor’s backyard. He told me that for a week the National Guard would fly over Jefferson in helicopters en route to downtown and they flew so close to the tree that the leaves would fall off because of the force of the wind.

            My mother’s story was always a little more serious. She actually grew up in the heart of Detroit. Her neighborhood looks like a war zone now, empty houses, burnt down houses, fences keeping nothing in. The riots started on a Sunday and she always said that tanks freely roamed down their neighborhood streets to get to the mayhem.

            I figured they would have been listening too, but they were not. I told my dad to go downstairs and turn on the radio.

He shouted from the basement, “What station?”

I replied, “WWJ 950.”

He turned it on. It was the sports updates and then traffic and weather together. I was excited for them to listen. It went to commercial and when they came back, it was the normal news.

            “Well, we must have missed it.” I said.

            “We didn’t, we were there.” My parents retorted as they sipped their coffee and read the morning news.

I went back upstairs to my room to get ready for work. My radio was still on from when my alarm went off.

“This is breaking news: the second game of a double header with the Yankees this afternoon has been cancelled.”

“That’s odd,” I thought to myself. The Tigers play the Cardinals today.

I ran downstairs and asked my dad who the Tigers played on July 23^rd, 1967. He held the cup to his mouth as he dug into his baseball almanac off a mind.

“The Yankees,” He answered and then sipped his coffee.

Standing there I felt like I should have said something. But, whatever it was, my parents were definitely not going to believe me.

***

As I was driving down Jefferson and through Grosse Pointe, I realized a slew of old cars parked on the street. Some with license plates from ’61, ’64, ’65, but none of them were later than ’67.

Then all of the sudden this raucous noise overpowered the stereo in my car. A low flying National Guard chopped flew past me like a child running home before dark so it would not get trouble. It was flying with a purpose. Like it had a place to be.

I have never claimed to be an investigator, like Sherlock Holmes. But, I have watched far too many episodes of The Twilight Zone than a normal twenty-year-old should. And it was with that expertise that I surmised that this was officially weird.

Passing the Grosse Pointe City limits into Detroit is a lot like getting out of warm pool on a cold day. The minute you get out of that pool, you notice the stark differences in temperature real quick.

I mean, how unfair is that though? Being right smack dab next to mansions far too big for a family of three… or even forty-three.

But, that culture shock was nowhere to be seen. These buildings were pristine and beautiful, in immaculate condition. And they were on the Detroit side no less.

Places like “Al’s Drug Store and Soda Bar” and bus benches with ads for Coca-Cola seemed very uncharacteristic of the Detroit I was accustomed to being greeted by when entering its city limits.

When I passed Belle Isle, I noticed it had a new sign. It looked better than the one they have now. And I could see from a distance that the fountain was on. It had been shut off for months due to budget cuts.

Driving further and further into the city, I could see smoke bellowing. I turned onto 12^th Street only to be greeted by a blockade of police cars.

I got out of my car and asked one of the officers what was going on.

“Are you dumb, son?” One of the officers retorted.

He continued, “Can’t ya see? There is a riot going on?”

I asked why they were not intervening then.

The chief stood tall and said, “We are only guys with a badge and gun. The National Guard couldn’t even stop this.”

There I was. In the middle of what I heard about as a kid. The “turning point” of the city. The riots.

I walked through the mass mêlée of people. Blacks and whites were working together. And they were tearing the city apart. They were throwing rocks, cinder blocks, shoes, anything that could be turned into a projectile.

The shattering of glass and the crackle of fire was juxtaposed to the songs of Motown blaring out of the speakers of a transistor radio on the stoop of an apartment complex. As men and women were tearing out the heart of the city, Marvin Gaye was singing with Tammi Terrell saying that they were all each other needed to get by. From the distance I could hear Dancing in the Street.

There was no dancing here. There was chaos and despair. African Americans screaming of injustice were being reprimanded by white cops who did not care.

The ones who were arrested were lucky. I was shielding myself behind a Cadillac door as bullets were wizzing by me and finding themselves in the flesh of black protesters. Children, mothers, fathers murdered in gun fire with bullets buzzing around them like bees. With so many bullets someone was bound to get stung.

