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USA Today (Magazine), Sept, 2003
by Wayne M. Barrett
While marvels of architectural accomplishment, what with the perfect melding of old-time ballyard coziness and modern-day structural design, these present-day green cathedrals nevertheless have a common flaw. True, they boast picture-perfect sightlines; large, comfortable seats; and an overwhelming sense that you are right on top of the action. Yet, it seems as if watching a baseball game is the last thing they want you to do. Just look at the ... uh ... amenities in the current breed of jazzed up stadiums: personal internet access; the ability to play video games at one's seat; individual headphones; carnival-like attractions (or should I say distractions) inside the concourse; television sets tuned to everything but the game one is attending; blaring rock music; ear-splitting commercials overwhelming patrons from giant, multi-story-high screens. The list goes on and on.
The older ballparks, too, at least what's left of them, have gone the same route when renovating. Luckily, most of my stadium roadtrips were completed long enough ago that many of these "modern" touches did not spoil the inherent joy that comes with simply watching a ballgame for its own sake. Last issue, we recounted visits to Chicago's Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park, Boston's Fenway Park, Milwaukee's County Stadium, and San Francisco's Candlestick Park. This issue, however, will take us to:
Busch Memorial Stadium, St. Louis, Mo.: I covered my first major league game here--Opening Day, 1980. The defending world champion Pittsburgh Pirates were in town, and I was a nervous wreck interviewing such stars as Willie Stargell, Dave Parker, and Bill Madlock. Busch is one of the round, cookie-cutter stadiums that were built during the 1960s and '70s in Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, New York, San Francisco, Montreal, et al. The St. Louis edition is kind of cool, though, in that the field is sunk below street level. A college buddy worked as an usher there, and, on more than one occasion, "snuck" me into games. One day, as we were leaving via the tunnels and walkways in the bowels of the stadium, he directed me through a door that I thought led to the street. Instead, I found myself on the warning track next to the right field foul pole. I froze, and the groundskeepers performing their post-game chores on the infield spotted me. They began yelling and moving toward me. I tried to escape, but my friend held the door shut, just long enough to make me sweat before I finally bolted the place and ran all the way to the car parked several blocks away.
Veteran's Stadium, Philadelphia, Pa.: I've always had a soft spot for the Phillies, despite their venomous fans. It could be because the franchise formed the same year (1883) as my favorite team (Giants), or perhaps it's because I understand the anger of those from the City-Of-Not-So-Brotherly Love. It can't be easy rooting for a club that has captured merely one world's championship in 100 years. (Heck, the Giants haven't won the World Series during my lifetime.) Although it technically belongs to that dreaded and dreary group of oversized concrete behemoths cited earlier, I love the Vet. As to why, I really can't say for sure. I only know there's this sort of vibe, karma if you will, that makes me feel at ease there, at one with the game. Moreover, it always will hold a special place in my heart because that's where I saw my first in-person World Series game, the 1983 Game 5 clincher for the Baltimore Orioles. As a sidenote, that may have been the last World Series day game in history.
RFK Stadium, Washington, D.C.: A family vacation happened to find us in D.C. in April, 1966, so my father decided to take in the Washington Senators" season opener. Pres. Lyndon Johnson was scheduled to throw out the first pitch, but instead of LBJ, we had to settle for Vice Pres. Hubert Humphrey. I remember it was the first time I ever sat in the bleachers, I also recall the Seas' Frank Howard hitting a home run as well as my dad raking every opportunity to point out the Secret Service men, who seemed to be everywhere.
Robert F. Kennedy Stadium still surfaces in the news from time to time as the prospective temporary home of another baseball club. Don't count on it. Washington already has lost two franchises, as the original Senators moved to Minnesota to become the Twins and the expansion Senators moved to Texas to become the Rangers. Still, the politicians are fond of complaining about how a game that is billed as the National Pastime should have a team in the nation's capital. Of course, even crooked politicians couldn't afford what owners charge for baseball tickets today. Oh, that's right, what was I thinking? When did a politician, honest or otherwise, ever pay for a ticket to anything?
Olympic Stadium, Montreal, Quebec, Canada: I'm taking poetic license to include this monstrosity in a ballpark column since I never actually saw a baseball game here. However, considering the Expos are essentially bankrupt and have been operated (and funded) by Major League Baseball the last two seasons, the chance to opine about this financial failure may not come again. I've made two trips to the Big O. My first, in August, 1977, occurred with the Expos out of town, so I ventured forth to see a Montreal Alouettes Canadian Football League game instead. I recall being startled by the looming image of the stadium in the gathering dusk. If a gigantic flying saucer from outer space ever were to land on Earth, this is what it would look like. Once inside, I was sure to note the painted stripes--serving as extended foul poles--all the way to the top of the stadium down the left and right field lines. They were placed there after New York Mets slugger Dave Kingman hit his famous "foul" home run--a spot way out in left where the blast bounced off file concrete facing in Fair territory, but was ruled foul by the umpires.
My second encounter with Olympic Stadium, 12 years later, was a strange experience I shared with my then-girlfriend (now wife) as she accompanied me north of the border when I was covering the 1989 Stanley Cup finals. An off-day from hockey found us sightseeing at, among other places, the Olympic Village, the construction of which had nearly bankrupted the city 13 years earlier. It was one of the weirdest, eeriest sensations of my life. Although a beautiful, warm, sun-filled spring day, the area was a ghost town. We walked all around the former Olympic site totally alone. We looked at each other. Is it possible we're the only ones here,? we wondered. In retrospect, now I know how the Expos feel. No wonder they're broke.
Wayne M. Barrett is Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of USA Today.
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