Sometimes you wonder why you care about something as trivial and stupid as sports. After all, they’re trivial and stupid and meaningless and just simple exercises in triviality and stupidity.

But scenes like this weekend in Detroit prove that sports are so, so totally worth it.

There’s nothing – nothing – that can unify a population like a successful sports team (and, in particular, I think, a successful baseball team). The scene, both at Comerica and in the streets afterward, was unlike anything I’ve been involved with. Hugging people I’ve never met, screaming non-sensicalities to complete strangers (and, more importantly, having people respond with similar non-sensicalities), and simply jumping up and down and pumping my fists and waving my rally towels – and knowing (and seeing) that thousands upon thousands were joining in, and that millions upon millions only wish that they could be there as well.

There are a lot of things that could potentially unify a country or a city, I guess, but none of them do. War doesn’t. There’s no centralized religion. But nobody in a city (except for out-of-towners, I guess), can legitimately dislike their local sports teams. They can be indifferent, or they can be willfully ignorant, but I don’t think there’s a way to dislike them. (There probably is, of course. Especially for the people whose office jobs will be affected by the end-of-season rally.)

Yeah, so it was pretty amazing. I was fortunate to be there. Breathtaking, really.

Saturday night’s postgame scene was absolutely remarkable. After about ten minutes of postgame celebrating in the clubhouse, the players came streaming back out from the dugout. A pack headed down the leftfield line and started spraying champagne. They continued throughout the outfield, and then it was just on.

Zoom-zoom Zumaya did a solo walk over towards the first base dugout, let out a scream, and took a gigantic swig. Kenny Rogers wound up on top of the home dugout, dousing a state trooper. And Jason Grilli ran back and forth over the visiting dugout, probably completing about seven 50-yard-dashes.

Fist-pumping and towel-waving and hugging people we didn’t know, and it was absolutely unforgettable.

Nemo friend Nick had created a fantastic, and creatively spelled, sign: “Yankees Win? Fuhgeddaboutit,” and it became the rally cry for, well, about a solid two hours after the game.

I guess I can’t really properly describe it, but the celebration certainly was boisterous in the four-block walk to Josh’s, and it certainly included me sprinting a half a block waving both of my rally towels and receiving similarly-boisterous return honks from stopped traffic.

In bullet point-by-bullet point fashion, some of the highlights (I doubt I’ll espouse more on the topic later, so I guess this is my second straight post heavy on the bullet point-by-bullet points):

- Friday, a long drive from the Ring Fingernail to an exit north of Motown to sell our four extras. Four 55-dollar tickets (40-dollar face value plus Ticketmaster charges) for 400 dollars, which was pretty good. Sketchy-seeming dude, over the phone anyway, and I was totally nervous that he was about to bail on me. He didn’t answer a call about five minutes before our scheduled rendezvous. But he called back a minute later, I said I was driving a yellow car, he said he was taking a right turn in my field of vision and, boom, the exchange was made. Legitimate dude, with glossy business cards and everything. I’d do business with him again. (Though R-Josh did the dirty work. I just collected the bills. But, then again, it’s all about the Benjamins.)

- I felt like I should stop to talk with the scalper. But I really, really, really had to use the lobby bathroom at the Marriott. I came storming in, ignored the call of “Housekeeping,” and went right on with my business. For the record, it was highly satisfying.

- (I was late to our rendezvous, I should note. He wasn’t. I hit some bad traffic at an on-ramp, stopped for ten solid minutes. Stopped, like, not moving at all. At all. So I used my handy map-reading skills, took an alternate route, and got on two miles south of the jam. Two miles south of the jam, northbound cars were already backed up. Odd to see it happen in Nowheresville, certainly. So, anyway, I hit as fast as 95 miles an hour for the next 60 miles or so. I was ten minutes late, and I think our buyer made it to the ballpark on time.)

- After the rendezvous, Josh got a call. “Did you get the D embroidered on your shirt?” [Blowing my cover, immediately] “Embroider the shirt? Only an idiot would do that.” “You got it done, didn’t you?” [Not helping my cause] “Hee-hee-hee. Of course not.” “We’ll see you in 20 minutes.” “Okay, dude.” For the record, I didn’t really think he’d remember, though I figured Nemo would. Yeah, I got it done, and it looked freakin’ awesome. (So awesome, in fact, that Nemo’s old Bears stocking cap will become a reversible Tigers stocking cap when the embroidery is completed. Best six bucks I’ve spent.)

