PICK ME


 The man who used to be my husband and I raised our family in a beautiful suburb north of Detroit, Michigan. We have access to abundant natural resources here, especially the magnificent Great Lakes. Detroit gets a bad rap and deservedly so, but the city is beautifully situated on the Detroit River and has much to offer so we visit the city often. The buildings comprise a prized collection of art deco, neogothic and guilded age architecture. Cultural institutions such as the Michigan Opera Theatre, Orchestra Hall, the stunning Detroit Public Library, the Art Museum, and Old St. Mary's, in the heart of Greektown, are breathtaking. Nearby, the Lions' and Tigers' stadiums stand as proud bastions for thousands of loyal fans.
 While professional musicians in Detroit do fairly well financially, amateurs make a pretty decent living playing trombones in the streets. On the way into the main entrance to Tiger Stadium today, three black drummers played on three white overturned five gallon buckets. They played those buckets with mezmerizing effect, and their creativity and rhythmic energy filled the streets.
 What a day!
Amid the music and tiger-striped faces we made our way past the peanut sellers and into the stadium. A fresh breeze ushered the blue sky and puffy clouds into the space above the field and invited them to stay a while. We could hear the National Anthem, Motown-style making its way to our seats. The day before the game, my beautiful daughter received four tickets from a very nice coworker, and this made it possible for her, my handsome son, and the lovely woman with whom he is in a committed relationship, to attend.
We had all been apart for a while, and it felt good to be united  in a common cause: Tigers against the Chicago White Sox. Go Tigers!
 I would like to make that coworker The Cinnamon Rolls of Gratitude.
The Tigers won three-two at the bottom of the twelfth inning. My guy Prince Fielder was not at his best, but I have managed to forgive him and he and I can talk about that later. I have convinced myself that I know a thing or two about baseball wisdom. Surely Prince Fielder would like to hear about it.

I grew up in Port Angeles,Washington, a town of about 17,000. I attended Washington Elementary School on First and Vine Streets. In the summer, the Second Street kids banded together to play baseball on the empty lot across from the school. As long as it did not rain, those games went on for hours.
 First though, the leaders had to chose their teams. We lined up in front of each self-appointed captain who took turns picking kids one by one. There, it seemed to me, our value as human beings decreased exponentially as the diminishing line of players stood awkwardly in front of the two captains. At last, two leftover kids, hands in pockets, stared at the ground and rocked back and forth on their feet. Please pick me, please pick me, each one thought. Surely being the next-to-the-last-chosen person was infinitely more bearable than the Leftover Kid and not being chosen at all.
 Though I never was the last one chosen for baseball in that empty lot on Second Street, the fear that I would be, stayed with me. I felt sorry for the last- picked one.