Osler's Razor

Sometime in November, around 1970, my dad took me to see the Detroit Lions play the Oakland Raiders.

The Lions played at Tiger Stadium down in Corktown, and during the game you could still see the outline of infield and base paths from the baseball field; the players would kick up dust when they crossed it on the run on a warm September Sunday.

That is, they did if the weather was dry. It wasn’t on that November day—it was cold and wet, with rain turning into sleet turning into snow. The infield wasn’t dust—it was mud. Down on the field, the Lions were winning a slugfest, but I was fascinated by everyone around us. It was all men, from what I remember. Warmth was provided from wool army blankets and cigars, lots of cigars, resulting in a rising column of smoke over the old stadium. No one left, despite the weather.

It was such a guy thing, that game. Probably that night was one of the post-game evenings that Alex Karras got in a fight with some off-duty cops down at the Lindell AC—that’s just how things went back then. For some reason, that game with my Dad got rooted into my conscience as part of what guy culture is—equal parts outdoor life, bad weather, sports, and lousy food, along with a certain amount of getting time with people who matter. There has always been some of that in my life, too; it comes with the territory.

I'm not exactly sure why I would enjoy sitting in sleet with my dad in a cloud of cigar smoke, but I did, and I still would now. I also sing when I ski, a song of joy with a good turn in a quiet and beautiful place; I dig aimless holes at the beach with children when I get the chance; I drive too fast when I'm happy; and on a calm August morning I find nothing more beautiful than a thick writhing fish in my hands, removing the hook to place it back in the water, flipping once before returning to its own familiars.