Goodbye, Goodbye: The Zisk Staff Shares Stadium Memories

(Editor’s note: With the demise of both of New York’s baseball stadiums this year, it seemed like the right time to ask our core group of writers of their memories of their last times at their favorite stadia. The results are below.—SR)

Steve Reynolds
As unenthused as I was about the 2008 Mets (which I hated until Willie Randolph got the ax, so maybe I just didn’t like the former Yankee?) I was very excited for my last trip to Shea Stadium on July 26th. This was no ordinary trip, as I was joining about 35 other people on a cruise from the East side of Manhattan up the East River to the stadium. We were all gathered together to celebrate our friend Jonah’s birthday. But it was much more than a birthday celebration—it was a life celebration. Three months earlier we found out that Jonah (pictured below) had melanoma that had spread to one of his lymph nodes. And while my circle of friends (and Jonah himself) were optimistic that everything would turn out for the best, it was apparent to me that we all had seeds of doubt in our heads. As someone who has lost two family members to cancer and has friends who have lost spouses and others to this tenacious disease, I know I couldn’t help but dwell on the negative.

Fortunately things went well with Jonah’s surgery and his radiation treatments. (Ed. note--Unfortunately after #17 went to print, Jonah had a recurrence. He had another surgery and is recording quite well as I write this on 10/27/08) As a matter of fact, Jonah’s last day of radiation was two days before the cruise, the game and his birthday. So that ride to Shea was perhaps the most joyful I’ve ever experienced going to a Mets game. People hugging each other, drinking really overpriced “cheap” beer as if it was water and waving to people on the shores of the river—it was quite a party. The game almost seemed secondary compared to the fun we had on the way. And it was for almost everyone, as I was the only person left at the end of five hours and 14 innings when the Mets finally lost. I’ll admit to being disgruntled by yet another loss as I walked down the numerous ramps from the upper deck. Once I got to the ground I paused, turned around and looked at Shea one more time. And I thought to myself, “Yeah, this place has always been a dump. Bring on less seats, higher prices and gourmet food at Citi Field!”

Ken Derr
The last time I went to Candlestick Park I was drunk before noon. It was teacher cut day and we were wearing our party hats. It was also the last time I tailgated at a Giants game, because PacBell Temple does not allow such messiness. You also don’t see fans in the new joint like the one who sat behind us that day, the only man in the bowl more hammered than we were. “Let’s go Johnny Bench. Come on Johnny, ya fucking punk.” We were playing the Braves in 1999, but no matter—we loved this dude, for his performance was worse than ours, and our guilt thusly redeemed. Visiting the Stick was something like making the pilgrimage to Mecca, if you believed in the trinity of wind and cold and intoxication. I saw the face of Marvin Bernard in a Carnation Chocolate Malt, and I’m still waiting for the right eBay moment to dump that one. I can’t remember a single detail of the game. We got plastered, sunburned and embarrassingly confessional, and I’ve been in counseling for years trying to erase the image of that science teacher and the attendance secretary with the asymmetrical ass. Mixing business and pleasure can be an expensive and dangerous proposition. Anyway, I think we drove home, but that image remains in unnavigable caverns. The only thing I can recall is that the Giants were good then. Imagine that. Russ Ortiz and Robb Nen and Bill Mueller weren’t that great in our eyes and hearts during those years, but boy are their replacements sad copies. I can’t say the same thing about the new place, because it is gorgeous. But I do miss the loudmouths, and I’ve yet to hear the name Johnny Bench uttered in the palace Peter built.

John Shiffert
Although I saw game two of the 1980 World Series at the Vet, Connie Mack Stadium (nee Shibe Park) is still my favorite stadium among the two former stadia wherein the Phillies have performed.

My last game there was the last Opening Day at Connie Mack Stadium—April 7, 1970. The Phillies had a new manager (Frank Lucchesi) and a much-heralded new rookie doubleplay combination, shortstop Larry Bowa and second baseman Denny Doyle. This was my senior year at Germantown Friends School and since the senior class was not required to attend classes (we were all working on senior projects) I was free to go the game with my grandfather, the one and only Ralph M. Shiffert—an old catcher and A’s fan from way back in the Eddie Plank/Stuffy McInnis days.

Since he had recently retired from the Philadelphia Electric Company after 50 years, he still had an “in” with Peco, and we parked over at his old substation on Hunting Park Avenue (as everyone in Philly knows, Hunting Park spelled backwards in Krap Gnitnuh—say it out loud a few dozen times), hard by that other famous Philadelphia landmark, the Tasty Baking Company. This was much preferable to trying to park near 21st and Lehigh, where the neighborhood kids, undaunted by the specter of the Vet raising in South Philly, were still playing the old “watch your car for a dollar, mister” game. So, we walked about a half mile to the old ballpark.

