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WHEREVER
there are ballparks or arenas, there are memories.
I
paraphrased that from Tom Stanton’s book The Final
Season (not to be confused with the baseball movie
with the same title) where the author attended every
single home game of the Detroit Tigers in their swansong
campaign at the old and venerable Tiger Stadium in 1999
in an attempt to explore what the venue and the sport
meant to him and four earlier generations of his family.
In 2000
the Tigers made the new and ritzy Comerica Park their
home, effectively saying goodbye to one of the two
oldest ballparks in America (the other being Fenway Park
as they simultaneously opened on April 20, 1912). And by
September this year, that grand old barn at the corner
of Michigan Avenue and Trumbull Boulevard in South
Detroit that was also home to the NFL Lions will be
demolished. So much for the old ballpark being declared
a historical site.
Americans have a saying, “If you love baseball, chances
are you learned and picked up the game from your
father.” Me? I actually picked up basketball from my
dad, but baseball…I learned the game from my grandfather
and an almanac. So the latter is officially adopted into
my family.
And that
brings to mind that memorable Mastercard commercial:
Two
tickets $46
Two
hotdogs, two popcorns, two sodas $27
One
autographed baseball $50
Real
conversation with eleven-year-old son: priceless!
As a
kid, right before the schoolyear ended, conversation
over family meals would center on what we were going to
be doing over the summer. My folks always said that
summertime wasn’t merely lounging around and keeping
idle. Malls were a nonexistent concept and it was either
hanging out with friends or watching television all
day—a no-no in my dad’s book. We always had to learn a
skill or two. One summer I did get a job of selling
newspapers and magazines in the neighborhood. It was fun
because I got to ride my bike and earn a little money.
But what do you know at a young age?
I went
for swimming class one time and despite watching Jaws, I
knew as long I was in the pool, I was safe. That is
until my swimming instructor threw all of us in the
pool’s deeper parts. Although I learned to swim, I enjoy
it merely as a form of recreation and not for
competition.
Art
class was by far the coolest because illustration was
something I enjoyed. There were piano and guitar lessons
as well but that didn’t pan out. My instructors insisted
on me playing “Chopsticks,” “Home on the Range” (which
will always remind me of Bugs Bunny no matter what) or
even Chopin when I wanted to learn how to play the riff
to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” and as the Good,
the Bad, and the Ugly bar in the American-era Subic Bay
used to say, “rock your balls off.” The other thing I
really wanted was to play football, but it just never
happened.
Around
the same time, my father and I used to go to a lot of
events together. There were of course the University
Athletic Association of the Philippines basketball games
and concerts, including, the odd Club Dredd (when it was
situated along Edsa) gig now and then. We even went to
Gapo back in the day to watch bar bands way back when
the Americans were still in
Subic and Dick Gordon was city mayor.
But
looking back at it, I’m grateful to what my parents did
by enrolling me in different things. Ultimately, I
decided what I really like and was able to find myself
through it all.
And now
that I’m older, I try to get my kids’ say-so in what
they want to do during summertime. I watch my kids play
swim or play football and basketball every chance I get.
During
the Holy Week vacation, we all watched a World Cup 2006
Primer DVD that engrossed us for more than two hours. My
eldest is an AC Milan fan while my youngest loves
Arsenal. Me, on the other hand…I root for that team
sponsored by probably the best beer in the world. So you
can imagine what it’s like when we all play the Fifa
game on Playstation because we’ve all got our own
allegiances.
But
ballparks and arenas. Yes, they do hold memories.
Powerful ones.
I met a
Filipino family that lived in the vicinity of Grove
Street in New Jersey and prior to their coming over to
the United States, outside their sons who loved
basketball, their family wasn’t into sports. But once
stateside, they grew to love baseball. It was a
heartwarming sight to watch the whole family of six take
the PATH Train to
Manhattan
where they’d transfer to the B or D trains at
Herald Square
going to Yankee Stadium at the Bronx. The whole family
would all wear blue Yankee shirts as a sign of unity.
“Baseball made us a closer family because we all found
common ground,” said the father. “And it’s something
that serves as an icebreaker for us and our neighbors
and other families.”
So you
can imagine what basketball means to the Canseco
Fieldhouse faithful.
For the
2007-08 season, the Indiana Pacers have not sold out one
home date at all. We all know how basketball is a
religion in Indiana. And as it is aptly written in the
Canseco Fieldhouse web site, “If you have a religion,
you must build the appropriate cathedral. In
Indiana,
basketball is religion. Canseco Fieldhouse is the
cathedral.”
The
upper tier seats have been mostly empty. And that
translates into a little over a third of the 18,000-plus
seats that have been gathering dust.
Ever
since the team imploded in the wake of the 2004 Malice
at the Palace, the team has spiraled from the upper
echelon of National Basketball Association (NBA) teams
to one of the worst. They’re not New York Knicks bad,
but they are definitely close. And the empty seats are a
sign that the fans will not take this mediocrity sitting
down.
Bad
draft picks. Poor trades. Malcontents in tank tops.
Whatever happened to their upstanding ballplayers who
nearly led them to the top of the NBA?
The word
is that long-time Indiana Pacers general manager Donnie
Walsh is on his way to the New York Knicks, while team
president Larry Bird, who lost his front of magic touch,
is on his way out. But whoever will be at the helm of
the Pacers’ operations, this team clearly cannot field
this roster for the next season. Professional sports has
clearly corrupted the old-school values that many hold
dear and that doesn’t make it any less easy to land
players of solid character.
But in
the Hoosier State that describes the basketball as its
official religion, a heaping helping of purity won’t
hurt.
Good
buys from the bargain bins:
John
Feinstein’s The Punch (P100)—about the fight that
changed the NBA forever.
Alan
Grant’s Return to Glory (P100)—about Tyrone
Willingham’s incredible first season as coach of Notre
Dame’s football team. |
