THE ALL-STAR NEXT DOOR 

Three years ago, a few folks in Dexter, Michigan – a small farming town just west of Ann Arbor– were buzzing with rumors that the only house for sale in their neighborhood might finally be sold.    

I found out from my mom, who found out from her hair-dresser, Chantel Williams, who lived next door to the vacant house, that Shani Inge and her husband, Brandon, had bought it. They moved to Dexter even though it’s a full hour from his office. He works at Comerica Park, in Detroit, playing third base for the Tigers. In fact, he just played in his first All-Star game. But you’d never guess it from the way he looks – and certainly not from the way he acts.   

A friend of mine I’ll call “Fred Fragner” – because that’s his name -- is a home inspector. When Fragner knocked on the Inge’s door to do his job, the guy who answered looked so young, Fragner figured he was probably the family’s kid back from college.  

Inge gave Fragner the full tour of the house, ending in the basement.  There, Fragner noticed more baseball memorabilia than even the manliest of man-caves typically has.   

“You play ball?”  Fragner asked.

Inge looked at him, to see if he was serious.  “Yeah, I do.”

“For who?”

“For the Tigers.”

“The Louisiana State Tigers?” Fragner asked, still refusing to believe the guy was old enough to be a major leaguer.

“No, the Detroit Tigers!”

“The Tigers?!?  You’re not big enough!”

Inge chuckled, and took it right in stride. 

Before Inge left for the park that day, he asked Fragner if there was anything he could do for him. Fragner asked for an autographed baseball card. No problem, Inge said.  After Fragner finished his work, on the way out he saw, on the kitchen table, a baseball card signed by Brandon Inge – and five more, just for him.   

In fairness to Fragner, a lot of folks can’t believe the 5-11 Inge is a major leaguer.  Inge is so inconspicuous, a local softball team daringly put him on their roster, called him “Charlie” -- and got away with it for weeks.  

The kids at the University of Michigan’s C.S. Mott’s Children’s Hospital have been quicker on the uptake. Brandon’s wife Shani had worked there, and both their boys were born there. But what hooked her husband was meeting the patients.   

Inge has been a frequent visitor ever since, and didn’t need to be prodded to donate $100,000 to build a new play area for the young patients.  Instead of naming it after themselves, the Inges have asked the kids to come up with a name for it.      

Inge was scheduled to meet one of those kids, eight-year-old Tommy Schomaker, this spring. But Inge missed him because Tommy had to be rushed that very day into surgery to receive a heart transplant.  When Inge came back a few weeks later, Tommy asked for an autograph.  Inge agreed, on one condition: Tommy had to give him one, too – right on Inge’s right forearm.   

When Inge stepped into the batter’s box that night, he looked down at Tommy’s autograph –then knocked the ball over the wall for a two-run homer.     

I’ve never met Brandon Inge. I’d like to, but I don’t need to.  I feel like I already know him. 

With the weak economy, and high school coaches urging their players to attend “voluntary” work outs, enrollment for summer camps is down nationwide about 10-percent. But if the choice is between team workouts and summer camp, I say, summer camp wins hands-down.       

Let me explain.   

I didn’t want to go to summer camp. 

I spent my summers growing up at our family cottage near Traverse City. The idea of going to Camp Hayo-Went-Ha– a YMCA camp on the lake -- didn’t interest me.  I liked playing baseball, riding bikes and going to hockey school with my best friend. I figured the kids who went to Hayo-Went-Ha either couldn’t play baseball or didn’t have many friends. 

But by my sixteenth birthday, thanks to the curveball, I couldn’t play baseball either. Far sadder, my best friend had been killed in a car accident.   

With nothing else to do, I went to Camp Hayo-Went-Ha. I discovered the kids there were tougher than most of my hockey teammates. And they got to go on exotic trips from the Rockies to Nova Scotia.   

The camp has the rustic, tidy look of the "Swiss Family Robinson" movie set, but camp sessions play out more like episodes of Fantasy Island. The anxious newcomers hope that special place will help them find what they’re missing.   