There was quite a buzz that day, mostly about the new skipper, who was, among other things, the first Phillies manager since Gene Mauch with any kind of personality. Indeed, Lucchesi had a lot of personality, but not many players. (The Phillies would finish the season 73-88.) As it would turn out over time, Bowa would live up to his billing. No, that’s not right. He lived over his billing—there were serious questions on April 7, 1970 as to whether or not he’d hit his weight (155 lbs). He could field, and run like the wind, but he looked like a Little Leaguer in the field, and the Cubs, the opponent that day, played him at Little League depth. Nonetheless, Lawrence Robert Bowa would go on to play in 2246 more major league games, to accumulate 2191 hits, help lead the team to the 1980 World Series title, become manager of the Phillies, win the Manager of the Year Award in 2001, and become one of Philadelphia’s favorite adopted native sons.

This first game wasn’t particularly edifying for Bowa. He popped to shortstop batting leadoff for the Phillies in the first, and ended up going 0-3 with a walk, although he was flawless in six chances in the field. Although Doyle had three hits, and one of the Phillies two RBIs in the game, his career would be a lot less noteworthy, just 944 games in eight years.

In the other dugout were three genuine Hall of Famers, another should-be HOFer, and former Phillie favorite Johnny Callison. Nonetheless, despite the presence of Callison, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and Ron Santo on the field and Ferguson Jenkins (another former Phillie) on the mound, the home team won their last opener at the park they had occupied since 1938 (and which had opened 61 years before). Chris Short, coming off back surgery, and pitching one of his last great games as a Phillie, shut out the Cubs on five hits and the Phillies won, 2-0, scoring single runs in the third (on a triple by Doyle) and seventh (on a double by Don Money).

Although neither Stuffy McInnis, nor Eddie Plank, nor Dick Allen (my personal childhood favorite) made an appearance, granddad and I went home happy.

Frank D’Urso
Luckily as a Red Sox fan, we have owners who understand the importance of history and consistency. Hopefully I'll never have to have a last memory of Fenway Park and I get to have my ashes spread across left field so I can never leave it. But now here are my last times at other, less fortunate ball parks.

Memorial Stadium
It was the Orioles last season their before moving to the Fenway-inspired downtown Baltimore Camden Yards. I had attended a few games at Memorial Stadium, was particularly impressed with the suburban neighborhood that surrounded this great old bowl of a park. This last trip was special, with my now ex-in-laws, we watched as Harmon Killebrew was honored for hitting the longest homerun in Memorial Stadium history. I remember the big sporty jacket Harmon wore that day, impressed that that much fabric could drape a man of his stature. A living idol of mine ever since the Boston Globe Sunday Comics page had a series of full page posters of Major League Stars. Appropriately it was a Twins versus Orioles matchup. I forget who won.

Shea Stadium
My friend's company had box seats that we got to use. I had the balls to wear my #14 Jim Rice Red Sox jersey there (post-1986) and was impressed that there were other members of Red Sox nation in the stadium. I disliked the way they chained off the empty seats in front of us. What a waste. The upper level was so far away and so vertical I had nightmares just looking up at it. (Not to mention the skeevies I felt looking down at first base.)

Candlestick Park
My job had a bunch of tickets, and as we were out of towners a bunch of us went to see the Giants play. We had two extra, and seeing a bunch of fans lined to buy tickets I figured to give them away (also wanting to avoid the land sharks known as ticket scalpers we have to deal with on the east coast). People kind of avoided me though when I tried to give the tickets away. (Did I look that shady?) I resorted to shouting out "I've got two free tickets to the first person who can tell me the Giants original team name."

People just kind of looked at me.

"Okay, where did the Giants first come from?"

(I was looking for the answer: Troy Haymakers, but would have accepted New York.)

People were a bit bemused now, so I said, okay, "Who can tell me who wore #24?"

Which of course the nearest teenager/college kid replied, "Willie Mays."

I handed him the two $45 tickets and said thank you. I don't think anyone believed that I was actually giving away any tickets, let alone (what were then) expensive tickets.

