Some traditions and rituals return season after season, some wither away, and some are reborn after years of hibernation. Last month, Glen Arbor Sun editors Norm and Jacob Wheeler resumed their annual father-son baseball pilgrimage—this time to watch two games at Comerica Park in Detroit, where the Tigers were trying to stave off the rival Cleveland Guardians and gain a spot in the playoffs. Their roaring, red-hot start to the season had earned them the best record in baseball until July before they collapsed like a dozing cat and squandered a seemingly insurmountable 15.5-game lead over the team from Lake Erie. In this essay, Jacob reflects on their baseball trips and how America’s original national pastime has changed over the decades.
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My son Jacob and I have been attending worship services at the Church of Baseball for 13 years now. We started by seeing the Cubbies in the afternoon and the White Sox at night on the same day in 1989 when the scheduling allowed both teams to be at home at the same time. You could just hop on the Elevated train outside Wrigley Field and be at Comiskey Park in half an hour.
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