Love letter to the ballpark

Allow me to start off by saying that yes, I fully realize there have been approximately 10,000 memoirs and tributes and recollections and top 10 lists of favorite moments written at this point with about another 10,000 to be composed before the final game is played there this Sunday.

I am one of those who wrote one. And you know what? Here's one more.

To begin this love letter to the ballpark, let's go back to 1993. 

I was there for the last game ever in Arlington Stadium. Which was also the final game ever for Nolan Ryan. Which was also, also the final game ever for George Brett. 

The Rangers, at that point were pretty bad. At least they had offense. Pudge, Juan, Raffy, Jose Canseco. A very homer happy but also strikeout and error prone Dean Palmer anchoring the hot corner. The pitching staff was okay-ish as I remember, but Nolan had very much entered the twilight of his career at this point and had I think his worst season ever. 

The final game ever at Arlington Stadium was a sad one for me. I won't wax poetic here: Yes, the old stadium was a dump. But it was a dump that had endearing charms about it. That stadium in all its metal bleacher glory resembled more of a wok sizzling the souls of those fans hearty enough to endure the summer time heat, but it was the place where I gained my baseball consciousness. All that to be said, I was also thrilled beyond comprehension to have this new ballpark on the way. 

And then in April 1994, my Dad and I walked into the new ballpark for the first time to watch the Rangers play the Mets in an exhibition game. And man, I was in absolute awe. We parked in what is currently Lot L, where you walk through a little wooded area and over a bridge across a tiny creek to get to where you need to go. Once you got through that clearing, there right across the street stood this grand brick facade of one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen.

That initial reaction I had seems to be one shared by many: How could the Rangers have built this? We, historically, were a terrible baseball team. We never won anything. And yet, here they are with this new grandiose tribute to the great game. This Temple (hat tip again, Mike Rhyner). 

Was this even real? And new uniforms too? How was this even possible? 

I wasn't there for that first Opening Day (I was at school, with a Walkman and a tiny pair of headphones that I tried to be so inconspicuous with), but every time we went during that first season was a holiday to me. Back then there was no scoreboard watching in my baseball brain, no concern over what the other teams in the division were doing. To just be there watching a game was a privilege, and the greatest night in the world.

It was always fun during those early years to scoot down as close as you could to the action behind home plate and watch the final inning or two of a game. Back then there were no ushers to chase you out of those seats. You were free to kick back in row 1 and watch with your feet up without a care in the world.

I also wasn't there the night of Kenny Rogers' perfect game, instead I was at home with both the radio and TV going so I could have visual evidence of the historical proceedings on the field to match the play by play of the great Mark Holtz on the radio. And I wasn't there for many of the playoff games during those exciting, albeit brief times in 1996, 1998, and 1999 (they usually got in the way of the Greek Food Festival, if I remember correctly.) But I was there for at least one game during that first ALDS series, and what a momentous time this was to witness these same little old Rangers finally playing some real honest to God playoff games. I couldn't get over it again. How was this possible?

My father had season tickets through his company. Because of school, we went to games usually on weekends. But once those tickets went away I convinced him to go 50/50 (or maybe it was 70/30 but lets be honest it was probably 100/0) with me on getting some season tickets of my own in centerfield, right up next to Greene's Hill. Those were, and still are, beautiful seats. Slightly altered over the years, the wide landscape and the panorama you get of the beautiful baseball landscape laid out before you has always been one of my favorite things.

It's also where, at a random game in 2006 that also happened to be on my birthday, on a 2-2 pitch from Rangers starter John Wasdin, the following happened:

Of course leave it to me to parlay that moment of semi-greatness into meeting my wife, and we did, right here underneath the home run porch.

And three years later, on an unforgettable evening in late March, we celebrated saying our "I Do's" in the Diamond Club.

I guess that's just one piece of many making me sad about leaving this place. Most people have the ability to go back and revisit certain locations where momentous occasions in their lives have occurred. Some maybe a little bit easier than others. And there's nothing to say this won't be accessible to us but as a football stadium? Really? It will be a hard pill to swallow for me.

And before you try and tell me "you'll make new memories in the new ballpark", yes, I know. We will. But right now, I'm more wrapped up in how much I'm going to miss this place. This place where we've seen our summer family grow exponentially over the years. From all our friends at Valet East. To all the ushers we've become close with. And especially Fred. We still miss him everyday.

I'm going to miss how it felt in 2010 and 2011. And the random fans around you that you'd find yourself cheering with during those playoff runs. And coming home from every one of those postseason games with such scratchy sports voice from cheering at the top of my lungs.

I'm going to miss how LOUD that place got after A-Rod stuck out in 2010. And how no one wanted to leave after the last out of the World Series that year. I've never felt so uplifted after a loss. No one wanted to leave the ballpark that night. And the noise that reverberated through that place when Mike Napoli ripped a double into the gap in Game 5 of the World Series one year later.

You could say that World Series, much like the life of this ballpark, should have ended so, so differently.

I'll miss the memories we've made there with three children. All of which went to their first game within the first couple of months or so of their lives.

And I'll think about how it felt, walking into that ballpark for the first time and every time after. With my wife. With my children. With my Dad and Grandfather. 

And how good it felt, each time

to be home.

To our little caboose

For 25 years, beginning long before we ever knew each other your Mom and I have called this place our summer home. We've laughed here, we've cried here, we've lost our voices yelling like maniacs here. We've high-fived and celebrated with strangers we didn't know.

Your oldest sister has been coming here for six years. Your youngest sister four. But you have only been able to call this place home for two years. Two quick, short years. And frankly that makes us pretty dang sad. Yes we'll soon have a new ballpark to make a whole slew of new memories in, but it'll be a strange feeling.

So tonight, for the first, and last time ever, we had father/son night at the Ballpark. The Temple, as Mike Rhyner so affectionately calls it.

(I'm going to miss that view at dusk on evenings like tonight, by the way.)

We watched approximately three at-bats tonight in actual seats. That was about it. (The top and bottom of the first inning lasted like 17 hours anyway.) And really, I was okay with it. The rest of the time, we wandered the ballpark, taking in everything soon to be gone at the end of this week. And the evening became filled with a lot of this:

And this: 

And warning you to be careful. And telling you not to climb on things. And cringing as you ran too far ahead of me getting dangerously close to stairs. You know, normal things for a two year old.

And like the article Evan Grant wrote earlier this week, the ballpark really is just a building. Sure it's one that many, many people have a million emotional ties to but in the end its just a building made out of brick and steel. And I have to tell you, Jack: Sadly, you won't remember any of these moments inside this big beautiful ballpark made out of brick and steel that you've experienced for the last two years.

But we'll always have these pictures from tonight.

(Most of them of the back of your head because you're running away from me)

And many others that your Mom has taken of you and your sisters. And we'll talk about all the fun we've had in this big beautiful ballpark made out of brick and steel.

And I'll be so, so glad to have all these memories.