Mark Hughson
My final game at the MacArthur Stadium (home of the Syracuse Chiefs of the International League) in the summer of 1996 had three unforgettable moments. I had been away at college for two years and hadn’t been keeping up with the local media hoopla surrounding the decision to “sell out,” close the park, and move the team down the street. When I arrived at the park and saw the back of a t-shirt that read “Last Crack At Big Mac” I finally recognized that there are season-ticket holding baseball lovers here that lived and died by the local farm team. It was the first time it dawned on me that 62 years of history was soon to become a parking lot. Depressing. The second moment happened halfway through the game when two old dudes turned around and told me to shut up and watch the game or they’d call security on me and have me removed. I guess they had grown tired of my incessant yelling, cheering, and (justified) umpire booing. My brother and his girlfriend were with me and naturally did not rise to my defense, so I stayed quiet. Upsetting. The storybook ending is close at hand though. In the final inning we were down by 3 with the bases loaded. There was still an outside chance at work here, so the crowd did indeed grasp a sliver of hope. As the outs tallied up and the baserunners stayed put we started to lose our grip. I mean yeah, it could happen but it probably wouldn’t. But it might. The only chance we had to win the game right there and then was a grand slam by the catcher. The pitcher slung one over and the catcher sent it to deep center right. It towered (crowd rises), it carried (crowd buzzed), it went out! Crowd erupts! We did it! FIREWORKS! AMAZING! Great game.

Kip Yates
I remember the last game I ever attended at the Texas Rangers old Arlington Stadium. It was a converted minor league ball park and had undergone several renovations including a grandstand behind home plate. It was a hole though. It was one of the many charmless cookie cutter ball parks from the sixties. Think the Vet without the attitude. Shea without the airplanes. The Astrodome without the aura. It was the place I witnessed my first ballgame. It was the place where as a kid George Brett made a gesture to get my attention just so he could return the wave I gave him from the stands. I grew up an Astros fan but since I lived in Arlington, had to watch the fruitless Rangers. Their seasons usually went like this. Play like gang busters in April and May, cool off in June as the weather became warmer, cling to first or second come All Star time, and then fall dramatically during the sweltering second half. I think the Rangers finished second once or twice while I was growing up.

Arlington Stadium does have its limited place in baseball history. It was the birthplace of nachos at the ball park. They didn't just give you some tortilla chips and then slip some melted cheese into a tiny cup attached to the plate; no, they smothered your nachos with cheese. Want beef with that? You got it. Jalapenos? Well help yourself; they are out there by the condiments. Ah, good times! My dad could take the four of us to game, sit behind home plate (the screened part, not the nose bleeds), buy beer, nachos, and peanuts and a souvenir batting helmet for $60. I spent nearly $100 recently at Shea for two tickets and a bobble head.

Arlington Stadium also has its limited place in my memory. I witnessed good games and bad games there. One of my favorite memories was the opening four days of the 1980 season. It snowed in Arlington in April and they still played. Not only that, they played a double header. However, the Rangers opened their season 4-0 by sweeping the Yankees. I was at all four. I still wish I had my Beat the Yankees hankie that they gave away before one of the games. I have other memories beside the Brett memory and beating the snot out of the Yankees. I remember going with my parents and showing up at the ball park before the gates opened. Two hours before the gates opened, in fact. My brother, Kyle, and I still laugh that we would show up outside the right field fence at 4:00 for a 7:30 game. My mom's rationale was we have to get there before the crowds. Sure Mom, but do we have to get there before the visiting team? Anyway, we would show up and be bored out of our minds for two hours until the excitement of the staff removing the chains from the locks. Then it was go time. We were off to the races. We always ran to get seats on the first row of general admission section and watch not only the Rangers take batting practice but the visiting team as well. It was not all bad, though. I usually came home with some pitcher's autograph. I would toss them my ball while they warmed up doing calisthenics in the outfield. I met Jim Kern, Steve Comer, Danny Darwin, Goose Gossage, Jon Matlack, Gaylord Perry, Fergie Jenkins—all players who stopped sucking when they wore another uniform. My brother worked the grounds crew during the summer of ’81 (the hot one). He brought me Al Oliver's hat, Jim Sundberg's broken bat. One of my favorite stories that Kyle tells is the time he met Mickey Rivers. He told Mickey that he wore number 17, played outfield, batted leadoff to which Mickey scoffed, "Yeah, but you ain't black." Touché!

I attended my last game at Arlington Stadium during the summer of '89, five years before they would open The Ballpark at Arlington. My then girlfriend and now wife Jamie went to see the Rangers play the Mariners. I don't even remember a kid named Ken Griffey Jr manning the outfield. What I remember best was witnessing the only triple play I have seen in my life. I do not remember all of the details except Steve Bueschele hit a hard grounder to Dave Valle at third and before I knew it, the promising inning was over and the Rangers trudged on to another loss.