The man who choreographed those life-changing experiences for me and 10,000 other brave souls stepped down 11 years ago. Pat Rode, now 80, worked hard to give bored kids some adventure, forgotten kids some attention and just about everyone -- campers and counselors alike -- a sense of belonging.   

Rode based camp on his belief that we can’t get through life alone, but there are plenty of people willing to help. As a child Rode was sickly, his father was often gone, and his mother was buried on his 12th birthday. "But,"he told me, "so many people went out of their way to help me that, well, you've got to give back." 

He did. In addition to his time and energy, Rode gave former campers money to pay for rent, college tuition, plane tickets and even bail. All but one has paid him back. Rode believes in second chances. 

At camp I learned how important it is to be needed. When a young camper lost his mother in a car accident, I could only tell him what it felt like when my best friend died. I was surprised this helped him -- and even more surprised how much this helped me.   

That’s why, when my brother was searching for direction 27 years ago, I suggested he join the camp staff. 

He says it absolutely changed his life. Being responsible for the kids made him think about what's important. It made him realize his abilities. And he made lifelong friendships there.   

That's what summer camp did for him. 

After camp, my brother climbed Mt. Ranier, earned his bachelor’s and launched his career.  And when he got married, Pat Rode was there. 

When Rode announced that 1998 would behis last summer, his old campers and counselors flooded his office with letters, calls and visits.  At his final farewell ceremony, a dozen alums flew in just to thank him. 

As always, Rode lit his candle and those of his staff members, who then lit their campers' candles, too, until the once dark hall was bright enough to see the tears on the faces of Pat Rode's campers, his counselors, and the old camp director himself.   

Then everyone blew out their candles,returning the big room to its original darkness, and listened to Pat Rode say goodbye. My brother draped his right arm around his wife, and his left arm around me.  After all those years, I still felt part of something special – and I still do.   

It was a beautiful summer morning. I walked from my home in Ann Arbor, down State Street, to St. Thomas Church. A crowd had already gathered outside, waiting to pay respects to our old friend, Mr. Brown. 

No one told us to call him that. We just did.   

In 1937, Mr. Brown’s father and grandfather opened a store called College Shoe Repair. Mr. Brown took over the business in 1951, the same year he married Dorothy– or Mrs. Brown, to us. They worked together every day. They had seven kids, and all of them worked at the store at some point.  

When the shoe repair business slowed down in the seventies, Mr. Brown started selling hockey equipment and sharpening skates. That’s how most of us got to know him.    

Mr. Brown was gruff and sometimes grouchy. He had a temper, and he didn’t suffer fools too gladly. But if he was no glad-hander, he was no pretender, either. There was not a phony bone in that man’s body.  If he got to know you– and he seemed to know everyone who visited his place more than twice– you soon discovered he was as loyal as a hunting dog, and good company.    

Mr. Brown never played hockey himself, but he knew more about the local hockey scene than just about anyone in town. His store served as the nerve center for everybody who played or coached or reffed or drove their kids to some freezing rink at six in the morning. When I coached the Huron high school hockey team, he never had to ask me how we were doing, because he already knew – and on some days, he seemed to know better than I did.   

Most of all, Mr. Brown cared. He cared about the quality of his work, whether he was resoling a pair of shoes or re-palming a pair of hockey gloves. He cared about his customers, and the people who played the game, from Mites to Masters. Mr. Brown often grumbled about the homeless people around his store, but then you’d catch him slipping one of them a few bucks just for washing his windows.   

I wonder who will care about all those people now.   

After the service, I walked back from St. Thomas, right up State Street, to take another walk around Mr. Brown’s block. I strolled past Hank at Van Bovens, Jerome at the Diag Party Store, Dave at White’s Market, Marizio at New York Pizza Delivery, John at Gold Bond Cleaners and right next door, Pete at Frank’s Restaurant. I know them all by name, and they all know me – and hundreds of other customers, too, because they’re not customers to them. They’re friends.    

When I coached the high school team, each fall we had to raise money to keep our team going. We learned pretty quickly that there was no point asking the franchise stores on that block, or anywhere else. They have no idea who you are, they don’t care, and they’ll tell you to call the people at corporate – who care even less.   

