Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.  

Sports Movies

I was going to write about band names ("Hollow Stairs", anyone?  No?  Dibs.), but something more important came to mind.

Sports movies.  They're the best.  Or they tie for the best with war movies.  Sports and war movies?  With Tom Hanks?  Why yes, I do love A League of Their Own, even if my dad does hate Geena Davis.  I still don't get that.  What's wrong with Geena Davis?  Besides the fact that she spells her name "Geena" instead of "Gina".  Especially in that movie, one would think Dad would take issue with Rosie O'Donald or Madonna.  Geena Davis.  Myself, I enjoy Beetlejuice. 

Sports movies.  There are so many, and with such great diversity.  I am convinced that sports movies are like beer.  If you tell me you don't like them (or "it", in the case of beer), then I will tell you you just haven't tried the right one.  Already I've named a classic that many people love, but others... well, it's not quite their taste.  There are a plethora of other baseball films that are phenomenal: The Natural, Field of Dreams, The Rookie, Rookie of the Year, Angels in the Outfield, Moneyball, The Sandlot, etc.  Baseball not your thing?  Okay, not everyone likes IPAs.  I get that.  Sort of.  Football?  Who doesn't love Remember the Titans?  That is not a rhetorical question.  Please, find me someone who doesn't love that movie.  I hate football, and I love that movie.  It has great music, is based on true events, stars Denzel Washington, and features a very young Ryan Gosling enjoying some awfully honky-tonk tunes.  And NO Geena Davis.  The list goes on.  Golf? The Legend of Bagger Vance.  Soccer?  Bend It Like Beckham.  Figure Skating?  The Cutting Edge.  Basketball?  Coach Carter (Okay, I haven't seen that one, and don't know if it's any good... uh... SPACE JAM!  Bam.)  Bobsledding?  Cool Runnings.  Horse diving?  Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken.  Something for everyone.  And lots for me.

Of course there is one category conspicuously missing.  The noble sport of the North.  I'm not speaking of dog sledding (Iron Will) or curling (Men with Brooms.  Didn't think I had one for curing, did you?)  But no.   I mean hockey.  A friend once asked my why chicks dig hockey more than guys.  It's probably because of the Mighty Ducks trilogy.  Best movies.  Best sport.  And if that wasn't enough, they went and made Miracle.  Why sully this topic with more words?

Sports movies.  Did you know the Netflix has a category for their "watch instantly" films with this title. Well, it's kind of sad and disappointing.  This bums me out enormously.  There is one though that has David Tennant in it, so that's a win, right?  And there is A League of Their Own.