Martha Reeves & The Vandellas - Dancing in the Street

Can't Forget the Motor City

1. Martha done told ya: You cannot forget the Motor City.

   The crack of the bat echoes like a shot in the dark, ringing through the cool autumn air of Detroit. Six weeks ago, this sound seemed as distant as a dream. The Tigers — our Bless You Boys — were buried under the weight of the season’s relentless march, a team relegated to obscurity in the standings, with 1/5 of 1 percent of a chance to make the playoffs. That kind of number, a fraction so small it feels absurd, has been the death knell for many a ball club, whispering defeat in the ears of fans who begin turning their attention to the gridiron or the ice as Detroit is indeed Hockeytown. Yet, here we are, poised on the edge of something improbable, nearly impossible, and the city that gave the world the irresistible joy of Motown pulses once again with possibility.

   In the heart of Detroit, baseball and music have always shared a rhythm. There’s something about the way the crowd rises in unison with the ball’s flight, the same way bodies move to the beat of a James Jamerson bass line, instinctively and with feeling. As Martha Reeves and the Vandellas rang out in Dancing In the Street, “Can’t forget the Motor City,” and it’s true. You can’t forget the place that made us dance. The same city that bore the sounds of Motown, a vibrant burst of life in a country reeling from its own fractures, is the city that has, time and again, lifted up this ballclub from the ashes. It’s the joy of movement and sound, the relentless spirit of hope, that has come to define Detroit’s soul, whether on the field or on the streets.

2. Motown’s sound, especially in Dancing In the Street, is one of collective celebration — a kind of raw, unfiltered joy that makes people come together. Baseball, too, has this power. It brings people out of their homes, away from their daily struggles, into a shared experience of passion, heartache, and ecstasy. And like baseball, Motown’s music is about more than entertainment. It’s about connection. When Martha sings, there’s a jubilance that transcends the personal; it becomes communal. It’s not her joy alone, but the city’s. It’s the feeling of a summer night at Tiger Stadium, as the sun dips below the skyline and the ballpark lights flicker on. It’s the collective breath held by thousands as a fly ball sails into the sky, every pair of eyes tracking its arc, the silent wish hanging in the air — let it go out, let it be the one. This is the essence of baseball, and this is the essence of Motown.

   Alexander Pope’s immortal line, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” is as alive in Detroit as it is anywhere. This is the kind of hope that doesn’t fade, no matter how many losses pile up, no matter how steep the hill becomes. In baseball, hope is the currency that fans trade in, year after year. It’s the thought that no matter how bad things seem, the crack of the bat can still bring everything back. And as the Tigers, against all odds, climb the standings, there’s something poetic about that — a kind of triumphant surge that reminds us of what it means to be human, to hold onto something even when logic tells us not to. In Detroit, we’ve always been dreamers, whether on the factory line, in the music studios, or at the ballpark.

   A city that doesn't care about the odds has a baseball team to match. -Tigers broadcaster Jason Benetti

   As fans, we return to the game in much the same way we return to those timeless Motown songs. We turn them over in our minds, so familiar but fresh every time, full of the memories of summers past. The joy that courses through Dancing In the Street — it’s the same joy that rises in the heart of every Tigers fan when that ball connects and flies. It’s that communal moment when we’re all waiting to see if this, this is the moment when hope turns into reality. The streets of Detroit have always been a stage for celebration, whether to the Motown sound or the roar of a crowd erupting as the Tigers pull off the impossible.

3. In his essay, The Green Fields of the Mind, Bart Giamatti writes with a reverence for the cyclical nature of the game. He speaks to the way baseball mirrors life, the highs and the lows, the eternal renewal that each spring brings. “It breaks your heart,” he writes. “It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.” Giamatti’s words resonate deeply with baseball fans, but also with the people of Detroit. We know heartbreak. We’ve seen factories close, buildings crumble, and teams falter. But every year, every season, there’s that moment where hope returns. The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, the batter swings, and for a split second, the world holds its breath.

   Like Motown’s music, baseball is about anticipation, about holding onto that beat before the big payoff. When Martha Reeves belts out “Calling out around the world, are you ready for a brand new beat?” there’s a joyous declaration in it, a statement of intent. It’s a call to arms, a summons to rise up and dance, to let the rhythm carry you. And isn’t that what this improbable Tigers run feels like? A call to rise up, to believe again, to let the rhythm of the season carry us forward.

   There’s a connection here, between the city’s history of music and its history of baseball. Both have given us something to hold onto in the darkest times, something that transcends the difficulties of life. They remind us of the things that can’t be taken away: the sound of a bat cracking against the ball, the melody of a Motown hit echoing down the street, the hope that never really dies, even when the odds are 1/5 of 1 percent. And in Detroit, hope springs eternal. We can’t forget the Motor City, because we helped build America and then we gave it a ride to work.