Breaking Barriers in Florida: Game 11 in Daytona

Historic Jackie Robinson Ballpark in Daytona reflects the patriotic and embracing character of the Daytona Beach community. 

In 1946, during a spring training tour of Florida cities, Jackie Robinson became the first African American to take the field in a professional baseball game featuring a Major League team or one of its affiliates.  In previous days the Dodgers and Montreal, its AAA team at that time, had been scheduled to play in other Florida cities on their exhibition game circuit.  Yet complications had developed in those communities, such as a localized power failure that prevented the stadium lights from illuminating the field. 

Daytona, which then already enjoyed a history of affirming civil rights protections, became the first place that Robinson actually took the field in game competition.  While the number of African American fans attending that game far exceeded the capacity in the special section that had been set aside for them, there were no racial incidents at the ballpark.  And the local newspaper report the following day noted the positive reception that Robinson had received.

Later, he recalled his own excitement: “When I got home, I felt as though I had won some kind of victory.  I had a new opinion of the people in the town [Daytona Beach].  I knew, of course, that everyone wasn’t pulling for me to make good, but I was sure that the whole world wasn’t lined up against me.  When I went to sleep the applause was still ringing in my ears.”

A youngster beats out a bunt on Robinson's base-path.

Now the ballpark houses a modest but interactive museum about the achievement and athleticism of Robinson.  A basketball goal entices youngsters to jump to the height at which he could touch the rim.  A home-to-first base-path invites children to try their best to beat out an imaginary bunt.

And, of course, there are displays about his baseball prowess.  In addition, other "barrier breakers" in sports like Roberto Clemente and Althea Gibson are feted.

While the ballpark is historic because of the significant games that have been played there, it also exudes an old timey feel with its wooden stands behind home plate, obstructed views from some reserved seats, and hand operated scoreboard. 

Wooden floors in the bygond grandstand behind home.

An obstructed view from a reserved section.

Another distinction along the left-field fence is the sign, daily updated, that states simply: “Front Row Joe’s 1069 Game Streak.”  And I thought that my project of 109 ballparks was impressive! 

At Daytona, my introduction included a brief description of my tour as well as mention of the fact that Wrigley Field is among the Major League ballparks where I have sung the anthem.  The affable beer vendor who hawked his brews throughout the ballpark was effusive in his praise, greeting me before I could move into the stands, saying that my performance was the best he’d heard, and loudly inviting me back to sing the following night or any and every other night this summer. 

In Daytona for the first time in my series of anthem performances, I saw fans singing along with me—at least a dozen or more seated in the wooden planked sections behind home plate.  I love it when folks sing along with me.

Joe and Cubs Mascot, ready to join in singing.

Greg Sapp helped to frame my Florida State League experience, attending this final game with me as he had the first at Brevard County.  When he and I sat in the picnic area to eat grilled chicken sandwiches in the third inning, a woman recently in chemotherapy approached us.  “I’m so glad you didn’t sing it like a dirge,” she began.  She identified herself as Karen, a Navy vet who had come to the game to support breast cancer awareness night.  The Daytona Cubs donned their jerseys with pink ribbon accents that would be auctioned off to generate funds to give to Search for the Cure.  Currently in radiation treatments following her chemotherapy and a second radical mastectomy, Karen said that she finds hope and joy in baseball, in humor, and in patriotic displays.  She displayed great ease with her unintentional crew cut and joked about being flat-chested.  She was simply glad to be alive and delighted to be at the ballpark.

Daytona marked my final stop in the Florida State League, where I had enjoyed the opportunity to sing in all the ballparks except the one at Charlotte.  There a schedule conflict had forestalled my anticipated performance. 

One of the recurrent pleasures  in the Florida ballparks was making contact with retirees who shared stories about their former favorite teams up North and with snow birds who expressed a desire to see me sing again at one of the games in their home towns, whether Trenton or Rochester or Columbus.  Daytona proved no exception to this phenomenon.  Before the game, I was drawn to Bill and Carol Porter because Bill was wearing a University of Kentucky baseball cap.  I mentioned to him that I had heard the report that three of Kentucky’s players from their Final Four team this year are declaring their eligibility for the NBA draft, although none expects to hire an agent.  Waiting for the gates to open, we shared our passion for basketball in the Bluegrass. 

