In Praise of the Park

Michael Cox

This winter has been one of the dampest in Seattle history (and that's pretty damp), and it continues as I write this. Taking a quick check of the Weather Channel, I see a wide swath of similar elsewhere as well. The news wires hold little distraction: aside from Griffey and A-Rod tearing their team's GM a third mouth, nothing but bottom-of-the-barrel free agent deals and "Whew! We avoided arbitration!" signings of players who had a lucky 1998 for more than the value of the rest of their careers combined, nada.

Add to that the return of the NBA (actually sort of welcomed, if only because it will take the place of the dull-as-Selig college hoops that have filled the TV holes in its absence), and the media blitz that accompanies Sunday's Game That Dare Not Speak Its Name, these are truly the offseason doldrums.

So, how about a quick love letter to the ballpark?

Not the KingDome. In fact, part of what I love most is that the industrial, generic multipurpose white elephants of the '70s like Riverfront, the Astrodome and CandleComStick are going the way of the dodo. I'd love to push the plunger to blow the old Dome to the moon, despite the acknowledged good times I've had there. For every euphoric celebration enjoyed within, I can clearly remember another time when I cursed the place.

Hey, but this is supposed to be a love letter, right?

I'm happy for folks who get to see baseball without having to see nothing but gray, water-stained (why is it always water-stained?) concrete around them, and off-green Astroturf with faded football markings before them. Folks in Cleveland, Baltimore, Atlanta and Anaheim know what I'm talking about.

There's something about a real ballpark (for the thousandth time, not a stadium, a ballpark) that enhances even a game between also-rans and makes it human. When there's an opening on the bleacher side to let the world in, even a mammoth edifice like Dodger Stadium is more in tune with its environment. It makes the sky that much bigger, and with real grass below, the game that much more timeless.

Even the consumer trappings of a park have their appeal. Ads are a timeless part of ballpark ambience, although the likes of Wrigley and the aforementioned Dodger Stadium have minimized their display to wonderful effect. Just don't make me have to figure out where the scoreboard is among the ads (and I'm talking to The Jake, of course). A well-loaded souvenir stand has its pleasures, even if I'm only going to drink it in as I walk by.

And then, there are the vendors.

Whoever first had the idea to strap food to their body and traverse the aisles in hopes of selling the comestibles to the seated audience should be in a special wing of the Hall of Fame. For years, I've made a point of ordering peanuts from Rick the Peanut Man, the KingDome vendor who tosses underhand, overhand, behind-the-back, hard, soft and always dead on target. Also heroes: the kid in Anaheim several years ago who could toss an accurate bag of nuts from the aisleway to the back row of the upper deck and Sal from Dodger Stadium ("Nuts! Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!").

Beer is vital as well, as long as it's the same price and just as fresh as in the concessions. Both Busch Stadium and New Comiskey feature a virtual army of husky men (and a couple of brave women) who assure that the very nanosecond you feel thirsty, you can raise your hand and be quenched. Their throaty shouts are in humorous juxtaposition to the gangly teens skrawking, "uh...lemon chill."

Good food is infrequent (although becoming more common), but when you find it, you know. Dodger dogs, Stinking Rose garlic chicken sandwiches at 3-Com, and crabcakes (sorry, Boog) at Camden Yards are all now primal synapse connections. And a hint: lattes and baseball do mix, although on a windy, cold Candlestick Point night the lines are much too long.

There are those purists (if they aren't all dead yet) who think only organ music makes a ballgame, but I'm not one of them. Don't get me wrong, I think that organ music actually played live by a skilled artesan is a touch second to none, but I dig the rock 'n' roll, and am happy when a decent pop song or two bursts into the air. However, one hint to wannabe DJs programming music at parks: You have officially played "Y.M.C.A." enough. See if you can't make up a dance for a silly Barenaked Ladies song or something.

Folks in San Francisco, Houston, Cincy and my own Seattle: It won't be long before you know what it's like to see baseball in a cozy, green space with character. Come July, I'll be sitting in the Chris Van Dyk Memorial Seat, tossing back malt beverages and enjoying the non-air-conditioned summer air. I hope you make similar arrangements.

Folks in K.C., L.A., Boston, Chicago (North side), the Bronx and Denver: You ve got damn fine ballyards. Cherish them. Visit them often. I don't care how freaking bad the Royals are or how much you hate Tony Muser, get out there. I'd watch Little League ball at Kauffman.

Folks in Milwaukee and Detroit: I'm really happy you're getting shiny new ballyards and all, but with proper maintenance and upgrades (see Wrigley Field) the ones you've already got could serve you well for decades to come, and retain the character that only comes with age.

To the Tribune Co.: God bless you, sirs. (Bet you don't hear that much.)

Folks in Tampa Bay and Phoenix: What the hell were they thinking?

about the author

Michael Cox is planning to put his Frank Ruano Memorial Seat for the 2002 All-Star Game up for grabs on eBay. Minimum bid is a lifetime supply of Twix (and Michael can eat a *lot* of Twix) at mc@strikethree.com.