A Tale of Two Sports Cities – Pirates, Pilgrimages, & Places You Call Home
- Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Two lifelong friends and baseball fans in their old age were discussing the game and one man asked the question whether or not the other thought there was baseball in heaven. After a short debate on the subject, the two men made an agreement that whomever died first would somehow find a way to tell the other the answer to the question.
- A short time thereafter, one of the two friends died and after several weeks he as promised returned as an image to his friend with the answer to their quandary.
- “Bob, it’s me your old pal Bill. I have good news from the grave. There is baseball in heaven. In fact, we play everyday. But I have some bad news.”
- Bob replied, “What could possibly be the bad news?”
- “You’re scheduled to pitch Monday.”
On July 1st, 2011 I’d been perusing the internet looking at team schedules for various baseball teams at both the major and minor levels when I realized that I had yet to check the mailbox after arriving home from work. I had my ticket for the July 20th game between the Pittsburgh Pirates v. Cincinnati Reds at PNC Park in Pittsburgh sent via mail when I placed my order two days earlier and the giant child in me had the notion that it would actually arrive ever so quickly. Of course, he was wrong. However, what did arrive was perhaps the most wild and simultaneously great idea I’d had since deciding to venture down to that sunny place for shady people known as Tampa, Florida for MLB spring training – I was going to attempt to attend two games in two separate venues in two separate cities in the same day. And immediately purchased a ticket to a game at one of my least favorite venues, Huntington Park in Columbus, Ohio for a game between the visiting Scranton Wilkes-Barre Yankees and the Columbus Clippers to be played on the same night as my journey to PNC Park.
7:20 p.m.
To: Zack Taylor
Text: 2 games in one day…2 different cities…your opinion?
Apparently my best friend Zack was not overwhelmed nor surprised by such a stunt, which I imagine is why there was lack of response until I actually set out on the trek a mere nineteen days later. His words of wisdom – “Good luck. Watch out for deer, indians, and fat annoying Steelers fans.” – Amen, to that.
The trip to visit PNC Park in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania almost became the third straight planned stadium visit that didn’t happen in the month of July due to some trouble with my mode of transportation I affectionately refer to as “Supernova”. I call my Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo this due the fact it has well over 150,000 miles on it and all major and minor maintenance has historically been performed by myself or my brother, which makes me trust the vehicle more than some people, but also why it could blow at anytime – like a supernova.
On the fourth of July, I was supposed to be at the Yankees at Indians game in Cleveland, Ohio which didn’t happen due to a departure time dispute. On Monday the eighteenth, I was on my way to Charleston, West Virginia to see the West Virgina Power play the New York Yankees minor league affiliate Charleston (SC) River Dogs at Appalachia Power Park when my “trusty” vehicle decided to overheat and leave me out a nine dollar ticket behind home plate, a sixty dollar water pump, and a six-dollar thermostat. My planned baseball stadium tour for the summer on my off days had begun more like a new incarnation of Guns N’ Roses tour with many squabbles and technical difficulties and ultimately no shows. So it was very important to me to not make a third straight failed attempt, especially since I’d never done anything like this regarding baseball road trips. Sure, I’d gone to two games in the same day while in Florida for 2011 MLB Spring Training, but a drive to Lakeland or Clearwater from Tampa, Florida is a stroll down the street compared to something this many miles apart. Also, I wasn’t even something I’d considered at any other point in my baseball fanatical existence, but when you’re filling voids, have time and money to waste, why not?
Nonetheless, I departed for Pittsburgh around 7:15 a.m. on the morning of the 20th with two tickets, a full tank of gas, thirty dollars in cash, a camera, and running on the pursuit of seeing a venue I’d yet to see and no sleep for two days. I’d not been sleeping well due to the time of year it is in regards to my past and I’d not been to the Steel City since around 2003 when I went there to audition for an acting gig and received little more than one of the biggest scares of my life when while en route a truck ahead of me pulling a trailer had said trailer detach and come all too close to crashing into me and my trusty automobile. But that’s another story for another time.
Supernova a.k.a. my Jeep not game ready...
My GPS which I refer to as “Marcia”, another sidebar we wont delve into at this juncture, plotted my course to Pittsburgh somewhat differently than my previous venture from my tiny town in Southeastern Ohio. My last such journey lead me through West Virginia through the majority of my trip and quite frankly, despite my need to visit the West Virginia Power, I try to avoid driving in that state at all costs. This is due to one too many night drives down two lane highways in the snow, dodging deer, speed demon tractor-trailer drivers, and the often seen one head light motorist just across the river from Ohio on West Virgina’s portion of Route 35 at various points in my past. Instead this time, I was diverted toward Columbus, Ohio initially and quite fittingly, since I would be returning there later in the day.