Inquiring about my travels, Bill indicated that he’ll attend the Lexington Legends’ game in late May when I sing there, and Carol expressed interest in the possibility of my singing for the Tennessee Smokies in Knoxville where her daughter lives.  Regrettably, I informed her, I got smoked—or ignored—by the Knoxville team, which was one of the few minor league teams that never responded to any of my queries and proposals.

Following the game in Daytona, I returned to DeLand for a comfortable evening with my good friends and hosts Don and Ruth Musser.  As I left for Georgia the next day, Don ribbed me a bit about my progress: "It's like you've just finished the first inning.... and there's no relief pitcher in sight!"  So true.

Bingo in Florida: Game 10 in Lakeland

Bingo, I returned to Florida after barnstorming my anthem tour to Alabama for a single game with the Biscuits.   

In Lakeland, the Flying Tigers enjoy the longest continuous relationship—45 years—with a Major League team.  The stadium is named for longtime local Parks and Recreation Director Joker Marchant; and while the name of the ballpark has nothing to do with Detroit's decades' history with Lakeland, the art and architecture at the park unmistakably align the team with Detroit.  

Tiger stripes in the tilework at the ticket booth.

Near the home plate entrance to the ballpark, there other unmistakable tributes to the Detroit.  Adjacent streets are named for Hall of Famer Al Kaline and fan favorite Willie Horton, and beside the ticket booths inscribed tiles honor the success of favorite players and the devotion of fans. 

Fans' tribute to Tiger favorites, announcer Ernie Harwell and SS Allan Tramell.

Before the game two players saw me preparing to sing and inquired about the anthem tour since they had heard me at Clearwater a couple of days earlier.  One was reserve catcher Eric Roof.  The name was distinct.  For more than a decade I had tracked the career of Phil Roof, a catcher who had caught more than 800 games for 8 teams during his 15-year Major League career.  So why would I follow a journeyman catcher?  It’s simple.  He was from Paducah, Kentucky where my family has generations of roots. 

So I inquired about whether Eric is related to the Paducah Roofs—either Phil or his brother Gene, an outfielder who drank about 50 cups of coffee for St. Louis and Montreal. Eric said both his uncle and father are from the Paducah area.  But I never learned who was his father, although the catching gene would favor Phil as the likely sire.

Lakeland distinguished itself in other ways too: Start with the osprey nest atop the outfield light standard, an attraction duplicated only at Brevard County. Add the voices that rang throughout the stands. The P.A. announcer was a woman, the only alto I heard in Florida.  When she read the promo about the outfield egg hunt on the day before Easter, she noted that some of the 20,000 eggs would be dropped from a helicopter.  Amazed and befuddled by that incredulous number, she reduced the number to 2000, then checked the data again and reported the number as 20,000. 

Promo poster behind home plate seats for the Easter Egg Hunt.

Since 2053 fans attended the day of the hunt, it’s possible that some quick kids with large baskets gathered as many as a hundred eggs.  The curious question then would be whether they played egg toss during the game or, tossing harder, peg egg. 

For another, Lakeland tolerated the loudest fan whom I heard in Florida.  With a particular rasp and pitch, he kept urging his Tigers to hit the ball, yelling for all to hear, perhaps even loud enough to puzzle youthful players at other ballparks miles away. “You’re not in Little League any more.  Swing the bat!”

On this week-night before school begins its summer recess, the sparse crowd of 448 was dominated by senior citizens.  The in-game activities appealed primarily to them rather than to children, who typically enjoy baserunning against the mascot or water balloon toss.  Lakeland involved all of the fans throughout the early innings by playing a baseball bingo that correlates players by position the results of their at-bats.

Not quite like the older table baseball games of APBA or Strat-o-Matic, the bingo served as a blend of familiar and fantasy games.

With lightning in the distance and miles to drive after the game, I left early, with Lakeland leading shortly after the umpire called the batter out and a fan called out, "Bingo."

Good Friday and Bad Weather: Game 13 in Charleston

For more than an hour during late afternoon on Good Friday, I sat stranded in the car in the parking lot adjacent to the Charleston River Dogs’ ballpark.  Raging thunderstorms were pounding the area.  I had no umbrella to use to enter the River Dogs’ offices, and I kept hoping that the storms would subside so that the game might proceed.  I really wanted to feature the River Dogs in my writing since team president Mike Veeck had been instrumental in lining up my singing for them.  He also had played a formative role in the setting up the first occasion for my singing the anthem for a ballgame.

