So we’ll keep this edition of Mud Hens and Jeff short and sweet. My brother, Chris, was in town, so he went to the Tuesday night game with me. He’s been to a Hens game or two before, but for some reason, the nostalgia kicked in on this visit and he couldn’t get past what a beautiful stadium it is. He’s not wrong. When we have something so accessible, we tend to take the grandeur of it for granted. But Hensville, located smack in the heart of downtown’s warehouse district, really is something special. Surrounded by the tall buildings, buttressed by the restaurants, this nice newish ballpark really offers a fun perspective of the city.
Yes, even if some of those architecturally impressive buildings have been gutted or abandoned and gives off a “Detroit jr.” vibe.
The food
Finally, I got to try the pot roast poutine. I’ve wanted to sample this thing since it was announced as a new menu option. I had the opportunity to try it during a media tasting day, but I screwed that up and showed on the wrong day. Then they ran out the first time I attended a game and this little piggie got none. After that, I had dinner and was too full to try it. And on and on like that. But now I can officially mark it off my list of Things To Do At The BallPark This Season (list coming soon). It needs a little bit more gravy, but we’ll assume that’s a case-by-case issue. That being said, Holy Toledo! I’m getting this dish every time I hit up Fifth Third Field. Located at Gilhooley’s, this is, without question, the finest offering the stadium had to offer that day— and that included the game. We got stomped, ‘nuff said.
And I have to say, I’m a Miller man… that is, I’m that guy that drinks cheap whatever beers (Bud Light and the like), so this doesn’t matter as much to me, but a good pro tip for your stadium visit is that the craft brews (including Maumee Bay Brew Co.) cost the same as the watered down swill that I quaff. In short, for the same $9, you can have a bucket of good, local small-batch beer or you can have a bucket of mass produced suds. Choose accordingly. And the plastic cup makes a great souvenir gift for someone you only kind of care about (especially after the way the Hens played).
Foul!
After several beers, Chris decided he wanted to catch a foul ball, so we moved way out along the third base line. And waited. And waited. And waited. Not a single foul ball came in our direction. There was a tweaker-looking mofo with a glove hanging out nearby, so it would have been unlikely anyhow (I’m guessing he has crackhead speed and agility— useful for escaping the invisible bugs that were no doubt lunching on his skin). Also, a few kids kept ebbing in our direction and you don’t want to be that person who gets booed for taking the ball from a child. I suppose if we were really desperate, we could have done like our junkie companion and started hectoring the ball boy to score us practice balls. Sometimes, you just don’t need to be that person though (unless the meth demons are screeching in your brain).
My favorite moment
With every game, I typically find something happening that brings a little joy to my heart. Usually, it’s something that happens off the field as opposed to a miraculous catch or terrific hit. This time, it was a batch of guys chilling (read: drinking) at the top of the left field seats. After the left fielder for the opposing team, the Norfolk Tide, failed to reach a ball that dropped in front of him, one of the guys bellowed, “Hey number 12, you suck!” And you just saw #12 look at the man, gesture as if he was going to retort, think better of it and then deflate in spirit. Somedays, it just isn’t easy following your dreams, I guess.
Like I said, short and sweet today. We’ll get ‘em next time Hens. Swing for the fences.
