Motown memory

By George Miller

Just before her big road trip to South Carolina in the summer of 1999, Casey Kane embarked on a smaller but no less memorable roadie with
three other Intrepid Travelers -- Matt Vautour, Andy Ayres and me -- a quick hitter to Tiger Stadium in Detroit, in its last season of operation, for a Saturday afternoon Red Sox-Tigers game.

It must have been only two or three days before the event that we threw the whole thing together. With a rented candy-apple-red Jeep Cherokee as our chariot, we three guys left the Gazette shortly after midnight, after Matt and Andy had busted out Saturday's edition. Off to Holyoke we went to pick up Casey (I remember feeling vaguely uneasy that we'd wake up everyone else in the house), and we were westward bound.

During that overnight run, we encountered a good portion of the Woodstock '99 crowd on the road and in the rest areas along the New York State Thruway. Maybe Andy and I, as the two 30-somethings in our group, didn't quite fit that demographic, but we found the Rage, Limp Bizkit and Chili Peppers fans most amusing. I confess to a certain disappointment that I wouldn't get to see the lovely Jewel perform. (I will also spare Matt another gratuitous comment about Adam Duritz.)

The next stop that stands out was in Brantford, Ontario -- hometown of
The Great One himself, Wayne Gretzky -- where we gassed up and fumbled
through one of those "I-was-told-there-would-be-no-math" moments, attempting to figure out exchange rates and liters-gallons conversions.

It was late morning when we crossed the Ambassador Bridge from Windsor to Detroit, and with a 5 p.m. start to the baseball game, we had some time to pick up our tickets at Tiger Stadium and to figure out our itinerary. It didn't take long to decide: A side trip to Ann Arbor was
clearly in order.

Once there, we took in the empty but improbably vast expanse of Michigan Stadium, walking around the entire bowl, peering in through the press box windows and thinking wistfully of maybe covering a UM-OSU football game there someday.

After a late lunch, it was back into Motown to pick out a distant parking spot and make our way into the stadium, although a severe thunderstorm delayed the start of the proceedings. Mark Portugal was pitching for the Sox -- that couldn't possibly be good news -- but Jeff Weaver went for Detroit, and lived up to his home run-prone reputation by coughing up five long balls. Boston hit seven in all that day, three by Trot Nixon and two by Nomah, in an 11-4 victory.

For myself, I was pleased with the W because the Red Sox' all-time record with me in attendance was, and remains today, well below .500. If Casey felt any disappointment that Lou Merloni didn't play that day, she showed no sign. There was little doubt, though, that of the four of us, she was easily the most thrilled by her team's decisive victory.

There wasn't time to gloat or celebrate, though. Back we went the same way we'd come for another overnighter, chased by thunderstorms through Ontario, and we rolled into the Gazette parking lot at about 7:30 or so
Sunday morning, some 31 hours after we'd left. We were sore and tired but exhilarated, and I made sure to give Casey a big hug and wish her
well, because she was headed to So-Car and the Independent-Mail barely a week later.

Fast-forward to March of 2003 and Day 1 of the NCAA men's basketball
tournament, when the usual cast of reprobates gathered at Smokey Bones
BBQ in Springfield to watch wall-to-wall hoops all afternoon. Thinking
back, in the handful of times I had seen Casey following her diagnosis, that day she was the most healthy and upbeat that I had seen her -- a fact driven home after she cleaned my clock in several matches at the pool table.

I last saw Casey at the Jack Leaman tribute on April 18 of this year,
when we sat together at the Curry Hicks Cage. It was clear that she was
ailing and it broke my heart to see it. Yet, for an event to honor one
of the seminal figures in UMass history, there was no doubt that Casey
would be there.

Hearing how she spent her final days with the Red Sox ever-present on
the TV in her hospital room brought me back to that wild weekend in July of '99. Although I cannot say that I knew Casey nearly as well as many others who have shared their remembrances here, I have only to think of her unabashed glee at Boston's home-run barrage that evening, and the successful outcome to our lightning-fast trip to Motown(complete with real lightning), to instantly remind me of her vibrant spirit -- a memory that will always abide with me.

George works at the Greenfield Recorder.