It's A Small World After All

This is a true story.

It was the summer of 1984. Baseball season was in full swing. John and I were about to embark upon our dream vacation, a baseball pilgrimage to some of the oldest baseball stadiums still standing, which included the almighty Yankee Stadium.

The weekend started out with a Friday night game in Arlington, Texas, watching the Rangers get whooped up on by Detroit. Sadly, getting whooped up on was a fairly regular occurrence for my beloved Texas Rangers. Good thing the nachos were tasty.

The next day we flew to St. Louis, rented a car, and drove to Laclede’s Landing. We had lunch and a beer or two at The Blarney Stone, and then walked down by the Mississippi river, before stopping off for another beer or two.

Later, feeling brave after those alcoholic beverages, we decided to ride to the top of the arch. Thank goodness for beer. I suffer from claustrophobia, and the car we were seated in was teeny tiny. It held four people, seated so close our knees touched, and there were no windows. I felt like I had been locked inside a tin can.

Before the ascension, we watched a film. As all good tourists do, we actually paid attention. We learned that the Arch was designed by architect Eero Saarinen. He won a design competition in 1947. The structure is made from stainless steal and reaches 630 feet high. Construction began in 1961. It was dedicated in 1966.

The view from the top of the Arch was worth the ride, although my fingers and toes tingled the entire time. Did I forget to mention I also suffer from acrophobia? Fortunately, we descended before the effects of the beer wore off. Our day ended with a baseball game at Busch Stadium.

Sunday morning, we flew to Chicago, where we were scheduled to see a White Sox game one day and the Cubbies the next. We went to the top of the Sears Tower, roamed the downtown streets, and strolled along Lake Michigan. We stopped to watch several chess games in progress, before continuing our walk.

We arrived at Comiskey early. We always went early enough to watch the players warm up and ask them to sign our programs. Sometimes we were successful, other times not. On this particular evening, we were wearing our brilliant, blue Texas Ranger jackets. Since the Rangers were not very popular, they were delighted to see home town folk at an away game. Almost every player stopped by to say hello.

Later, we went in search of sustenance. Comiskey Park had the best and most diverse selection of ball park food I’ve ever eaten. Instead of dinner, we hit the concession stands, and watched the first three innings through the screened windows of the outfield picnic tables.

After the game, we struck up a conversation with several guys in Texas Longhorn jackets. Seems they were in Chicago specifically for the game, as well. Some were from the Austin area, a couple from San Antonio, and one guy was from Dallas. They were a group of friends from college who enjoyed baseball, and decided to take a baseball trip. Sound familiar? They were even at the same game as us in St. Louis. As planned, after the White Sox game, we met up with the Longhorn guys at a sports bar. We drank beer and talked about baseball until time to retire to our respective hotels. It so happens, one of the guys, Roger, was a golfing buddy of Newman, John’s best friend. It’s a small world, isn’t it?.

Our next stop was the corner of Addison and Clark Streets. It was a Wrigley Field before lights. We were earlier than usual, and it was hot. We sat on a concrete wall waiting for the gates to open. I was thirsty. John volunteered to go across the street and get a couple of cokes from McDonalds. As I sat on the wall waiting for John to come back, I noticed a heavy mist approaching from my right. It closed in quickly. As the mist crossed my body, the temperature dropped thirty degrees. Now, instead of being hot, I was suddenly freezing.

When John came out of McDonalds, he looked puzzled. He handed me a coke and asked, “How long was I in there anyway?”

Winter had indeed arrived, in July. Since I was dressed for summer, I watched most of the game on TV sets beside the concession stands.

Next stop Milwaukee. We toured a brewery, walked around the downtown area and along Lake Michigan, shopped a little, and then went to the game. I believe Milwaukee County Stadium has more tailgaters than any other stadium I’ve ever been to.

After Milwaukee, we flew to Detroit. We didn’t have tickets to the Tiger game, but hoped we would be able to buy one there. As we walked toward the stadium, a scalper tried to sell us something called, “obstructed view” tickets. We didn’t know what obstructed view meant, but it didn’t sound good, so we declined the man’s kind offer. Fortunately, we lucked out. Our seats were about half way up, right behind home plate. Oh, and I found out what obstructed view meant. Tiger Stadium had huge support beams with seats behind them, which blocked about half the field. Of course, those thoughtful people supplied monitors for those who couldn’t see the game in person. Detroit fans, I ask you, if your tickets are for seats with an obstructed view, why not just stay home?

Next we could be found driving around Boston, searching for the illusive Fenway Park. I grew up where roads were built on a north-south east-west grid. It’s hard to get lost because all roads eventually get you to the one you need. In Boston, that isn’t the case. Roads seemed to go hither and yon, with no specific destination in mind. We spent our entire time lost! We did eventually find Fenway, but only because we recognized the stadium lights. Fenway looks like an old warehouse from the outside. Anyway, we did find it and I got to see the Green Monster I had heard so much about, but we never did find the North Church.

If you have been living under a rock and have never heard of the Green Monster, it’s Fenway’s outfield wall, which is painted green. The difference between this particular wall and outfield walls in other stadiums, is the height. Because it is so high, the Green Monster is famous for preventing home runs. Balls hit in other stadiums might fly over the fence to cheers and applause, but at Fenway those same balls bounce off. Of course, there are more wallball doubles in Fenway than other stadiums. However, I doubt those are as satisfying to the players.

Next stop Philadelphia, where the Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich rules! I’ve had a few in my lifetime, but the one I had in Philadelphia has never been duplicated. Of course, we also saw the Liberty Bell, and those museum steps made famous by Rocky.

Again, no tickets, but this time Lady Luck vanished. Our seats were in the nose bleed section. We were so high up, I was afraid to move. As a result, I saved on the calories. I politely refused all liquid refreshment for fear a trip to the ladies room would become necessary.

Sadly, our vacation was nearing its end. New York was our last stop. The Mets were away, so we didn’t get to see them, but we already had our tickets for a Yankee game. The Yankees, wow. I had been a Yankee fan my entire life. To visit Yankee Stadium, a.k.a., The House That Ruth Built, The Stadium, The Big Ballpark in the Bronx, The Cathedral of Baseball, was a near religious experience.

I remember grasping the back of a seat to keep my legs from quivering. I stared out at the field, feeling the history. The air was thick with it. My heart pounded, goose flesh rose on my arms, and I held my breath. As I stood there, taking mental pictures, the solemnity of the occasion was interrupted by an usher. We didn’t need his help finding our seats, but he insisted. He took a towel out of his pocket and dusted the seat. We sat down. He had the audacity to hold out his hand for a tip. I wanted to spit in it, but John, being the nice guy he is, placed a quarter in his palm. The usher looked at us with contempt in his eyes, and stomped away.

We had a couple of beers, but the guy six rows back, had a few more than two. If I had to guess, I would say at least a twelve pack. Each time Dave Winfield came up to bat, he would yell in his gruffly slurred voice, “Rock one, Dave!” By the seventh inning Dave hadn’t, but he was up yet again. This time the guy yelled out, “Rock one, Dave”, and he did.

Our vacation was over, we were back in Dallas. It was Sunday night and we were watching the Rangers get whooped up on again. During the seventh inning stretch, about half way through Cotton-Eyed Joe, I turned around. I stared at the guy standing directly behind me, and then pecked John on the shoulder. He bent closer to hear. “Isn’t that Roger from Comiskey?” I asked.

John turned around and shook the guy’s hand. We laughed and agreed, “It is a small world after all.”

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