I remember some things from my childhood better than others. I remember that winter we got all the snow, and how much fun we had building things from it. I remember our family vacations to Florida. I remember the nervous giddy feeling I got on the last day of a school year. I remember camping at Charles Mears State Park every summer.
But probably the most cherished memory I have is of being in the back yard on a hot and humid summer day, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the heavy air, listening to Ernie Harwell calling the Tiger's game from the tinny little speaker of my Panasonic radio. These were good days. Ball parks were not named after giant mega-corporations, just the teams that played in them. And it didn't matter to me that the Tigers were pretty bad in those years. I loved them just the same. There were the fading starts of the 1968 series, playing out their finals years of the pros: Mickey Stanley, Willie Horton,
It was a "perfect storm" of great feelings. I was a huge fan of baseball, both playing the game and following the Tigers. I loved summer. And being a kid I had the time needed to properly listen to a good game over the course of a lazy afternoon. No distractions, just Ernie's voice, the sound of the excited crowd, and the cottonwood drifting in the air. Remembering those days, now long gone, gives me some of my best and favorite feelings.
I guess I knew even back then that Ernie was special. He was one of the greatest announcers in sports history. He was. We lost Ernie yesterday and my childhood receded a little more.
I wonder what good memories my children will latch onto and remember when they get older. It won't be Ernie, or probably baseball in the summer, but it will be something.
I hope that something is as good as what I have.
