The distance
from home plate to deepest center field measures 408 feet. Add
75-100 feet upward to reach the 700 level of Veterans Stadium
in Philadelphia. That level, whose backside provides panoramic
views of the city, southeastern Pennsylvania and southern New
Jersey, comprises 13 rows looking down on the field.
In Section 728, Row 10, Seat 5, a fan sits high over the foul
line behind third base. I estimate the distance from seat to right
field slightly less than two-tenths of a mile.
``These are great seats,'' my 7-year-old son announces as we settle
into our places, and I know the night is a success; it is his
and his 10-year-old brother's first visit to an American major
league ballpark.
They have watched ball games at the Tokyo Dome, the covered stadium
nicknamed ``The Big Egg'' that is home to the Yomiuri Giants and
sits in a busy sports, shopping and entertainment center.
Veterans Stadium sits amid a sprawling trucking corral whose main
thoroughfare is Packer Street. The stadium, built for football,
has many unprintable nicknames.
We watch the Phillies, the worst team in the majors, beat the
Florida Marlins, one of four teams battling to keep from being
the second-worst team in the majors. Two days later, in Philadelphia
just before the All-Star game, the Marlins will fire the only
field manager they've ever had.
We are part of what is announced as the largest crowd of the season
for a Phillies home game, drawn to the downtown Sports Complex
by the convergence of Independence Day weekend, a promotional
ticket sale to area churches-- this particular night is Nazarene
Church Night-- and a post-game fire-works display.
My brother-in-law,
who has joined us just below the clouds with his two even-younger-than-my
children, is an experienced Vet visitor so he hauls in shopping
bags filled with popcorn, chips, lollipops and a large container
of cool liquid -- lemonade.
I don't appreciate his shrewdness until I realize ballpark vendors
don't get to the 700 level. Even the under-the-stands vendors
selling Phillies caps and hot dogs steer an inquirer after Marlins'
caps and coffee ``downstairs'' to the 500 or 300 level, a distance
equivalent to circling the base paths three times on thirty-degree
ramps.
Later, I'm stunned when a piece of birthday cake comes down the
aisle to each of us. We are seated on the fringe of a church group,
and one of its members is celebrating a birthday at the ball game.
The young man is not alone. During the seventh-inning stretch,
the Phillies scoreboard screen lists the names of everyone in
attendance who is celebrating a birthday. The list runs into the
40s or 50s.
Another young man -- another birthday boy, in fact -- inspires
a ``wave'' among the seated throng. As it begins, I'm skeptical,
but he persists with six or eight tries and eventually succeeds
in sending a ripple of arm-raising, standing cheerers completely
around the stadium.
All 45,000 spectators roar when the ripple returns to where it
began with the young man to my right. He beams with the pride
of a home-run hitter. My sons are ecstatic.
Amid this fan fare, I ponder how many sportswriters still appreciate
the game from a fan's perspective. Glancing above and behind home
plate, I can see the tiny figures of working press crouched behind
their laptops and microphones.
They are in a different world. Like the players, they are performers,
but the audience of the writers and broadcasters is outside the
confines the stadium. The media's audience sits in divans, driver's
seats and office chairs, and little of what happens in the ball
park is communicated to the radio, television and newspaper audience.
For sportswriters,
take me out to the ballgame too often is just another day at the
office. Too bad for them.
I spend the game instructing my younger son how to watch from
so far away.
``Watch the umpires,'' I urge. ``They signal everything.''
I demonstrate by showing how an umpire indicates a strike but
hardly moves when the pitch is a ball. I show him how umpires
immediately indicate whether a ball hit down the line is fair
or foul.
At one point late in the game, Gary Sheffield, the Marlins' right
fielder, takes three balls and starts for first base after the
fourth pitch. It's called a strike, and even from my high perch
I can tell Sheffield doesn't like the call.
He takes another strike, checks his swing on the next one, but
is called out by the umpire. In a rage, Sheffield slams his batter's
helmet to the dirt and has to be restrained by teammates from
arguing.
With a wave of the hand, the umpire throws Sheffield out of the
game.
I tell my sons, ``The ump just threw him out of the game.'' My
slightly bewildered 7- and 10-year-olds are impressed when Sheffield
doesn't take his place in right field.
When the
game ends and the fireworks display begins, fans are invited to
the field. The boys prevail, and we climb down through the crowd
to sit on the protective tarps that cover the bases.
It's a beautiful summer night. The fireworks are spectacular and
loud, frightening enough to drive my 7-year-old cowering under
my arm.
Forget that we watched tiny figures on a seeming miniature diamond.
Forget that we trekked many steps for souvenir hats, hot dogs,
pink-and-blue cotton candy and a chance to sit on third base.
Forget that after the game it took us 35 minutes to find our car,
and I wound up carrying a 50-pound child on my shoulders.
We saw a game; we experienced a wave; we had birthday cake and
lemonade; we made friends with people in front of us and beside
us (thanks, in part, to my brother-in-law's binoculars); we saw
a player expelled from the game; we saw the Phillies Phanatic
shoot hot dogs into the stands with an air cannon; we walked on
the playing field; we sat on third base.
You don't read about these parts of the ballgame in the morning
paper or hear them broadcast. I suspect my sons don't care much
about contracts, salary caps or the Marlins managerial problems,
all of which filled the next day's newspaper.
Come to think of it, I don't much care, either.
For at least one grand night we were ardent baseball fans.