You Boys
This is the year…”
—Curtis Gadson, Saturday Night Music Machine winner
It appears that Christmas has come early to the Motor City.
For the first time in 16 years—on October 14, 1984—Detroiters can finally say, “We’re #1!” At least when it comes to Major League Baseball.
“Jackie, get in here!” my Dad calls out from our living room. He and my Mom have gathered in front of the TV with my Aunt Sonia and Uncle Mark, cheering the Home Team on to V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. “The Tigers just won the World Series!”
A chorus of hoots and hollers erupts from the Peanut Gallery. Outside, a dozen car horns blare blissfully. Followed by my Aunt Sonia’s enthusiastic words, “Bless—You—Boys!”
I only hope she doesn’t start singing that stupid song! Ever since the Tigers found themselves on a winning streak this season, it’s been all over the radio. From WHYT to WRIF, you can’t escape it.
Just then our telephone rings…
“Hello?” I answer.
“Put your clothes on…Now.” I instantly recognize Brad’s bellow. “I mean it, Jack…Get dressed,” he orders. “We’ll be over in fifteen minutes to pick you up.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Cruising Woodward.” By which Brad means Woodward Avenue. The main thoroughfare from the city of Detroit leading out to the suburbs. Also known as M-1.
“But I’m watching TV with my brother,” I inform him. We had just sat down to watch the conclusion of the NBC epic miniseries V: The Final Battle. Starring Marc Singer and Faye Grant. Who just so happens to be a graduate of Lake Shore High School in St. Clair Shores, another suburb of Detroit.
“Who cares? They’re throwing a huge parade for the Tigers and my Mom’s taking us.”
“Downtown?” I question, knowing Detroit’s reputation as the “Murder Capital of the World.”
“Don’t be such a Pussy,” Brad teases. Which is the first time I’ve ever heard him use the P-word in all the time I’ve known him.
“Who’s all going?” I ask. Not that it matters. It still isn’t safe.
“Me, my Mom, and my sisters.”
“What about Max?”
“Fuck Max,” says Brad. “He’s too busy hanging out with Dickhead.” By whom he means Tom Fulton, this Jock who used to be one of Max’s Best Friends back in elementary school at Webster. Ever since he started wearing contacts and got a decent haircut, Tom’s been a Total Jerk to me and Brad both.
I remember one time back in 7th grade, me and Max and Brad were over Tom’s house hanging out one Saturday afternoon. We had a Total Blast, playing Atari and calling the Party Line and stuff. We even got Tom to pretend his name was Tammy and talk to one of the guys. And boy was he good at it…He came up with some totally wild things to say, which I won’t even repeat. Too bad when we got back to school on Monday, I tried talking to him during Ms. Lemieux’s 6th & 7th hour Enriched English & Social Studies, and he totally blew me off!
I can’t even believe Tom’s going with Marie Sperling now. She used to be all Little Miss Innocent, back in 7th grade. I swear, you could tell her a joke in 1st hour and she wouldn’t start laughing till 5th. Even though she’s always been a Total Sweetheart, none of the Popular Guys wanted anything to do with her. Then last Summer, puberty kicked in and BAM!
Now that I think of it…Marie kinda reminds me of Kristian Alfonso. Whom I’m still totally in love with. She’s gotta be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Every night before I go to bed, I pray that one day I’ll find a girlfriend who’s as beautiful as Kristian Alfonso. If only that could happen, I know I’d be set. Then I could prove to all those Jock Jerks out there—like Fuck Face Craig Gershrowski—that I’m not…You know.
With regards to the Tigers’ Parade, I start to tell Brad, “I don’t know…”
It’s not that I don’t care about the World Series, don’t get me wrong. Even though I’m not technically a Sports Fan, I have a fond affinity for the Detroit Tigers. Back in 4th grade, my Dad used to take me to Tiger Stadium all the time. I’d sit there in the bleachers with my program on my lap, memorizing all the players’ names and their numbers: #1—Lou Whitaker, #3—Alan Trammell, #4—Aurelio Rodriguez, who was always my Aunt Sonia’s favorite ’cause he wore patent leather shoes. Not to mention #8—Ron LeFlore, #10—Rusty Staub, #13—Lance Parrish, #19—Dave Rozema, #33—Steve Kemp.
But partying with a bunch of strangers in Downtown Detroit of all places is the last thing I wanna be doing…
“Come on!” Brad practically begs. “The Tigers haven’t won the World Series since like 1965.”
“1968,” I correct, only knowing this fact because my Dad’s been stressing it this entire season.
“It could be the Year 2000 before they ever make it to the World Series again,” he tells me. “And by that time, we’ll be too old to even care.”
“Okay…” God forbid I should miss out. Which is why I have no other choice but to give in and agree to go along.
“Awesome!” Brad cheers. “We’ll be right over.” Then he throws in, “We gotta pick Bobby up first.” By whom he could only mean Bobby Russell. As in Dear Bobby… from the letter Mr. Grant read aloud to us in the cafeteria at the beginning of 7th grade.
In case I haven’t mentioned it…Bobby happens to live just four blocks away from me on the other side of John R, over on Moorhouse. Across I-75 from where he went to elementary school at Roosevelt with Symphonic Band 2nd chair clarinet Carrie Johnson. Though I couldn’t figure out why he’d be coming along with us. I mean, he’s been in Band with me and Brad for the past two years. But it’s not like either of us is friends with him.
Which is why I have to ask, “Why’s Bobby Russell coming?”
To which Brad replies, “I don’t know…What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal.” Though Brad knows how much I can’t stand Bobby Russell. I mean, he sits right next to me in Band. But whenever I see him outside of class, he acts like he doesn’t even know who I am. Probably because every time he’s challenged me for 1st chair, he’s always lost.
But because I’m the bigger person I say, “Hey, Bobby,” as I crawl into the backseat of Brad’s Mom’s tan little K-Car fifteen minutes later…
“’s up, Jackie?” says Bobby, chomping a huge wad of grape Bubble Yum, barely looking at me. He’s too preoccupied acting ever so cool in his sea green hospital scrubs, left arm draped over the back of the front seat where he sits with Janelle—and her boobs—on his lap.
“Where’s Ted?” I ask nobody in particular. Just to remind Bobby of the presence of Ted Baniszewski in Janelle Dayton’s life.
“Work,” Janelle answers matter-of-factly.
Like her brother, Janelle Dayton’s got reddish-brown hair. Though hers is a lot bigger and curlier. According to Brad, she’s got way more freckles than he does. But she wears so much makeup, you can hardly tell. Don’t get me wrong, she is kinda hot. Though maybe it’s just her boobs.
We drive west on 8 Mile towards Woodward listening to Ernie “The Voice of the Tigers” Harwell recapping tonight’s World Series victory: “After a disappointing loss in San Diego on Wednesday night, the Tigers were back in Motown where they defeated the Padres in games three and four at Tiger Stadium.
“Hopes ran high for the Home Team tonight as right fielder, Kirk Gibson, dropped two bombs into the upper decks in the 1st and