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This has been touched on in the Tigers thread, but there are a lot of Michiganders on this board, and I would guess most have fond memories and stories of Ernie. I thought it might be nice to hear some of them; the people in the media have been giving theirs, but Ernie belonged to everybody.
I grew up in a glorious decade for baseball. The Tigers winning the '84 title is one of my earliest childhood memories, and I lived and died with every game of the '87 pennant race. My heroes were guys like Alan Trammell and Kirk Gibson, and summer days were spent with a baseball glove or a bat close at hand. There were games of pickle at a friend's house wearing cheap kids Tiger jerseys. There were solo games in the front yard with the wiffle bat and ball, imitating Ernie's distinct play-by-play. Grip the bat, toss, swing, "Loooong G.." whoops, try again. Toss, swing, "Looooong go..." rats, one more time. Toss, swing, "And it's LOOOONNNGG GAAAAWN!
Dan Miekstyn, one of the local dads, would occasionally round up all of the kids in the neighborhood for a big ball game at the local park. 20 or 30 kids, Dan, and Carl Pray (the kid who was in high school and was very big) with a rag ball, their gloves, and some metal bats. The strategy was to get on base so that when Dan or Carl got up to bat (they were always on opposing teams) they would hit a massive home run and you would score. If a kid got knocked silly, Dan would hold an open hand in front of them and perform a quick examination. "Hey, how many fingers am I holding up?" "Five?" "Nope! Four and a thumb."
The game would continue until the fading August twilight would beckon us to our respective homes. The kitchen would welcome me with the smell of dinner on the stove and the sound of Ernie on the radio. The Tigers would be contending for first place, Trammell and Whitaker would be connecting for a double play, and the Tigers would be on their way to gaining a half-game. With Ernie you could see the green grass and the pitcher waving off the catcher and the giant swing of the slugger, whiffing at a Jack Morris fastball. On dreamy summer nights, everything was right where it was supposed to be. Family, supper, and Ernie.
Ernie was the kind older gentleman who lived next door and took you to a ballgame with his extra change. He would give you all kinds of great insights, and then ask how your sick aunt was doing. If you inadvertently forgot to say "thank you" or ran off without saying good by, he was the man who would chuckle to himself, glad he got to spend the evening.
My "personal" story was when Ernie spoke at a church meeting at Peas Auditorium that my family went to. I don't remember much of what he said, but I remember that before he even began he told all the boys in the crowd to come down to the front. From somewhere, he produced handfuls of brand new baseballs and threw them out to every boy who ran down. As always, approachable, kind, and gracious.
By his testimony Ernie accepted Jesus Christ as his savior in 1960. In the last year of his life he exemplified the peace promised in Romans 5:1 -- "Therefore being now justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ." Ernie had no fear of death because he had God's promise of where he was going. For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. We don't need to be sad for Ernie; he really is in a better place.
Instead we are saddened for ourselves. Ernie was a part of the fabric of Michigan for decades, and millions of people have the same fond memories of him that I do. We will miss the occasional guest appearance on a telecast or even his kindly radio commercials. We are saddened for Lulu, his wife of 68 years. We are saddened for our home state, which in this time of hardship has lost yet another piece of what makes it great.
Mostly, though, I am thankful that I knew him. We all did. Like dad coming home from work and pickup ball games and mowing the lawn, Ernie was a part of summertime. The bowls of ice cream, the lazy bike rides, the trees to climb, the warm family dinners. And Ernie.
See you on the Golden Shore, Ernie.
I grew up in a glorious decade for baseball. The Tigers winning the '84 title is one of my earliest childhood memories, and I lived and died with every game of the '87 pennant race. My heroes were guys like Alan Trammell and Kirk Gibson, and summer days were spent with a baseball glove or a bat close at hand. There were games of pickle at a friend's house wearing cheap kids Tiger jerseys. There were solo games in the front yard with the wiffle bat and ball, imitating Ernie's distinct play-by-play. Grip the bat, toss, swing, "Loooong G.." whoops, try again. Toss, swing, "Looooong go..." rats, one more time. Toss, swing, "And it's LOOOONNNGG GAAAAWN!
Dan Miekstyn, one of the local dads, would occasionally round up all of the kids in the neighborhood for a big ball game at the local park. 20 or 30 kids, Dan, and Carl Pray (the kid who was in high school and was very big) with a rag ball, their gloves, and some metal bats. The strategy was to get on base so that when Dan or Carl got up to bat (they were always on opposing teams) they would hit a massive home run and you would score. If a kid got knocked silly, Dan would hold an open hand in front of them and perform a quick examination. "Hey, how many fingers am I holding up?" "Five?" "Nope! Four and a thumb."
The game would continue until the fading August twilight would beckon us to our respective homes. The kitchen would welcome me with the smell of dinner on the stove and the sound of Ernie on the radio. The Tigers would be contending for first place, Trammell and Whitaker would be connecting for a double play, and the Tigers would be on their way to gaining a half-game. With Ernie you could see the green grass and the pitcher waving off the catcher and the giant swing of the slugger, whiffing at a Jack Morris fastball. On dreamy summer nights, everything was right where it was supposed to be. Family, supper, and Ernie.
Ernie was the kind older gentleman who lived next door and took you to a ballgame with his extra change. He would give you all kinds of great insights, and then ask how your sick aunt was doing. If you inadvertently forgot to say "thank you" or ran off without saying good by, he was the man who would chuckle to himself, glad he got to spend the evening.
My "personal" story was when Ernie spoke at a church meeting at Peas Auditorium that my family went to. I don't remember much of what he said, but I remember that before he even began he told all the boys in the crowd to come down to the front. From somewhere, he produced handfuls of brand new baseballs and threw them out to every boy who ran down. As always, approachable, kind, and gracious.
By his testimony Ernie accepted Jesus Christ as his savior in 1960. In the last year of his life he exemplified the peace promised in Romans 5:1 -- "Therefore being now justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ." Ernie had no fear of death because he had God's promise of where he was going. For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. We don't need to be sad for Ernie; he really is in a better place.
Instead we are saddened for ourselves. Ernie was a part of the fabric of Michigan for decades, and millions of people have the same fond memories of him that I do. We will miss the occasional guest appearance on a telecast or even his kindly radio commercials. We are saddened for Lulu, his wife of 68 years. We are saddened for our home state, which in this time of hardship has lost yet another piece of what makes it great.
Mostly, though, I am thankful that I knew him. We all did. Like dad coming home from work and pickup ball games and mowing the lawn, Ernie was a part of summertime. The bowls of ice cream, the lazy bike rides, the trees to climb, the warm family dinners. And Ernie.
See you on the Golden Shore, Ernie.
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