Friday's afternoon deluge in Charleston.

On a Friday in late July last year, I received a phone message from Mike in response to my email proposal to sing for Charleston.  33 years earlier on a July Friday evening in Chicago, Bonnie and I were tending to our newborn son in our two bedroom apartment. When the phone rang, I answered it.  The caller identified himself as Mike Veeck, a staff member in the front office of the White Sox.  He asked for me and then invited me to sing the National Anthem on Fan Appreciation Day at Comiskey Park a few weeks later. 

A month earlier I had sent a letter to Bill Veeck, the owner of the White Sox and Mike’s father. In the letter I had expressed hope that Bill could help me fulfill a dream of singing at a Major League game.  In those days before audio cassettes, I had no recording of my anthem performance.  In my appeal I simply listed my singing credits in the Chicago area and offered to audition at any time during the summer. 

“When do you want me to audition?" I immediately responded to Mike.  In those pre-Roseanne Barr days, he replied succinctly, “You’re fool enough to ask. We’re fool enough to let you do it.”

When Mike called me again last summer to offer me support by River Dogs’ staff in scheduling a date, he also indicated that I’d be welcome to sing for the Fort Myers Miracle and the Hudson Valley Renegade, other teams owned by the Goldklang group with whom he is associated.  As we talked, I expressed appreciation for his role in getting me started, and he replied that he was glad that “good things persist” and that I was still loving baseball and enjoying singing the anthem.

These formative conversations played through my mind while the rain continued to pound the roof of my car.  Meanwhile, the bus bringing the Greenville Drive players to the park pulled into the lot and opened its door.  But no one disembarked.  After a few minutes the door closed and off the team drove—or floated.  As the puddles deepened into mini-ponds, my single ray of hope  was sustained by the fact that the lights of the ballpark remained on.  I figured that if and when the game would be cancelled, the lights would be turned out.

After 90 minutes, the deluge subsided and I went to look at the field—or wading pool. By comparison, the wet field in the playful scene when Crash Davis created a “rain out” in Bull Durham was merely a puddle. 

The grounds crew creating a wake behind home on Good Friday.

South Carolina's left-field lowlands.

When the manager of the visiting Drive saw the expanse of the water, he looked like he was disoriented in some of South Carolina's rice paddies.  Nonetheless, he directed his team to dress and prepare for play.

For two hours I watched the grounds crew shovel water into 5 gallon buckets, empty the containers into 50 gallon trash cans, and transport them on the maintenance cart beyond the outfield fence where they dumped can after can. 

River Dogs' grounds crew shoveling left field.

Adding a new Ashley River beyond the trees.

While I photographed their efforts, one of the guys hollered up to me, "I hope we're on Sports Center tonight!"  All told, Mike Williams, the heads groundskeeper, and his staff shoveled more than 2000 gallons of water off the left-field corner alone.  Their incredible effort enabled the game to begin merely a half-hour later than scheduled.

While Drive teammates watch the crew shovel water in the left field corner, other crew members ironically wet the infield!

In keeping with the season-long custom of honoring American service men and women at their Friday evening games, the River Dogs introduced two naval and marine enlistees and described their tours of duty as part of the pre-game ceremony.  For only the second time on the tour, I faced the flag in the outfield rather than the fans in the stands behind home plate.  While walking back up to the concourse, I was greeted by Tony “The Peanut Man.” “Man, that was good!” he exclaimed.  “That’s the first time I understood every word.”  Having worked at the park since it opened in the mid-90s, Tony has heard hundreds and hundreds of renditions. 

Despite the rain a few hours earlier, the crowd in Charleston was the largest that I had seen since opening night.  While they enjoyed the River Dogs' win and the post-game fireworks show, I appreciated the efforts of two Mikes who had made it possible for me to sing in soggy Charleston.

Beaten Biscuits: Game 9 in Montgomery

An old Southern food tradition is “beaten biscuits,” so called because the dough was often whacked with a wooden tool to create air pockets that would cause the biscuits to rise.  Now that baking soda and baking powder can be added to the dough, simple kneading can achieve the same leavening effect. 

