I learned a great procedure when I was back in college that has served us well for many years. When a stadium event was over, we stayed in our seats and waited and chatted about the game while the rest of the thousands of people headed for the massive traffic jam in the parking lot. Sometimes we walked to a local restaurant and had a bite to eat. By the time we got to our car, it was pretty easy to find, and to exit the lot, with a great deal less frustration.
And so, years later, we were the small group that always stayed in our seats in Veterans Stadium for awhile after the Phillies game ended. Why risk losing sight of one of the 8 boys in the crowd? (see the April 7 post). Why bother bumping elbows with thousands of people, and trying not to bump car parts with them in the parking lot. It took a good 30 minutes to get out of the lot if we went immediately, anyway. So, we sat and talked about the game. When the upper section was nearly empty we’d move down to the railing and continue to stare at whatever was happening on the field. Then we’d walk quickly down the ramps and get down to the 400-200 sections and sometimes walk all the way down to the wall by the field. It all looked different down there and we dreamed of seeing a game from up close. It wasn’t worth trying to sneak with 8 boys, a cooler, and several bags of snacks and baseball gloves and such. But once when the stadium was particularly empty, I asked an usher if it might be okay to come down. He was an old guy, maybe 70 or so, and he said to wait until the middle of the fourth inning and then come on down and he’d seat us. We spent the rest of that game watching from right behind the dugout by first base and saw Curt Schilling up close when he was honored for something. It was a great day.
Anyway, we would sometimes walk all the way around the stadium, seeing the field from different vantage points if the employees were trying to get everyone out of the lower section. On one particular evening with absolutely perfect weather we got a little confused as to which area we had parked in and we exited at an unfamiliar location. The moon and stars were out, it was after 10 p.m. and I started to look around to get my bearings. A group of kids and adults were all gathered over to our right and it seemed like they were all standing still. I thought maybe they were waiting for their bus to pick them up or something. Being curious, I asked, and a man told me that it was the exit where most of the Phillies came out afte r they showered and changed clothes. The crowd was waiting to get autographs.
Well, there was nothing to do but stay and wait for autographs too. We didn’t have any pens, and no papers. Someone suggested that the kids had hats and shirts and we all had ticket stubs. Before long the excitement grew as player after player came out. Some walked right on by, and others stopped and signed. Someone loaned us a pen to share and then someone who was well prepared loaned us a Sharpie type marker. The boys were ecstatic. They got signatures on hats that they might still have buried with their childhood treasures, and on the stubs, and I think one got it on his T-shirt as well. I surveyed the action, referreed the use of the pen and marker, and thought about what a wonderful night it was: beautiful weather, happy boys. A good time.
“And….Rocky Colavito is up to bat now,” I said, with all the drama I could muster as a five year old. Rocky Colavito was on the Detroit Tigers, and he was the favorite player of my heartthrob, David H., who was all of 4 years older than me. “Rocky” and Al Kaline (a.k.a. David H.’s sister Diane) and Stormin’ Norman Cash (a.k.a. my older brother Dennis) played regularly in our back yard on Roselawn Street on the west side of Detroit.
Sometimes they let me have a turn at bat. Batting was where it was at – much more fun to bat and run than to throw and catch. Other times they referred me to the broadcasting booth at Tiger Stadium, a.k.a. our back porch, where I sat making commentaries out of the hot sun, chewing on bits of The Detroit News, and watching carefully in case Mom would come out and catch me at it.
Grandpa used to bring his little hand-held transistor radio when he would come out to our cottage or his at “the lake.” He’d keep track of the game in between visiting with everyone, occasionally letting out a yelp at a good play. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I convinced him to take me to a game at the stadium. I’d been once before and our family had sat in the upper deck over third base and I wasn’t impressed. I insisted that we get tickets lower down and out by first base, because it seemed to me, in all my wisdom, that there was more action at first than at third. Rocky Colavito had moved on long before and I’m not sure about Cash, but I’m pretty sure that Al Kaline was still playing. Diane H. would have been proud.
On the way in, I bought a program and he showed me how to keep track of the score, filling in the squares as to how each player had done during the game. But unfortunately, he never let me forget it that our seats, which had seemed such a good deal, were “sort of” behind a pole.
I’ve always gotten a kick out of some names: Al Kaline – must have a lot of energy (alkaline.) Then there’s the soap king: Armand Hammer. Last of all we have the reference to a politician’s dancing: Algorithm.
I bent my head and lifted the top of my sleeveless red shirt to mop my face. 96 degrees, and only 2 more ramps to climb in Veterans Stadium. Tim and Brian carried the cooler with the homemade hoagies and 3 liter bottle of Cola and Josh had the 2 gallon jug of ice water. John and Nathanael and Jake had their mitts and baggies of cookies and chips and Marc and Kevin carried backpacks with extras – all the little things that I thought I might need. We had enough boys to carry them.
