斯坦·本克斯基/Stan Benkoski
The last time I went to Tiger Stadium（then known as Briggs Stadium）I was eight years old. My father came home from work and announced that he was taking me to the ball game. He was a fan, and we had gone to several day games before, but this would be my first night game.
We got there early enough to park on Michigan Avenue for free. In the second inning, it started to rain, and then the rain turned into a downpour. Within twenty minutes, they announced over the loudspeaker that the game had been canceled.
We walked under the stands for about an hour waiting for the rain to let up. When they stopped selling beer, my father said that we should make a run for the car.
We had a black 1948 sedan, and the door on the driver’s side was broken and could only be opened from the inside. We got to the door on the passenger’s side panting and soaking wet. As my father fumbled for the keys, they dropped out of his hand and fell into the gutter. When he bent down to retrieve them from the rushing water, the door handle knocked the brown fedora off his head. I caught up with the hat about halfway down the block and then raced back to the car.
My father was already sitting behind the wheel. I jumped in, collapsed onto the passenger’s seat, and dutifully handed him the hat-which now looked like a wet rag. He studied it for a second and then put it on his head. Water poured out of the hat, splashing onto his shoulders and lap and then onto the steering wheel and dashboard. He let out a loud roar. I was frightened because I thought he was howling with anger. When I realized he was laughing, I joined in, and for the next little while we just sat there in the car, laughing hysterically together. I had never heard him laugh like that before-and I never did again. It was a raw explosion that came from somewhere deep within him, a force that he had always kept dammed up.
Years later, when I spoke to him about that night and how I remembered his laughter, he insisted that it had never happened.