June 28, 1976

The two boys, one Arab, one Black, hopped onboard the Cadillac-Harper and took their seats in back of the bus.

Eddie had about a buck left in change.

Pookie didn’t have a dime.

Gus the dancing hot-dog vendor sat behind the driver, hunched under an invisible punch, mumbling to himself and fumbling with a rumpled lunch bag.

Herbie the dancing groundskeeper sat across the bus from Gus, staring at his feet and dreaming of a clean sweep. To his right sat the elegant Mr. Cooper, his nose buried in the morning paper.

Herbie leaned over and nudged Mr. Cooper.

“Bird on the hill tonight!”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Cooper. “Bird’s the word!”

“You think it’ll sell out?”

“I dunno, got my ticket yesterday.”

“Shit, Goose, you shouldn’t have to buy no ticket!”

The bus rolled to a stop in front of Harpos, and up jumped Hamtramck Ike.

Mr. Cooper looked back at Herbie and said, “I used to get in free when Billy Martin was coaching.”

“Man, fuck Billy Martin!” said Ike as he dropped his fare in the farebox. He glanced over at the boys and laughed.

“Excuse my language.”

Ike, like Mr. Cooper, was an old ballplayer. Said he had a cup of coffee with the Tigers.

Mr. Cooper (the men all called him Goose) used to pitch for the Detroit Stars.

“What’s goin’ on, Ike?”

“Same shit, different day,” he said. “What’s new with you, Goose?”

“I’mma see if we beat these damn Yankees tonight.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Ike said. “Who pitchin’ for them motherfuckers?”

“Holtzman,” said Gus.

“Holtzman?” said Ike as he turned to look at the ol’ pugilist. “Man, he ain’t shit — I hit Holtzman all day!”

Herbie busted out laughing as Ike spun around and feigned offense.

“What’s happenin’ brother?” said Ike, laughing at himself again.

“Just gettin’ ready to do my thang,” Herbie said.

“You better be ready,” said Ike as he took a seat behind Dancin’ Gus. “Them cameras gone find you tonight.”

Pookie leaned over to Eddie and whispered, “Did they say The Bird’s pitchin’ tonight?”

“I think so,” Eddie said.

The boys looked at each other in wide-eyed wonder.

The Bird.

“How far this bus go?”

“Downtown, I guess,” Eddie said. “Maybe we can transfer …”

But to what bus, Eddie didn’t know. He and his father always used to drive to Tiger Stadium in the old Ford Maverick — until that fateful day in the bleachers. Eddie hadn’t been back since.

As the bus approached the YMCA, the boys looked at each other, but neither one rang the bell. This was their stop, but they kept on riding as the bus turned onto Cadillac Boulevard.

Back at the front of the bus, Mr. Cooper pulled an apple out of his bag and glanced at the driver, but thought twice about taking a bite. He leaned forward in his seat and started tossing the apple in the air like a baseball, his long, black fingers twirling it like he was Satchel Paige.

Herbie stood up in the aisle to stretch his legs.

“Hey, Herb!” Ike said. “What’s the Bird man gonna tell the ball tonight?”

Herbie snatched Mr. Cooper’s apple out of the air, leaned forward at the waist, and held the ripened fruit to his face.

“Stay low!” he told the apple.

Gus let out a raspy, punch-drunk laugh that emanated from his flattened nose, trying his best to forget about Ducky Dietz.

Mr. Cooper laughed, too, and snatched his apple back.

As the bus turned onto Jefferson and rumbled its way downtown, past the smokestacks and the Uniroyal plant and the shiny new Renaissance Center, Gus adjusted his Hygrade hat and fastened a pin to his shirt.

Ball Park Franks, it said. They plump when you cook ’em.

The bus pulled in to Cadillac Square around six o’clock, first pitch still a couple hours away.

Eddie and Pookie hopped off the bus and followed Gus across the street to Michigan Avenue, where the men waited to catch a transfer to Corktown.

Eddie could see the light towers of Tiger Stadium looming in the distance, the same towers where Reggie Jackson hit his home run back in ’71. Eddie thought back to all the times his father brought him there, to all the days they sat in the green seats behind the green bullpen, or in the green bleachers underneath the green overhang, staring out at the echoing green.

Just then Eddie saw the lights in the towers power on. The ballpark pulled at him like a magnet.

“C’mon,” Eddie said as he motioned toward the stadium.

“Hold up!” Pookie said. “How we gonna get in, man? We ain’t got no tickets.”

“I dunno,” Eddie said. “We’ll think of somethin’.”

“Man, we don’t even have money for the bus ride home!”

Eddie shrugged. He didn’t know what to tell Pookie, and he didn’t wanna go home. All he knew is that The Bird was pitching tonight, and this might be their only chance to see him.

“C’mon, Pook!” Eddie pleaded.

Pookie let out a sigh and started the long slog to Corktown.

As the boys crossed over the Lodge Freeway, they began to smell the smells that emanate from Tiger Stadium. The popcorn and the peanuts. The hot dogs and the beer. The cigarettes, the cigars, and the piss.

Pookie trudged on toward Trumbull as Eddie picked up the pace. At Eighth Street the music took hold, and they could hear the final round of the Motown sound blasting from the bars and the cars.

The transfer bus caught up with the boys and coasted to a stop at Tenth Street. Gus rolled out in his vendor splendor and ambled out onto the avenue. Then came Herbie and Goose and Ike.

Inside the stadium, Mark Fidrych poked his head out of the dugout and blew one last bubble as big as his boyish face. He tossed out his gum, slipped off his jacket, and began to jog headlong out onto the warning track and into the electric night, his colossal curls cascading from under his cap.

Out on Trumbull Avenue, Pookie and Eddie wandered around the hallowed ground, wild-eyed and wistful and wired, studying the ushers and the turnstiles and the passageways, their eyes darting in every direction, trying to find a way to get inside the ballpark and catch a glimpse of the man they call The Bird.