6.1.02 PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES vs MONTREAL EXPOS
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I went back to the Vet alone tonight—Bill had to work—and took
a seat in the thin but stagnant air high up underneath the stadium roof.
Larry Bowa had made some adjustments, moving Jeremy Giambi to the outfield
and replacing him at first with Travis Lee, and, more curiously, moving Marlon
Anderson (who singled and homered yesterday) down from second to eighth in
the line-up and bumping the embattled Scott Rolen (who took the collar) up
from third to second.
The changes seemed at first to be of little consequence, as the Phillies
offense sputtered while Montreal posted single runs in the third and fourth
innings. By the time Rolen came to the plate in the sixth following a Jimmy
Rollins base hit, he’d already struck out and grounded to short, and the crowd
made its disapproval known in the most vicious terms imaginable. All the more
surprising, then, the collective about-face performed by the Philadelphia
faithful when Rolen turned on a Tony Armas fastball and blasted it into the
left field seats, tying the game.
The true face of Philly fan, however, would not show itself until the giddy
seventh. That was when Rolen next stepped in, with two on and two out, and
again sent a shot over the fence in left. Rounding the bases, Rolen was showered
with gleeful applause, a raucous celebration that lasted several pitches into
the next at-bat. They wanted a curtain call, dammit. And when it became apparent
that Rolen wasn’t going to give it to them—yep, you guessed it—they
started booing, as savagely as ever. Gotta love it.
By that time I was no longer up high, but had moved down to the first row
of the upper deck and was working my way inning by inning down the third base
line and across the outfield, checking out the view from here, the view from
here, the view from, hmm, okay, here. And again, I found myself marveling
at the wonderful laxness of it all, the way my eight dollars had bought not
only unfettered access to this entire, enormous ballpark, but complete immunity
from being hassled by uppity rent-a-cops anxious to look like they’re
doing something. The one time I was approached all evening was when an usher
worked his way across several sections and down dozens of rows—there
couldn’t have been anyone else within a hundred seats of me in any direction—and,
smiling, asked for my all-star ballot.
When the last of these places is gone—they’re building the Phillies’
new ballpark right now, just across from where the Eagles’ new stadium
is under construction—it will be the end of two eras, I realized,
not just one. The first, that of the ill-conceived, ill-executed, impersonal
and anonymous multipurpose stadium devoid of context, character, or any kind
of connection to the surrounding community whatsoever, is one that will not
be missed, not by me or anyone.
The second, though, is an era the passing of which might not even be noticed
when it happens, but in time, I predict, will be felt, as one senses the passing
of a season, long after it’s actually ended. It is the era of major league
baseball as something other than either jewel-box anachronism—à
la Fenway, Wrigley, etc.—or corporate-driven multimedia spectacle—à
la, eventually, everywhere else. Baseball at the Vet is not an artfully packaged
commodity. It is just baseball. Enjoy it while you can.
FINAL SCORE: PHILLIES 8, EXPOS 4
LIFE DURING WARTIME: Our waning nationalism took a back seat tonight to remembrances of Lou Gehrig. His famous farewell speech was recited by various celebrities in pre-game ceremonies all across the country. Dylan and Brandon, er, Luke Perry and Jason Priestly did the honors in Cincinnati and Detroit, respectively, James Gandolfini from The Sopranos in New York, Chris Rock in L.A., Brooke Shields in San Francisco, John Goodman in St. Louis, Matt Dillon in Florida, Billy Baldwin in Texas … and someone named David Morse in Philadelphia. Who?