DAY 8 – A VISIT TO BASEBALL’S CATHEDRAL

Day 8 of what will become a random series of recollections about a recent trip to New York City, Boston, MA and the wilds of the Maine’s “Down East” coast.

IN 1960, a classmate’s dad decided his farm supply store needed bigger quarters. So at about 5th and Cherry Streets in Chico, Jack Vanilla had a huge building constructed out concrete slabs. The slabs were poured flat on the ground, as I recall, and then tilted into place. We see this all the time, now, but back then it was something to behold. “This is going to last a hundred years,” classmate Cheryl said with pride as the thing rose from flat to vertical.

WHICH GETS ME TO YANKEE STADIUM. We visited baseball’s “home office” even though the Yanks were out of town. My first impression was how much this new building resembled Vanilla’s Farm Store. Large concrete panels tower skyward. To be sure, the architects used glass and space to create deep concourses and open interiors. I’m sure it’s a wonderful venue to watch some ball, but I couldn’t get past how sterile the place looked.

We did visit the team outlet but elected not to take the stadium tour, which would have afforded an entirely different emotion. I know I would have been speechless in Monument Park. And I do very much appreciate that the Yankees always tip their corporate caps to their heritage of great stars as witnessed by the banners adorning the exterior walks of the yard.

THE NEXT DAY, WE RODE THE “D LINE” out to Flushing. The Mets were in town and this would be our chance to watch an inter-league game at their new stadium called Citi Field. This yard is constructed with a nod toward Ebbetts Field, the hallowed grounds upon which the Dodgers played in Brooklyn before coming west in 1957.

1969.  "Amazin'."

As a senior in high school, I had the privilege of taking Civics class. This is not where they teach you how to tune up a Honda, but rather where they teach you about how to tune up government. My teacher was a fellow named Ken Miller. Big deal, right? It was. Before getting his certificate to teach, Ken Miller roomed with Tug McGraw when both were in the Mets farm system. The year was 1969. I’d been a Mets fan since I’d read Jimmy Breslin’s tome Can’t Anybody Here Play this Game? – a comical look at the loveable losers the Mets had always been. I figured I was a bit of a loser myself, so the fit seemed right.

On this day, the Mets looked not too far removed from the team that everybody loved to watch fail. An exception was Jose Reyes. He made three sparkling plays ranging far to his right at shortstop to snag sharply hit ground balls and then fire absolute missiles over to first base to nail the speedy runners: all in the same inning. (This happened while I was in line trying to buy a beer, which more or less substantiates my loser-ness of yore.)

The Mets didn’t seem to have their heart into this inter-league game against the Angels. We toured the stadium a bit and found styling cues from history pushed to the background. Again the preponderance of exposed concrete had me thinking about the feed store. We left before the seventh.

THEN WE ATTENDED THE CHURCH OF BASEBALL in one of baseball’s only remaining cathedrals. Notwithstanding the DH rule*, the great thing about baseball is its tradition. And with tradition, history can go back as far as history goes back.

Fenway Park breathes history. A half a week into our east coast swing, this would be the first day of five consecutive where the existence of the sun was based only upon faith.

And today's game would be delayed due to showers sweeping across the area. Still, this was Fenway. Babe Ruth pitched here. Ted Williams roamed the outfield, as did Yaz. The greats played here, and their echoes can still be heard.

We walked from Yawkey Avenue, beneath the seats – some still enameled wood set in cast metal frames – to our space just beneath the upper deck. The cleats of those who went before clattered and scraped across the timeworn concrete. I walked in their footsteps.

And as the heavens rained, not once or twice, but three times, I stood in front of my antique seat, beer in hand, with one of those dopey ear-to-ear grins that could only be belied by the tears in my eyes and the tightness in my throat.

History can happen anywhere at any time. But it will happen here again. Perhaps today.

We waited out the rain.

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* There are those who suggest that God considers many of man’s acts and proclivities abominations. Has anyone ever asked God about not having the pitcher come to the plate and hit?

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Church of the Open Road Press