I stood there in the middle of the street taking in what was around me. People kept on bumping into me. Some fleeing and retreating some trying to grab more stones and bricks to combat the National Guard.

One even shouted at me to join the revolution or get of the way.

I got out of the way.

The only place that made sense to go to was Tiger Stadium. I walked to the corner of Michigan and Trumball. The further away from 12^th Street the more calm it got, but I could tell the riots were spreading. It was like a sonic boom of destruction.

I approached the ticket teller and purchased a ticket for a bleacher seat for two dollars. The game was already underway. Word of what was happening had spread through the confines of the stadium. But, none of that mattered to me anymore.

Here I was safe. Inside the confines of Tiger Stadium there were no riots and the only race that mattered was the one from first base to home plate.

My eyes were fixated to the outfield. I got to see Kaline in right field and Willie Horton in left. They just stood there roaming the outfield like palm readers. Predicting where the ball would go on a whim. Except they actually knew where the ball would land. Fans would yell at Kaline to hustle and would call him lazy.

I stood up in defense retorting, “What are talking about? He is a Hall of Famer!”

 I kept having to remind myself it was 1967 and a year from now on the same streets where people were rioting would be rejoicing for their Tigers would win the 1968 World Series.

I felt like Marty McFly with the sports almanac in Back to Future. Would any of these people believe me if I told them what was going to happen? McClain winning 30 games. Beating the Cardinals in seven games?

Baseball has always been a beautiful game to me. It just seemed more beautiful today. The grass seemed greener. The sound of the ball hitting the bat echoed through the stadium walls.

 Looking on as Lolich shook off Freehan and dug into the pitcher’s mound before he delivered a curve ball that could make the Statue of Liberty’s knees break. Seeing Kaline hit a ball further than any tape measure could put into context. Watching Willie Horton command left field and shimmy in the batter’s box and hit a frozen rope in the gap in left-center field was just mesmerizing.

I could tell why my father was so fond of this team.

The game concluded and I just sat in my seat for awhile. I looked around and surveyed every last detail of the stadium. The green seats. The smell of peanuts and stale beer on a summer day.

 I had only been there a few times as a child before they tore it down. It was just a field now, diamond still in tact, up kept by citizens and fans.

I stole dirt from it once. My brother and I had gone downtown and decided to run the bases there. I laughed to myself as I realized that I had something in common with the looters during the riots.

I had stolen something from the city.

I walked down the concourse as I exited. Taking in one last breath of what is was like back then. To be there in its glory. I bought a pennant as a keep sake, to remember the moment by. I gave the man a five dollar bill for it and told him to keep the change.

I saw him look at me weird as he looked at the bill.

“Sir, you trying to trick me,” he said.

“No,” I replied.

I didn’t understand why he was not accepting my gesture. The pennant was only a dollar.

“This ain’t a five dollar bill,” he retorted.

I went pale. I remembered that the currency now compared to then looks different. Instead of engaging further with this man, I decided to leave without my memento. As I began to walk with a more feverous pace, I could hear him call for security.

I ran past the first exit, rounded past the second one and then the third and finally out onto Michigan and Trumball.

“Safe!” I exclaimed while waving my arms like that of an umpire after making a call at the plate.

I turned around to see if the security guards had followed me out. I turned around only to find the rusty gate that surrounded what was Tiger Stadium.

Frantically running down the streets of Detroit, I realized that there were no longer any riots. Only ruins.

I ran to the nearest newspaper stand, the date read: July 23^rd 2012.

Confused and weary I drove home. This drive was familiar. There were no cars with metal fins on them with paint jobs that resembled colors of ice cream.. No, these were just normal cars. Normal buildings. The same old ruins of the past.

I arrived home torn as to whether I should tell my parents about what had just happened to me. All of that was washed away when my father greeted me with tickets to the Tigers game.

“The 1968 Tigers will be there signing autographs,” he said.

Taking my ticket I smiled while thinking to myself, “Will they believe me when I tell him that I thought they played a good game against the Yankees in ‘67?”

After all, I was there to see it.