My winsome son David 

Because of my love of biscuits, I desperately wanted to include the Montgomery Biscuits in my itinerary although the most convenient dates that I proposed to the team’s staff couldn’t be accommodated.  So I went to extremes to work out a date with the Biscuits, the only team whose name is a food that is not an animal or plant. Of course, there are Stone Crabs in Charlotte (FL), Mudcats in Carolina, Kernels in Cedar Rapids, and Nuts in Modesto.  But there are no Burgers in Burlington, Fries in Fresno, or Grits in Greensboro. 

The only way to find a compatible date with the Montgomery Biscuits was for me to interrupt my crisscrossing through the Florida State League for one day's excursion into Alabama.  In effect, the inclusion of the Biscuits in my menu required

·         driving from Clearwater to Orlando after a Sunday night game

·         catching an early morning direct flight to Birmingham

·         then driving 110 miles south to Montgomery

·         singing for the game

·         returning after the game to a hotel near Birmingham’s airport

·         and catching the only direct flight back to Orlando early the next morning so that I could finally drive to Lakeland to sing for the Flying Tigers on Tuesday evening.  

 Whew!  But the travel extremes were worth it.

When I arrived at Riverwalk Stadium in Montgomery, I became concerned about a possible distraction.   Just beyond the left-field fence I saw a train rolling along and heard its shrill whistle, certainly not harmonious with the anthem in F#.  I cringed at the possibility that another locomotive might belch its signal while I would be belting out “bombs bursting in air.”  Later as I talked with fans, I learned that occasionally anthem singers have been distracted by the coincidental serenade of the trains. Fortunately, I experienced no such difficulty.



A train passes beyond left field before the pre-game ceremonies.

At one point a former Montgomery mayor promoted the possible distraction as a distinction, offering a thousand dollars to the first hometown player who hit a homerun off a passing train.  Eventually, the mayor paid up when one of the Biscuits belted one of a boxcar.

T-Ballers preparing for their participation.

The pre-game ceremonies featured two colonels from nearby Maxwell Air Force Base throwing out the first pitch. Both were wild, their throws flattening out fifteen feet short and wide of home plate.  I hoped that my anthem rendition would follow that pattern of falling short of the target.  Others who participated were players from a local T-Ball team sponsored by a pediatric dental clinic had participated in the pre-game ceremonies, joining the Biscuits’ starters on the field at their respective positions.  When the kindergarten and first-grade kids were introduced by name and position, they were to run onto the field and sidle up to their respective Biscuit players already in place.  But when the announcer quickly read the T-Ballers’ names and positions, confusion arose.  None went to right field or shortstop: “Where are those positions?” the kids must have wondered.  Instead, a clump of them ambled happily over toward the easily identifiable second base and joyfully stood at attention while I sang the anthem.

T-Baller High-Fiving Big Mo

All of the kids received a ball that was autographed by their aligned Biscuit player.  But the highlight of their evening seemed to be their picture with Big Mo, the Montgomery mascot whose costume features a Hula-Hoop waist that creates virtual biscuits for hips. The T-Ballers’ joy was as delectable and true as beaten biscuits.

As the game started, the Biscuits hoped to smother the Jackson Generals with record-breaking homeruns as they had done the previous night by hitting five.  But this night, while the Generals commanded the air strikes by hitting three homeruns, I engaged James Anderson in lively conversation about the history of minor league baseball in Montgomery, the ballpark’s construction, the naming of the team, and Alabama’s support of AA teams (4 of the 30 AA teams in the nation are in the state).  A partner in the law firm whose offices across the street look down on the field, he has occupied the same box seats behind home plate since the ballpark opened.

He pointed out that a new law prevents all public officials from being hosted at any ballgame.  Since corporate sponsors had been able to share their seats with legislators and city magnates until last month, one consequence of the law, he conjectured, is that corporations might begin to question their expenditures for luxury boxes.  Coupled with this challenge, the downturn in the economy might reduce the number of games that ordinary fans attend.  Having seen his childhood Montgomery leave decades ago, he wants attendance at the Biscuits' games to remain a draw.  Scanning the crowd on this Monday evening, he projected that the Biscuits would be challenged to break 500, despite having two youth teams featured as part of their pre-game ceremonies. By the game's end, however, the official attendance reached 1698.  Maybe the concessions and in-game activities that feature chicken biscuits, biscuits with gravy, and biscuits with butter and jelly lured a reasonable crowd on a school night!

