My Grandfather
By DAVE MESREY

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandfather recently. In fact, Grandpa’s never far from my thoughts.

Like me, many of you probably feel a strong bond with your grandfather. You’ve known him all your life, and you love him dearly. Unconditionally.That’s what the best grandfathers inspire in us — unconditional love.

Like me, you’ve probably also shared some great times with your grandpa over the years — times you couldn’t possibly share with anyone else because, well, there’s no one else like your grandpa.  

Now I never met my dad’s dad. He died before I was born. And I was never especially close with my mom’s dad. He had a stroke and died before I really got to know him.

But I have a "third grandpa" — one, in fact, that many of you know and love. And I love Third Grandpa with all my heart.

I love him because, until a few years ago, he was always there for me. When I was growing up, my father and Third Grandpa and I shared some wonderful, even magical times together in Detroit .

Some of the memories are crystal clear, while others are a little fuzzy.They’re fuzzy because my father, who I always called "Pop," has been gone for 25 years now. And my grandfather, while he’s still here, can no longer speak. He is a mere shadow of his former self. And part of me thinks that he stopped talking because he felt so alone in the world.

One thing I can remember about my childhood is that Pop had these two buddies who loved to dance — Herbie Redmond and Gus Sinaris. These guys were hysterical — cut-ups who could really cut a rug. In fact, in the 1970s, Dancin’ Herbie and Dancin’ Gus worked for Third Grandpa — and I loved to watch them do their thing. And even though they had jobs to do, they always found a way to make people laugh — often at their own expense.

Third Grandpa was a gracious host back then, and Pop and I loved to visit him. Like us, Third Grandpa loved sports, and he often hosted big crowds at his place on Trumbull Avenue . We’d go over there to watch the Tigers in the summer and the Lions in the winter. Sometimes Herbie and Gus would stop by, too. Third Grandpa had a great big yard with a thick green lawn, and a big old porch unlike anyone else’s. Eventually, I came to think of him as my only grandpa because he meant the most to me — almost as much as Pop did.

Pop, who was born on the east side of Detroit in 1932, knew "Grandpa" all his life, and they had a special bond. Forty years later, when I was just 3 years old, Pop took me to see Grandpa for the first time. I don’t remember much about it, but I kept going back again and again, so I must’ve really liked that first visit.

When Pop died of a heart attack in 1980, I was 11 years old. Suddenly there was a tremendous void in my life. Not only was he my father, but my best friend in the world. My mother, on the other hand, was an overbearing, overwhelming alcoholic, always jealous of the bond that Pop and I shared with Grandpa. I had virtually no bond with her, and with no brothers or sisters, all I really had left was Grandpa.

Back then, I lived way over on Detroit ’s east side near Harper and East Outer Drive , and I had no way of getting over to see Grandpa for quite awhile. But as I got older and learned my way around the city a little better, I’d often ride my bike to see him. And though our visits were definitely different without Pop, they were still a lot of fun. In many ways, Grandpa did his best to take Pop’s place. And nobody else could come close.

By May of 1999, I was 30 years old and Grandpa was slowing down considerably. My mother, who was only 54, was also in failing health. One Sunday afternoon, I felt compelled to take her with me to visit Grandpa, even though she hadn’t seen him since 1968, the year the Tigers won the World Series. Although there was a heavy sadness in the air that day at Grandpa’s, we all enjoyed each other’s company. We reminisced, we laughed, we cried, and for old times’ sake, we even watched the Tigers game. And though none of us said a word, I know we were all thinking of Pop.

Later that summer, just after Grandpa’s 87th birthday, people stopped coming to visit him. And though I wanted to see him badly, I knew he wasn’t up for company any more.

Today, at 93, Grandpa still stays in the old place on Trumbull . But he’s not the same. His door is always closed, and I can’t just drop in on him any more. For some time now, he’s been receiving hospice care. From what I hear, he’s lost most of his hair and a few of his teeth, and he won’t even answer the phone. Now I’m no doctor, but I just have a gut feeling that Grandpa’s illness isn’t terminal. That there’s still some life left in him yet.

I drive by his place every once in awhile. In fact, just the other day, I swear I saw comedian Thom Sharp knocking on Grandpa’s door. But of course, nobody answered. I don’t dare knock myself. I just sit in my car or walk around the block and long for days gone by. Days when Pop and I and Herbie and Gus could stop by unannounced, take in a ballgame, and forget about life for awhile.

I don’t know how much longer Grandpa’s gonna be with us. I don’t know his hospice nurses either, but I don’t think they’d let me see him anyhow. I suppose it’s best that I just remember him the way he was in my youth — welcoming and boisterous and full of life.

But I just wish there was some way he could read this. I wish I could get him on the phone to tell him how much I love him and to see if maybe Pop and I can come by for one more ballgame. But whenever I call the old number, I get a strange woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

I wanna tell Grandpa about the new kid in town — Comerica Park . I don’t think he’d like the Copa. Sure, it’s pretty and the seats are all nice and green. But it means little to me. And it certainly doesn’t feel like part of the family — the way Grandpa does, even today. And after six miserable seasons, Comerica Park is still a virtual stranger that I haven’t bonded with.

Just because my third grandpa — Tiger Stadium — isn’t what he used to be, he’s still my grandpa, dammit. He’s everyone’s grandpa.

Now are we just going to stand idly by while they pull the plug on him?

Or are we going to fight to save him from the Grim Reaper?