If you just can’t wait until tomorrow night to get a peek at the new Nationals Park–and even if you can–check out the construction cam. Not only does it provide a current view, you can go back to any date, or even view a time lapse of the construction.
Check it out here.
As you might have guessed from The Jamestown Site, I’m a history lover. So it was with great dismay I learned about the possibility of losing the last remnants of Ebbets Field. Kudos to Save Dodger History for making us aware of this pending tragedy and how we can help. Comment on the site and let the baseball world know you care about preserving this national treasure.
No, I haven’t flipped. I am preparing to make a pilgrimage to the land of pilgrims, New England, and will be visiting baseball’s holiest of holies, Fenway Park for the second time, the first to attend a game. Last time was in the middle of winter, and exposes my devotion to baseball. Of all the must see places in Boston and environs, Fenway followed only Walden pond and the Museum of Fine Arts on my list.
I took three hours out of my hectic schedule (I was in Boston on business) to brave the subway, a long hike through the Fens (after I got off at the wrong stop), and the bitter New England cold only to walk around the venerated ballpark and put my hands on the bricks of left field, like a worshipper at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
It had been a long time coming. I had been a Red Sox fan starting with rookie phenom Carlton Fisk in 1972. I was a catcher in high school, and the dramatic homerun in game six of the 1975 series sealed the deal. Moreover, I had intended to attend Harvard since I was in the sixth grade and read a Reader’s Digest article on surgeons. That was when I ceased being an indolent little boy with a deserved reputation for cutting class and corners and became a serious student.
I had the grades and scores by the time I graduated, but by then I had discovered religion, which, I suppose, goes along with being a Boston fan. I entered the ministry and a religious school, although strictly speaking I was an art major, having been persuaded by my mentor that I would receive enough divinity education in seminary. Figured I might as well pursue my passion as an undergrad. I ended up with a Bachelor of Arts–in Philosophy.
By then I was quite the little intellectual, even more suited for the environs of Boston. I thought about that as I took the train to Fenway that cold winter day and listened to two intellectuals, not much younger than I, engaged in an inane discourse on the moral imperative of dressing spiffily. I realized by then, of course, that some people never get out of college. But listening to those two made me understand more than ever why Thoreau got the **** out of Boston and camped on that pond.
I didn’t survive Boston, either. My days as a Rooter ended the year Clemens got tossed from a playoff game. Red Sox fanatics excused incredibly boorish (not to mention cowardly) behaviour from their saviour, which exposed a certain blind hypocrisy. By then I was a father considering the moral education of my then young son. Maybe I just grew up. More likely it was that the Cubs started appearing daily in the friendly confines of cable television.
I am, after all, ultimately a baseball fan, which is the only reason I am, and always will be, a fan of the Red Sox. Not a Red Sox fan, a fan of the Red Sox. It is a subtle, but important, distinction.
After the glamour of Red Sox vs. Yankees, White Sox and Indians, and the cut outs to the games with playoff implication, the 2005 regular season quietly slipped into the sunset on the West coast. The final pitch of the season, as best as I can tell from the posted starting times and game times from the box scores, occurred in San Diego at 6:37 p.m. eastern time when Jayson Werth lined out to left against Trevor Hoffman. The Padres have more ball to play, of course, but today’s finale was long ago ordained for the Dodgers, who, by the way, started the season 12-2. In Seattle, the disappointed A’s were finishing up against the disappointing Mariners. And in San Francisco the Giants slid into third place against the surging Arizona Diamondbacks.
Across America, in the Ballpark at Arlington, Dolphins Stadium, RFK, Shea, the Metrodome, Tropicana Field, PNC Park, beer vendors covered their taps, the last souveneer sold, the ticket window closed. The last hot dog was cooked, ushers washed their vests, lockers were cleared.
For a number of players, this was their last day in a major league uniform. Most MLB careers end quietly, with an offseason decision, or, more often, with a visit to the manager’s office during spring training. To all, a tip of the cap.
Thirty stadiums are dark tonight. Many will not come alive again until next spring. But eight special ballparks will erupt with exhuberance enough to warm us through the winter as baseball plays its final seven series. –amn
Checkout this webcam of Petco Field…