Although I had felt that I needed to see the Biscuits in my anthem tours, on Monday night they were simply beaten: Jackson Generals 6, Montgomery Biscuits 4.   And so was I.  Somehow, in my fatigue, I deleted all but three of my Montgomery pictures .

Fireworks seem secondary: Game 8 in Clearwater

Darren, Rachel, Sarah, and Tyler

The joy that I derive from watching baseball is intensified when I’m able to share a good game with friends.  In Clearwater, that happened.  The Stoub family from Orlando—Darren, his wife Sarah, and their two children Rachel and Tyler, ages 8 and 7—joined me at the Threshers’ ballpark for an early evening game.  Darren, a chemistry professor at Rollins College, had been my colleague at Whittier several years ago.  And a week before the 9-11 terrorist attacks, Darren, who has a pilot’s license, had taken Bonnie and me for an airplane ride over Whittier, Disneyland, and other landmarks in the area.  Now much of that airspace is more tightly controlled than the day that he gave us the aerial tour.

Tyler's delight!

Having spent the day at the beach, Rachel and Tyler attended their first baseball game.  The Threshers had provided us with marvelous seats behind the Clearwater dugout, and we enjoyed ample space afforded by the empty rows in front and behind us.  In the bottom of the fifth inning, a foul ball bounced toward the dugout and was grabbed by left fielder D’Arby Myers, who tossed the ball to me so that I could give it to Tyler.  Then, forget the game on the field!  Tyler got absorbed in tossing the ball a few steps up the aisle and fielding it as it would roll back down the steps toward him.  

That is, until the seventh-inning stretch, through which Tyler smiled while singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and which Rachel enjoyed when the video camera isolated her on the scoreboard screen. Up to that point Rachel had been most fascinated by the size of the women’s restroom!  After a mid-game visit there with her mother, Rachel was amazed by the “20 stalls in the women’s bathroom,” a fact that she reported with amazement on her return to our seats. 

Before the game ended, Rachel continued to have a charmed experience.  When the Threshers' staffers started to "bazooka" promotional T-shirts into the stands,  Darren caught one and handed it immediately to Rachel.  Emblazoned with the logo of the Threshers on one side, the shirt also featured the sponsor Ozona’s Southern Style Barbecue on the other.  And tucked into the tightly wadded shirt was a gift certificate!  But Rachel’s night was not yet done: After the top of the ninth inning, the Threshers’ fielder who had caught the final out tossed her the ball.  Incredibly, both Tyler and Rachel received balls from the players. 

During the game, the most distinct play was a second-inning bunt that rolled foul with its last breath. The Daytona batter laid down what looked like an uncontested single with the ball hugging the third-base line in front of us.  The Threshers’ fielder escorted it down the chalk, waiting to tap it once it might cross the line.  Yet it stayed fair, even while the batter stood watching and waiting on first base.  As the ball’s speed slowed, it held its course until its whisper reached the bag.  Then within a catch-breath of the base, it tilted across the line and died untouched in foul territory, a dime’s distance from the base.

Fireworks as I leave Clearwater's ballpark

Typically, a post-game fireworks display is the highlight of a young child’s experience at the ballpark.  Yet I’m not sure that even that colorful spray top the delight that Tyler and Rachel experienced eating ballpark concessions, getting game balls and a T-shirt, and being spotlighted on the scoreboard. 

While the Stoubs stayed to see the fireworks, I enjoyed a different celestial display of the full moon rising over Tampa Bay as I headed back toward Orlando to catch an early morning flight to Alabama for the Biscuits' game in Montgomery the following night.

Extra Innings and Extraordinary: Game 7 in Jupiter

Moe's small sign is on the stanchion between the pitcher and base umpire.

The second distinct play spotlighted the umpires.  With a runner on second, the Hammerheads’ batter topped the ball, sending a slow roller between the mound and first. Maikel Cleto, the Cardinals’ pitcher, scooped up the ball, crossed the foul line, and lunged after the runner—but missed making the tag.  The base umpire, who had been positioned near second because of a runner on base, called the hitter safe as he crossed first base.  Immediately, Luis Aguayo, the Cardinals’ manager, rushed to field and argued the call.  And within a couple of minutes of intense discussion with both umpires, the base umpire changed his ruling and called the runner out for having left the baseline.