There’s an absolute calm that overtakes me on the road, much like that when I’m alone among tens of thousands of total strangers/my closest friends at any given ball park. While within the confines of a stadium it’s a combination of childlike excitement, the feeling of discovery of new sites and old familiar sounds and smells, and a zeal meets zen. On the highway however, it’s a locked-in feeling and rhythm between myself and my vehicle. A calm within the chaos of other motorists moving in the gasoline charged dance between stop-and-go rush hour and en route to stadium traffic of the major cities I pass through and that of the open highway and its 70 miles per hour waltz from home to home plate and back again, all along the way juggling coffees and cans of Copenhagen, scanning talk radio stations, and carrying on conversations in my mind on what exits to take, gas stops, and remembering. And sometimes, trying to forget.
I arrived in Pittsburgh at around 11:30 a.m. and if there was any negative aspect of my journey to PNC Park, this would be when it occurred. My plan was to utilize one of the various parking garages in the downtown area and simply walk across the bridge to the stadium due to the fact that despite it being quite hot, it was a wonderful summer day for an afternoon game. Unfortunately, I was not the only motorist with such hopes and the massive amount of game day traffic kept me in my vehicle for approximately an hour and a half longer than I expected. But after a great deal of jockeying for position among the other drivers, a self guided tour of the downtown area, and a couple of gallons of sweat and gas later, I was able to find parking at a lot a short walk from the park for only ten dollars. Which would lead me to suggest if you’re planning to visit PNC Park, you may want to arrive earlier than an hour before first pitch. Especially when they’re facing off against a division rival and unexpectedly threatening to make a run for the NL Central Division lead, as was the case on this day.
PNC PARK - Home of the Pittsburgh Pirates
ESPN Page 2 once rated PNC Park as number one out of all thirty ballparks in Major League Baseball and I knew this going in. However, time will tell whether I place it on such a level as other places I’ve visited and have yet to journey to. It is hard dispute the majesty and beauty of the sight lines I had from my seat just behind the visiting Reds dugout in Section 10 Row J Seat 1. Due to the previously mentioned game day gridlock, I arrived in my seat at the top of the third inning with Cincinnati leading 2-0 and Reds pitcher Johnny Cueto firing pitches in toward Pirates hitters.
An unfortunate attribute of visiting a baseball cathedral for the first time I’ve noticed, especially when joining the game mid-action is the difficult choice of attempting to initially absorb the essence of the structural surroundings or follow the flow of the action on the field. The temptation to be whisked away by the on-field play left me conflicted due to my desire to photograph and become aware of my surroundings. From where I was seated, the entire venue was an open view to the players on the field and the picturesque backdrop of the city just beyond the outfield. However, getting caught daydreaming with a camera at one’s face was a bad place to be so close to field level, especially anytime a right-handed hitter stepped into the batter’s box.
I had made a similar mistake a few months earlier at Bright House Field in Clearwater, Florida. During pre-game batting practice of the March 12th game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Philadelphia Phillies, I decided to do a good deed for a young couple while standing in right field having stopped there momentarily while on a trip around the park before the start of the game. My seat was just up the first base line Section 103 Row 19, however I left it long enough to get better acquainted with the place to be asked by a man and woman to take their picture standing on the right field terrace. There’s a saying in baseball, that sometimes the ball finds you, and on that day it most certainly did as I had a strange couples camera closely drawn to my face a batted ball off the bat of a still unknown to me Rays player ricocheted off of my left thigh making a sound that sounded like a gunshot and if not for the cheap sunglasses in my pocket may have had me singing soprano for the remainder of my days. For those of you who long to hear the “Oooh” or “Wooh” of a crowd, this is by no means the way to do so, trust me. And much like the tightly wound and stitched leather-clad baseball was unforgiving when it left its mark on my leg, Phillies fan is too, so no souvenir aside from the bruise and the verbal exchange with stadium security to assure them I did not require medical attention was had that day.
But where was I, yes, photography and foul balls, views from the dugout field level seats, pierogies, and slow roasting on a July afternoon on the aisle seat. With no dog in the fight on the field, the draw for me was the venue itself, which is why by the seventh inning it was easy for me to abandon my role as spectator and begin to stroll around the park to see what else there was to offer aside from the game itself.
Opening in 2001, the ten-year old park is one of eighteen current Major League Baseball stadiums designed by architectural firm Populous. I bring up this fact because, along with its riverside location, aspects of the park reminded me a great deal of Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati. The large scoreboard located in left field, seating proximity to the field and lack of foul territory, and the downtown area, are just a short list of similarities that made me curious to how other parks I’ve yet to see compare. However, these similarities are not to be viewed as though the stadiums have a cookie cutter approach or experience. The small number of right field/absence of an upper deck seating in right field and the cut outs which give view to a beautiful skyline. Perhaps the most significant and largest draw for me personally was the monuments located throughout various locations of the park, particularly that of Roberto Clemente just beyond the center field fan entrance into the stadium.