But every one of those Mom and Pop stores bought an ad in our program, even though they’re all fighting for survival.  That’s what friends do.   

I fear their days are numbered. The rent on that block is astronomical, as much as $10,000 a month. The chain stores come in, and if it proves too much for them, what do they care? They just pull out – and leave behind a higher rate for everyone else, and an empty storefront, some times for years.   

But that’s capitalism, and if you believe in the free market, there’s not much you can say. But you’d have to be blind not to see the cost.   

We’re losing our community. We’re losing our sense of belonging. We’re losing our friends. 

My last stop on my tour was Mr. Brown’s store. I looked down at my shoes, which Mr. Brown had shined himself a half-dozen times, and re-soled once.  I looked up at the door, and read a hand-written sign that said, “Death in the Family. Closed Saturday. Open Monday.” 

I hope it always is. 

Copyright© 2010, Michigan Radio

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The 2010 World Cup is in full swing – even if the U.S. was eliminated in the second round. I’ve played soccer, coached it and covered it, and there’s a lotto like about the sport.   

First, soccer players are great athletes. The pros run about six miles a game. They can settle the ball down from any direction in a split second, play keep away with it for days, and then blast it right on target, with either foot.      

For TV viewers, it’s a pleasure to see the great expanse of green on your screen, with no TV timeouts interrupting play. And, unlike the World Series, the world is actually invited to play in the World Cup. It’s almost every nation’s favorite sport. And you can play it anywhere, with anything.    

I’ve seen soccer played in the streets of Bangkok, the alleys of Buenos Aires, and the wide-open fields of British public schools. I’ve seen them play under the lights of Tokyo’s fenced-in asphalt courts, and during dusk on the Canary Island’s empty beaches, with just two sandals for a goal. 

It is, truly, the world’s game. That’s why Time magazine contributor Daniel Okrent concluded the best athlete of all time isn’t Babe Ruth or Muhammad Ali or Michael Jordan, but Pele. Because, he said, everyone plays soccer.   

But you don’t have to be a xenophobe or a philistine or just a knucklehead to find fault with this game. Take the start.  I counted the Germans passing the ball at midfield 17 times before they even considered advancing forward – which is, after all, where the goal is located.     

When they finally do try to score, there’s an excellent chance the play will be called offside, which is determined by an imaginary line that goes back and forth with the last defender. Yes, it’s hard to tell, which might explain why the refs blow the call half the time. Or perhaps it’s because they are the worst officials I’ve ever seen – in any sport.  

As a result, a goal in soccer is as rare as Halley’s Comet. The World Cup’s first nine matches featured a grand total of seven goals. That’s about one goal every two hours – and games are only 90 minutes.   

Or, about that. No one can tell for sure, because whenever a player is injured, the referee tacks on extra time. But only he knows how much. It’s the only game in the world where just one guy knows when it ends.   

What’s worse than the Official Pretend Clock are the unofficial pretend injuries. When you see a player jump in the air, fall to the ground, and spin like a lathe, you start looking for a sniper in the stands, until the replay shows he wasn’t touched by…anything. Every sport in the world celebrates toughness –mental or physical – except this one, which celebrates athletes acting like wimps.   

Add it all up – and it all adds up to a one-one tie, soccer’s favorite score. This is not a problem just for Americans suffering from ADD, but for anyone who cares about competition. The whole idea of keeping score, after all, is to see who’s better. But in this year’s first round of 48 games, about one-quarter ended in ties – usually one-to-one.  

But in the second round, even the World Cup needs to pick a winner.  If 30 minutes of overtime can’t settle it, they go to a shoot-out, where players from each team take turns shooting directly on the helpless goalie, who has to guess if the shooter will kick it to the right, or the left.  It has all the strategic intrigue of rock-paper-scissors – without the scissors.   

So they spend two hours playing a game in which it’s virtually impossible to score – then settle it with an unrelated contest in which it’s virtually impossible not to score. And that’s how the world’s favorite sport picks the world’s best team.