Tug Haines captures a play in Jupiter.

During the game, I met Tug Haines, a blogger who is attending games this season in each of the minor league parks east of the Mississippi River.  A cranberry farmer from New Jersey, he fell in love with minor league ball a few years ago while his beloved Phillies were on a long road trip.  And last fall, he came up with the idea of hitting the road for a longer trip than the Phillies had taken.  With his sister’s assistance, then, he looked at team schedules and, like me, decided to begin his expedition in Florida.  When he checked my itinerary a few days ago, he discovered that, although we’ll simultaneously crisscross the eastern U.S. throughout the season, the only place where we’d land on the same night would be in Jupiter, coincidentally while the moon would be approaching its seventh house.  Maybe baseball is “the dawning of the age of Aquarius.” 

Two teams in the Florida State League have home dugouts in Roger Dean Stadium in Jupiter. Like the Lakers and Clippers who share the Staples Center as their home court in Los Angeles, the Jupiter Hammerheads and the Palm Beach Cardinals call the same ballpark “home.”  Fortunately for me, I got to sing for both of them in my one night at their ballpark.

Yet when I arrived at Roger Dean Stadium in mid-afternoon, I heard the unfamiliar “ping” of the bat making contact with the ball, not the great wooden “crack” that distinguishes professional play. I listened to the public address announcer calling the game.  The Jupiter Christian Eagles were hosting the Benjamin Buccaneers in the final week of the regular season of Florida’s Class 2A High School baseball.  While their game progressed, I sat on a bench outside the ballpark reading yet another baseball book.  After both teams scored an unbalanced number of runs in the final inning to even up the score, Jupiter won in extra innings on a walk-off homerun.  There’s nothing like a day filled with baseball!

The evening game between the Hammerheads and the Cardinals featured two unusual plays, ones more extraordinary than the walk-off, bloop single that ended the game in the eleventh inning--the ballpark's second extra inning game of the day.

In the first inning the Hammerheads' clean-up hitter Kyle Jensen belted a homerun off the "Moe's Southwest Grill" sign on the light stanchion beyond the 387 marker in left-centerfield.  He certainly cleaned up with his good aim, winning $100 in gift cards from the restaurant and generating coupons for a free taco for fans in one section.  The promotion called to mind Abe Stark's scoreboard at Ebbets Field that read "Hit sign, win suit."  The trick there was to hit the low right-field sign on the fly.  Cartoons often featured one of his clothing store employees standing as an extra outfielder in front of the ad, ready to catch any hit toward the target.

Sharing anthem honors

At St. Lucie, a twin pillared sculpture made from remnant steel at Ground Zero graces the entry to the ballpark and pays tribute to the victims of the Twin Towers’ attack.  Created by Patrick Cochrane, the piece was donated by retired New York City firefighters who live in the St. Lucie area.

As I entered the ballpark to sing for Florida's Mets, the relic reminded me of the consummate performance of the national anthem by Daniel Rodriguez, then a New York City policeman, at Yankee Stadium shortly after the 9/11 tragedies. 

While the crowd’s response to my anthem rendition in St. Lucie was enthusiastic, the most expressive gestures and comments came from Mets players and a vendor.  As I walked the gauntlet past the Mets dugout right after I had sung, manager Pedro Lopez gave me thumbs up and said “Good job,” followed by third-baseman Richard Lucas reaching over the dugout railing to shake hands with me.  A short time later, the vendor who was roasting pretzels over a charcoal fire near the backstop breezeway expressed great appreciation for the anthem itself.  He offered that his wife, Laura Mercado, had auditioned a couple of days earlier to sing for the Mets and hopes to sing soon for one of the games.

A similar connection took place the following day in Jupiter while I was eating a delectable lunch at Le Metro in the Abacoa Town Center.  Tiara, the waitress, recommended the broth-based mushroom soup and, as an entrée, grilled scallops, presented over tabouli, sliced tomatoes, and a fan of avocado slices dressed with an herbed balsamic vinegarette.  I still savor that meal.  When she asked what business had brought me to town, I indicated that I’d be singing for the Hammerheads a few hours later.  “Wow!” she exclaimed and then recounted how some years ago when she had been living in Newport Beach, California, her daughter Nicole Gero had sung the national anthem for the Freedom Bowl game. 

It’s quite simple: Anthem performances bring people together.