I concluded my lap around the stadium before games end but rather than return to my seat for the finale I instead chose to begin my trek toward Columbus, Ohio for the second game of my adventure. As I made my way from the left field concourse toward the front of the stadium, the emotions of what I had recently chosen to undertake seemed to register inside. Upon reaching the front entrance, I stepped on the escalator that a few hours earlier had lifted me into the confines of PNC and descended back to the street and in a sense back from Heaven to Earth. I expressed my approval of the baseball cathedral at 115 Federal Street to the stadium employees who stood at the gate telling them it was a beautiful park, stopped momentarily to take a few photos of the Honus Wagner monument on the sidewalk and then made my way back towards my car.
Along the route there were vendors on the street peddling dollar bottles of water that were much-needed on this sweltering July day and five dollar Pirates t-shirts. I picked up a bottle of water and continued to walk, however it was not for me, but the homeless man who’d been there when I’d entered. I handed him the bottle and carried on and at that moment it all washed over me, I began to weep behind my aviator style sunglasses, and thought of one word – home.
The place where I was heading next was obviously home to the Columbus Clippers, who were ironically hosting the AAA affiliate of the team that once called Columbus their Triple-A home. The Yankees however left town at the end of the 2006 season and things have not personally been as joyous as a visiting fan since. The saving grace back then however once that occurred was that though the team affiliation had changed, the venue at the time was still Cooper Stadium. It was there I had been raised on live baseball and what I considered home in regards to the game. It was my first church where I went to heal my hurts. The site of my first game and to this day still, in all its flaws and glory, my favorite baseball venue.
Huntington Park is none of this to me. It is the proverbial stepmother who is 20 years younger than my father. The trendy place constructed in the arena district. The cleaner, more corporate, upscale place to be seen rather than to solely see a game and brainchild of Franklin County politicians. Oh, the politics of baseball. I wasn’t heading home in a baseball sense anymore than I was heading home in the manner which ultimately inspired this quest to visit various baseball venues back in March. I am in a baseball sense much like that man in Pittsburgh panhandling for spare change, I have no place to call my home. And from the moment I parked my car and made my way to will call to claim my ticket behind home plate and until I reached my seat the memories of what the Clippers once were in my heart and mind were ever-present.
HUNTINGTON PARK - HOME OF THE COLUMBUS CLIPPERS
Everything about the venue reminded me of why I’d only made the trip there one other time before. From the food served to the very different looking crowd in regards to socioecnomics and race, there was no appeal to the visit other than watching potential future New York Yankees players on the visiting team and to take a few photographs. The only familiar face from those days was that of Nick Johnson who had once played across town and was now a member of the Clippers as part of the Cleveland Indians organization.. Just as in Pittsburgh earlier in the day, I’d joined the game following first pitch and spent my time behind the netting behind home snapping photos of the likes of Jesus Montero until the fatigue of the heat and miles caught up with me and I left before game’s end.
When I reached the outside of the stadium a police officer and I struck up a conversation as I waited for the signal to change to cross the street. She asked if I enjoyed the game and I replied yes, but I didn’t care too much for the new stadium and much preferred the old. She replied by discussing its location in the arena district and I laughed. She then asked how I was doing this evening and I went on to reply by telling her I’d just spent the day driving and still had ninety miles to go before I could call it a day. Her response was well then we should probably get you home. She then headed toward the middle of the street and began stopping traffic for which I thanked her and crossed.
I chose to head home via High Street en route to Route 23. South High Street, much like the old stadium, was also once a very important part of my youth and often the first stop upon returning home on leave from the military to visit my very old and very Irish great-grandmother Lula. I loved passing the old rugged brick home there which was quite the transition from the slick and and brightly decorated area of town I’d just been to. It too was once a home away from home and adding greatly to what had seemingly become the theme of this days journey.
The objective of the game of baseball is to reach the 216 square inch house shaped plate more than the other team. The entire start of all of this roaming was being exiled from the place I called home. And on the this day, while on the road and in the stands I often asked myself, where does one who feels as though he has no home go? The cathedral on Mound Street has been closed down since 2008. There is no emotional connection with the regional and local professional and minor league baseball teams for me. Hell, even my sister’s collegiate career as a softball player is over. So where does one go, to find their home? Seems the answer is anywhere and everywhere.
Until next time…
Diary Of A Mad Fan 