I finally witnessed my first game at the new ball park this summer—a loss to the hated Yankees. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Jake Austen
In 2000 for some reason I attended the last game at Tigers Stadium, and it was a spectacular production, with a melodramatic, sentimental post-game ceremony that involved a seemingly unending parade of Tigers legends running, hobbling and being wheeled onto the field to take their historic positions for the final time. I was glad to be there, but it meant little to me as I never had particularly strong feelings for the Tigers. Once when I was sitting in the Comiskey Park bleachers between a group of Michigan girl scouts who were holding up Kirk Gibson signs and a group of “Gibby’s” buddies I witnessed the then-future hobbling homerun hero make obscene gestures at his friends, somehow not noticing the proximity of 8 year old girls, but that is something that shaped my opinion of Gibby rather than of the Tigers. I admire a quote by Tiger’s skipper Jim Leyland about Magglio Ordonez’ long curly locks that went something like, “He’s I grown man, I’m not going to tell him he has to cut his hair. But it looks terrible.” Still that didn’t make me a Tigers fan. And I didn’t even become a Tigers hater after attending a New Comiskey Park game earlier in Detroit’s historic 2000 season in which the White Sox and Tigers had a series of brawls, the longest of which was an almost 15 minute sprawling melee that involved dozens of players wandering around the field like two armies in field combat, occasionally exploding into genuinely bloody fisticuffs. At one point Magglio, then a young White Sock, actually used a karate kick on someone. This led to the biggest mass suspension in MLB history and was a highlight of the 10th season of New Comiskey Park.

Oh yeah, that’s what I was writing about. My original point was that the final game in Detroit was a spectacular production, especially compared to the low-key affair I attended on September 30, 1990. At the time the 80 year old Comiskey was the oldest park in baseball and was in the shadow of the soon-to-be newest park, a blue spaceship-looking monstrosity that despite having less seats towered over the old whitewashed brick stadium due to the extra level of luxury boxes and an elevated playing field necessitated by a space-age drainage system designed to allow safe ballplaying an hour after a monsoon. Anyhow, my brother, father, friend Marcus, one of my teachers, and myself were part of 42.849 attending the swansong of the “Baseball Palace of the World.” The Sox had already diminished the occasion by selling it as a two-part finale, billing Saturday’s game as “closing night” and ending it with spectacular fireworks. The only ceremonies I recall for the last game were the players throwing some balls into the stands and attendees receiving 8 ½” x 11” certificates to frame your historic ticket that looked like something you got at day camp for participation in a camp Olympics.

The game itself was kind of perfect. It was a 2-1 victory over Seattle (there seemed to be more 2-1 losses or wins than any other score in Sox history). In our one scoring inning the best Sox triples hitter of my lifetime Lance Johnson was driven in by a solid single by the best pure hitter of my lifetime Frank Thomas, who came home on (bizarrely) a triple by lumbering, pot-smoking power hitter Dan Pasqua. Considering that Sox fans have more expectations of seeing something strange than seeing actual great baseball this seemed fitting.

The most memorable part of the day came in the morning when I called up my visiting art school teacher Richard Merkin to wake him up for the delecious pre-game brunch my mom prepared. Merkin, a well known painter (he’s in the Sgt. Pepper’s album cover montage) was staying in a downtown private club where he was surprised by the call, stumbled out of bed, and broke his nose. He arrived at our home with a bulbous crooked honker and some distressed under-eye blood vessels, forever convincing my mom that he was W.C. Fields-esque damaged drunk. But besides that footnote, it was just a cool last game, totally appropriate for a team whose fans understand that they are rooting for the second team in the second city, a team who plays for working class dudes, broad shouldered broads, shirtless teens getting high in the upper deck, and for pockets of whatever ethnicity is populating the southside each decade. We are not supposed to have the national spotlight or the fanciest anything. The fact that out shiny new park, with instantly cracking concrete walkways and perilously steep upper decks, was a disaster seemed appropriate. It was quickly made obsolete by Baltimore’s retro park, marking new Comiskey as the last terrible ballpark, and only an expensive re-retro-ization a decade and a half later (they removed the UFO façade and added old time wrought iron awnings) has made it a decent digs for the first Chicago team to win a 21st Century World Series.

But there actually was one perfect “ceremony” to end the final game at the grand old, beautifully crumbling park. As we left Nancy Faust, the ageless veteran ballpark organist, the woman who introduced rock music to baseball parks and whose musical puns (“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” for Pete Incaviglia) put Chris Berman to shame, played us out with a song she introduced to professional sports. As fans wandered down the dank walkways out of Comiskey one final time her organ gently wept “Na Na Na – Na Na Na – Hey Hey Goodbye!”