I’ve had it. Save Tiger Stadium. It’s worth preserving. It’s a landmark, a national treasure. It’s Detroit.

No, it’s not. It is none of those things.

Tiger Stadium is a treasure trove of memories. Nothing less, nothing more.

Its current physical state is a shadow of its former self where only empty echoes of thousands cheering remain. It is old and tired. It has been, long after the Lions abandoned it for Pontiac, only to return to downtown. It reached that state even before the Tigers quit prowling the once hallowed grounds, moving on to more fan friendly Comerica Park. It is yet another eyesore and reminder of the decay of the city, not of its past glory. As the Michigan Central Depot sits empty, ransacked and long abandoned within shouting distance of the old ball yard, so too sits Tiger Stadium, the pillaging more organized, but a shell nonetheless.

And that is not how I choose to remember it.

I remember Thanksgiving Days as a child, going to the Lions game with my Dad when men dressed in suits and ties and brought flasks to help them weather the cold cement that never seemed to warm up until July. It is why I take my son on Thanksgiving Day. I remember baseball games on hot summer nights. I remember being awestruck at the first sight of the emerald diamond, Dad explaining the nuances of the game. I remember Al Kaline gliding to another difficult catch made to look easy. I remember the joy in men’s faces as they played a child’s game. It is why my son takes off work to join me on Opening Day.

As both of my parents succumbed to the ravages of terrible disease, so too has Tiger Stadium succumbed to a world that has passed it by. I choose not to hold on to my parents in that condition. I choose to remember them as vibrant and loving parents, faults, both real and perceived, notwithstanding. I can close my eyes and remember. They need no monument, no last stand.

So too Tiger Stadium.

For those of you who had the guilty pleasure of a hot dog with everything as you sang during the 7th inning stretch; for those of who remember the flag pole in play in center field; for those of you who remember Gibby’s homer off the Goose, close your eyes. You are once again, even sitting in your back yard, there.

If you can remember, then go take your kid, the neighbor’s kid, anyone’s kid to a ball game. Detroit, Lansing, Toledo, it matters not which. The building is of little import. You’re making a memory.

Make mine without onions.