- On Friday night (and, we would learn, on Saturday night), every fan at Comerica got a rally towel. Nice looking towels. Blue on Friday, orange on Saturday. At 8:00 p.m. local time, the P.A. Announcer said, “All right Tigers fans. The ESPN broadcast is about to start, so show the country what kind of fans Detroit has! Wave those rally towels and make some noise!” He did not add, “Also, act natural.” Everything’s made-for-TV, I guess.

- We waved our towels vigorously. We would have jumped out of the upper deck for that P.A. guy.

- Before we heard the P.A. guy make his fantastic demands, I learned that Detroit is, on one hand, slightly better than Chicago. In 2003, at the NLCS, regular scorecards were not available for purchase. The only option was the ten-dollar program official NLCS program. This weekend, the ALDS scorecard (a regular season scorecard printed with the postseason rosters for both teams and otherwise unlike the ones I’ve previously purchased) was priced up to two dollars (from one dollar), and the pencil remained free. Pretty awesome, and I’d assume they’ll keep it intact for the ALCS. We’ll find out, though.

- Kenny Rogers was masterful, and you didn’t realize it until about the fifth inning.

- Our Friday night crowd was significantly lubed. This meant that, unlike previous efforts, “Oooo-eeee-oooo… MAGGG-LEE-O!,” definitely caught on.

- Our custom Brandon Inge (“Ondelay, ondelay, Mama, B.I., B.I., Oh-ohh) and Placido Polanco (“Let’s. Go. P. P.”) cheers did not.

- Nemo friend Andy was totally offensive at some points, I think.

- The Tigers’ ad campaign, for several years, apparently, has been “Who’s Your Tiger?” This leads to fans with signs declaring Curtis Granderson or Placido Polanco (seriously!) or Justin Verlander as their Tiger. Behind us on Friday, “Bud Light” was a fan’s Tiger. Appropriate, I guess, because Labatt isn’t really a first name.

- Granderson’s bomb is still going. (So is Mags’ from Saturday.)

- My favorite part, maybe in all of sports, is the wave of the cap from a triumphant starting pitcher. Kenny Rogers and Jeremy Bonderman each nailed their chance.

- The stadium-wide “Ken-ny! Ken-ny!” chants were electric. The stadium-wide “Bon-do! Bon-do!” chants were less so, but certainly cool.

- We sat with a great group on Saturday night. I sat next to the most annoying dude in the history of the world, but it was still a great, great section. I can count at least 14 people that I didn’t know with whom I exchanged high fives. And to the annoying dude’s credit, he did nickname a young kid a few rows in front of us “Little Magglio,” owing to his floppy hair, and the kid totally ran with it and became our second-row yelling ace.

- I don’t like the wave. Nemo’s got the bicep bruise to prove it. I did join a few times, guiltily. I enjoyed the wave a bit more when then three floozies in front of us tried to start it. You need more than three to make it happen, floozies.

- The company was great. Nemo and Josh both nights. Andy on Friday. Nick and Mr. Nemo on Saturday.

- Loosely-quoted Mr. Nemo-ism of the night: “They talk about how successful teams bring so much money into the local economy. And here we are, grilling hot dogs on the freakin’ asphalt.” I secretly think he enjoyed the tailgate.

- At the tailgate on Saturday (we park on the street, and claim somebody else’s car as “our own”), security was nice enough to inform us that, “That guy is about to come down and get his car, so you might want to use the one next to it.” It was pretty nice. And here we though we were engaging in unauthorized behavior.

- Mr. Nemo-ism hearsay of the night: “You know, this atmosphere is enough to make a Tiger fan out of somebody.”

So, yeah, the trip was amazing. I left by one o’clock on Friday afternoon, and was back by 12:15 on Sunday afternoon. Loose math indicates that I spent about eight hours at Comerica Park, and 12 in the car, and it was totally worth it.