Finally, the 600-700 level! My heart always beat faster when we went through the doorway and saw the massive playing field below us. WAAAYYYYY below us. A moment to stare. Awe. Comments flying left and right as each boy talked over the next one.
“Okay, guys, let’s go!” I said. I counted to eight again – yep, all there. Up the steps, up, up, up, to what my Dad always called the “nosebleed” section. I led the way up past rows of yellow seats to a row or two. “Right here.” I moved inside the row a few seats and let them deal with who was sitting where. Sometimes all in one row, sometimes split into two – we were usually early enough that the 700 section had a lot of options. I liked to be there for the National Anthem. It always stirred me, and while I’d performed it for the Olney 4th of July celebration, I toyed also with the idea of sending a demo tape so I could lead 26,000 or so fans.
What a deal we had every summer with the Junior Phillies Club. Each game cost less than 83 cents for the guys to attend. Kids under 14 sent in $5 each and received 6 tickets to Phillies games (their choice), an autographed 8.5 x 11 picture for their wall, and either a cap or a t-shirt. I brought my three guys and their friends in our van. It cost me $5 to sit in the 700 section and $5 to park, and we brought all our own food. It enabled memories.
This particular day we passed around the food when the boys got hungry – usually by the bottom of the first inning. Man, it was hot!
The cheap-o water jug had a spigot that often wouldn’t work unless we unscrewed the huge top a little bit. Everyone knew that he was supposed to tighten it again afterwards. The jug sat next to my left leg, in front of an empty seat, and two of the guys had finished with it. A hit! All eyes to the front again to cheer and watch the replay.
“Mrs. Bratcher, can I have the water?” Jake asked. He was the youngest, about 6 or 7, I think, and he was sitting in the row in front of me. I stood up and lifted the huge plastic jug to hand it down to him. Without warning, the lid popped off, dumping nearly 2 gallons of ice-filled water right onto Jake’s face and self. His blue eyes bugged out as he sputtered and spewed. I laughed and laughed, and had to sit down to laugh some more.
“Well, at least you’re cooled off now!” I said. Jake grinned. A little water never hurt anybody.
Then the reality of losing all our water and still having 8 innings to go hit me. The two who had last used the jug were charged with taking the jug and a 9 oz paper cup to the water fountain and having to refill the jug so we’d have water for the rest of the time. Grumbling, they obeyed. We drank lukewarm water for the rest of the night.
The Vet was the best, and the Junior Phillies’ Club made it possible for us to take “half the neighborhood” to experience it.
Next time, I’ll tell about the night we got the autographs.
You never know what your child is going to say.
It was the end of the little league baseball season and the coaches were ready to hand out the trophies.
Our son David was 8, and he had just finished his first baseball season, without the benefits of T-ball that most of the other boys had. The coaches did their usual 3 sentence speeches and handed out plaques to all the kids, who walked forward, embarrassed, shook hands, and moved back to their benches with incredible speed. Safe! I could imagine the umpire spreading his arms as each landed.
Mr. Johnson was the coach of David’s team, the Braves, and he called for quiet in the room.
“We don’t usually give out any other awards, but this year we felt that one player deserved something special. He put in a lot of hard work and effort and really learned a lot this year. ”
All eyes were on him, wondering what the new award would be.
“So, David, come on up here. We made a special plaque for you as the Most Improved Player, and we hope that you will come back and play again next year with the Braves.”
Tears came to my eyes as I felt this special moment for my son, who had indeed tried his best that season. David walked to the front, and Mr. Johnson gave him the plaque and shook his hand again. “Will we see you again next year, David?” he asked with a big smile on his face.
My son, the joy of my heart, took the plaque and said, “I think I might want to play on a different team next year.” Silence. The lump in my throat dropped like cement to my stomach and seemingly down to the floor. Awkward laughter started up, and everyone moved on.
Kids don’t see things the way that adults do – it’s just not possible. I would have wanted him to be polite and recognize what a nice thing they had done for him. He just gave a simple honest answer. Though I felt embarrassed and no doubt chided him afterwards, I shouldn’t really have faulted him for not knowing the typical pleasantries of how adults deal with one another in group situations. It takes a while to learn the little dishonesties.
There’s a great movie called “My Sister’s Keeper” about a girl who is dying, and her family. At the end, when the family knows she is going to die, the extended family of relatives come to her room and offer continuous platitudes: remarks such as: “you just have to keep believing,” and “just keep telling those cancer cells to go away – visualize,” and “you just can’t give up.” The girl just smiles and nods and agrees to whatever they say because she knows that they aren’t ready to experience the truth and there’s no point in speaking it.
Like I said, you never know what your child is going to say.
At my daughter Amy's graduation
Around the house
America should not have to survive another four years with President Obama. He has shown fiscal irresponsibility and it’s very clear that he is leading us down a path to government intervention into every area of our lives, and a “daddy” state to rival the “nanny state” in England. No thank you. Back off and stop making it so hard to earn money and I will not need any assistance from you, Mr. Obama.
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