Black boy joy in Detroit doesn’t need a soundtrack or a headline. You know it when you see it.
On a hot Wednesday afternoon, it looked like a pack of boys spilling out onto Brush Street, Tigers caps low over their eyes, voices tumbling over each other, teasing about who was going to catch the first foul ball.
They were with Martain Thompkins, the kind of mentor who knows the neighborhoods as well as he knows the kids in them — and knows that sometimes the most important thing you can give them is a break from the ordinary. Thompkins, who has worked at the Coleman A. Young Recreation Center for 35 years, brought them downtown for a Tigers home game against the Minnesota Twins. To anyone else, it might have looked like just another group headed into Comerica Park. But for some of these boys, it was a first — first time stepping inside a Major League ballpark, first time feeling the rush of a crowd that size all moving for the same reason.
Thompkins did more than hand out tickets. He was giving them a piece of a legacy. “It’s a great day to bring my nephew, grandson, and some children from the Detroit recreation center,” he said. “We used to come to these games at the old Tiger Stadium and I loved it. We used to play down at the Central Train Station, I loved it. For us to give them these kind of experiences and to see them here I think it’s great.”
For him, baseball is part of a family story. “My dad used to bring me. I used to also go with a group called Iroquois. This was an old nonprofit organization located on Gratiot between Iroquois and Seneca. So, yes, it’s a great feeling for me.” His mentorship is intentional. “Me and all of the mothers and fathers, we have something in common, which are them. We want to make sure we develop them as respectable young men, educated young men with the utmost.”
The boys brought their own connections. Malik, 12, has played baseball for half his life. “But I just now recently switched to football. I love the Tigers and their play style and their grit, bro. Like, I think the Tigers are one of the best teams in the MLB.” Daryl, also 12, had been to the stadium before — his mom worked there for years. “It feel good, I always be here,” he said. Baseball, to him, “is a nice, entertaining sport to just see and watch and especially to experience and see all the players.”
For Darell, also 12, it was a first-time introduction. “Some of them are my cousins, some of them are my friends. It’s a new experience. I’ve never been to a baseball game,” he said. Then he summed it up in three words: “It’s, it’s cool.”
The walk from the gate to their seats was its own moment. The stadium opened wide — that huge green field, the giant “D” carved into the dirt, the Detroit skyline stretching behind the outfield. They didn’t make a show of it. They just looked, nodded, and kept walking, taking it in like they were filing it away.
Detroit baseball has layers that most tourists never see. Before Comerica Park, there was Tiger Stadium at Michigan and Trumbull, where generations cheered on greats like Willie Horton, Gates Brown, and Lou Whitaker. Before that, the Detroit Stars lit up the Negro Leagues, with Norman “Turkey” Stearnes, Andy Cooper, and “Cool Papa” Bell thrilling crowds when Black athletes were barred from the majors. Hamtramck Stadium — one of the few remaining Negro League ballparks — still stands as a landmark of that era, and Mack Park’s memory lingers in the city’s baseball soul.
For decades, Black Detroiters have made the game part of our summers, whether watching the ’84 Tigers storm to a World Series title or catching pickup games at neighborhood diamonds. Even when the faces on the field didn’t look like ours, we still claimed the sport, carving out space in the stands, in the dugouts, and in the history.
That’s the history these boys were stepping into — not because they knew the stats or standings, but because being here put them inside the city’s story.
When the game started, they didn’t just sit back. They popped up for fly balls, scaled the stairs, and nudged each other when they thought the camera might catch them. Thompkins didn’t hush them. He wanted them in it — talking, laughing, asking questions, claiming the space. He wanted Comerica Park to feel like it belonged to them, too.
They learned by watching — the pitcher locking in before every throw, the crowd’s noise shifting when a batter was in trouble, the silent signals between outfielders like inside jokes. It was the kind of knowledge you can’t get from a rulebook. Just Black boys in Detroit, reading the game in real time, soaking up the sun, the noise, and the sense that this was their summer, too.
Somewhere between the chatter, cheers, and the smell of ballpark food, they carved out their own corner of the day. It wasn’t about knowing every player’s name. It was about belonging — in the seats, in the city, in a tradition that will still be here when they’re grown.
By the last inning, nobody was packing up. They stayed locked in, waiting for one more hit, one more catch, one more reason to stand up and yell. The Tigers closed it out 6–3, but for these boys, the game wasn’t over.
They walked out still hyped, breaking down plays like commentators, daring each other to talk to the hat vendor, arguing about who would’ve actually asked for an autograph if the chance came. Downtown felt different now.
They’d come in as a group from the rec center, but they were leaving as part of something bigger — part of the same Detroit summer baseball story that’s been running for generations. In a city where public space and joy for Black boys isn’t always guaranteed, this was theirs.
Years from now, the score will fade. But the heat, the noise, and the way downtown felt like it belonged to them for an afternoon — that will stick. Black boys in Detroit, taking up space together, in joy. No fanfare. Just a day at the ballpark they’ll be talking about long after the season ends.
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