Also amazing was the fact that, during Friday’s headed-into-Detroit traffic jam, I was behind an electric blue Chevy (Chevy?) Equinox LT. Only rider was the mid-30’s female drive. Glasses and a ponytail. Homely, really. Why is this notable? License plate: “MILLEN1” Fire Millen, dude, fire Millen.

Baseball-related: Joe Torre does not deserve to be fired. He’s got nothing. That pitching staff is pathetic. Good pitching beats good hitting every time, and his options were Kyle Farnsworth and Ron Villone and Brian Bruney and other assorted humans with a pulse and not much more. An embarrassment that they can’t get more. Brian Cashman and his scouting department deserve to take the fall.

We’ll have our seventh World Series champion in seven years. Major League Baseball is the league with real parity, friends.

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An individual who receives great customer service will tell, on average, one person, I’ve heard. Bad customer service? Ten people.

Well, I’d like to tell you about Nancy at Verizon Wireless. Nancy was phenomenally helpful two hours ago. She told me when my contract was up (this Friday), how long I’d have service on it (until the end of the month, or until I cancelled it), and how I’d be able to keep my phone number (just let my new carrier know, and they need to make one call, and it’ll happen in a matter of moments. It’s referred to as “Porting In,” if you’re in the business).

So, sometime between Friday and Halloween, I’ll have a new cell phone. But, for at least the next two years, Joe will continue to do Gary. And that, friends, is great news.

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The Bears are unreal. Fantastic. Unstoppable. Northwestern is stoppable. I’ve not seen two Cats games this season, and I didn’t even pay attention to Saturday’s game. I was otherwise obligated. Though I hear I didn’t miss much, I wish I hadn’t missed it. They’ll be okay, just not this year. Four wins is still possible (and, for the record, I would be disappointed with anything less.)

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I think The Hold Steady album is worthy of the praise it’s receiving. It’s fantastic.

Had I been cooler (or more rebellious…check that, cooler) in high school, lines like those in “Massive Nights” (“The dancefloor was crowded, the bathroom was worse / We kissed in the car and we drank from your purse”) would resonate more. But it’s just awesome.

Maybe they’re an acquired taste, because Craig Finn’s bark is a bit abrasive, but, God, they’re catchy. Fantastic, and a great discovery. (For the record, an impulse Christmas-for-The-Boy purchase late last December, and I couldn’t imagine it working out better.)

Dave Pirner (of Soul Asylum…Soul Asylum!) guests on “Chillout Tent,” and “Chips Ahoy!” is about a girl whose great at picking horses. The horse is named “Chips Ahoy!” I think it’s Mr. Nemo’s favorite Hold Steady song. (“He came in six lengths ahead / We spent the whole next week getting high.” Awesome. But Mr. Nemo likes it for the horses, not for the drug usage.)

I have no idea what my record of the year is. The Killers album is nice, The Decemberists album is good, Grandaddy’s was fantastic, Destroyer is awesome, Sunset Rubdown rocks my world, Band of Horses is anthemic, Belle & Sebastian kills, Lupe Fiasco is bumpin’, The Mountain Goats is tremendous. I’ve blown a whole lot of money on music this year. Probably my most ever.

I feel pretty guilty that Bob Pollard has a solo album coming out on Tuesday, and I’m not even that excited. Like, I was more excited to get Lupe Fiasco’s record, and that’s some sort of problem. I’m probably more excited to get The Mountain Goats’ The Coroner’s Gambit, which is about six years old, and which I’ve special ordered.

But the potential’s always there, and maybe he’ll nail it this time. I hope so.

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Work’s going well. I’m happy I’m employed with the company that I’m currently employed with. I’ve gotten better at volleyball in the last few weeks, and I’ve become more aggressive at the net.

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I’ll go to at least one (Saturday, game four) and maybe three (games three and five) of the ALCS games. Some people think it’ll be okay for me to leave early on my second straight Friday in my third week of employment. I think it might not be okay. And I expect the Tiges to complete the sweep on Saturday night, so I doubt I’ll see a game on Sunday.

I’ll stop there, I think. I’m hoping to get another post in, probably on Thurdsay. (A non-Tigers night.)

New World Series pick: Tigers over the Mets. Eat ‘em up, Tigers.