Chapter II
I went to my first Major-League Baseball game in the summer of ’80 . . .
My Parents and I had just spent three years living in Germany as one of the stops on my Fathers military career. In ’77, I had actually gone to three different schools. I started first grade in El Paso, Texas (Burnet Elementary), and finished first grade in Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey. I then started second grade at Mainz Elementary School, which was in the newly named Martin Luther King Village, an off-base housing area for American Families. We were citizens of Mainz-Gonsenheim, which is on the Rhine River about 30 miles Southwest of Frankfurt. We lived there for a total of three years, before it was time for another transfer.
Upon learning of the impending relocation, I remember my parents including me in the decision-making process on where we would next reside. My Dad was a Staff-Sergeant at that time, so I believe that gave him a little more say in the matter. Given three choices, with El Paso being one of them, my vote went to returning to El Paso. Perhaps because I was already familiar with that city and going back there might have seemed like a comfortable option. But really, as an adventurous little kid, El Paso offers up plenty of big adventure. Big deserts, big mountains, big rivers, big torrential downpours, big rattlesnakes, big spiders, big scorpions . . . and big things called Gila Monsters. Look those up when you get a minute, but just not before bedtime.
So it’s summer of 1980, and the trek from Mainz Germany to El Paso Texas was about to commence (a larger contrast in cities would be tough to come up with by the way), and it began with the flight back to the states. We had a huge agenda which included a visit to both of my Parents families, picking up a new car, traveling cross-country and visiting other military families that had moved back from Germany before us, and then rolling back into El Paso.
I’ve always loved flying, even to this day I do not take it for granted. For most people, flying is just a means to get from A to B. For me, flying is part of the trip itself. The take-off, the landing, and the rare opportunity to see the world from the sky are highlights for me when traveling. . . . plus, you get to FLY THROUGH THE AIR!!! Only maybe 1% of the entire population in the history of the world has gotten to do such a thing (at least on purpose). You can read a magazine on the toilet, but when you’re in a flying seat with a window to the world, you should always be looking out of the window instead.
This particular Flight was from Frankfurt Airport to John F. Kennedy Airport, and, it was a 747 that we were on. . . . I made sure I scored the window seat. This becomes notable for one reason, it would become the first time I ever laid eyes on New York City. . . A place I would begin visiting a bunch 25 years later, and even live in for a short bit (More on that in my “Summer of ‘05”!). My first impression of NYC was that it looked gritty and there was a lot of garbage everywhere. As an adult, I would learn that the ‘70’s weren’t too kind to the big city, and it was still many years away from becoming what it is today.
After a cab ride from JFK, over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, and into New Jersey, it was time to visit my Mother’s side of the family. We spent some time there catching up before moving on to my Father’s side of the family, just outside of Baltimore.
My Father was born and raised in Essex, a semi-rural community wedged in between two arms of the Chesapeake Bay (Back River and Middle River), about a half-hour from Downtown Baltimore. I got to live in Essex for about a year when I was a small child of about 3 or 4 years old. My recollections of living there were mostly of going to visit my grandparents a lot, getting a Big Wheel for Christmas that year, and hanging out with my Aunt Lynn. Lynn and I are only 4 years apart, so as an only-child, she was the closest thing I had to a sibling. Aside from that year living there, I would only get to see her on average of every 2 or 3 years because of our travels, but I always felt very close to her.
My Grandparents, I believe, were of German and Scottish descent. My Grandfather was a military veteran that worked long hours at the Esskay Franks Hot Dog plant, and my Grandmother ran the household . . . and she was always very clearly in charge. Aside from my Father and my Aunt Lynn, there was also Aunt Peggy and Uncle Brian. Aunt Peggy would go on to marry Bob (hence my referring to him as “Uncle Bob” later on). Going to Essex was always a great memory for me, as it was those times that I really felt like I was part of a large family.
So, I am 10 years old, and just spent the most formative 1/3 of my life in Europe. I had some catching up to do as far as what a pre-teen boy does in the summers in the U.S. I was not a normal kid at this point.
One of the first things I would do was sneak into my Aunt Lynn’s room and run through her record collection. I was always into music as a kid, but she had some Vinyl that I had yet to memorize completely. After a few days of sitting next to her Hi-FI, I knew every word to “Rappers Delight” by The Sugar Hill Gang, as well as every manic drumbeat of Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” LP.
In another attempt to assimilate, I headed down to the 7-11 to see what was happening there. It was there that I discovered two things that would later become life-long bad habits for me . . . Baseball Cards and Mountain Dew. My God Mountain Dew blew my mind! I was hooked from the first sip! It wasn’t long before I would find the value in buying by the two liter, much to my Grandmother’s chagrin, as those types of items didn’t go in her fridge.
The next couple days were pretty much this . . . listen to a record or two, and then look for loose change everywhere and anywhere to support my two new addictions. Being under the roof of a household with a strong work ethic, I was soon washing the family vehicles to make a couple of bucks. My Uncle Bob was nice enough to let me wash his brand-new 1980 Ford Mustang. Black with Orange striping (foreshadowing!), I say “nice enough to let me” because the man is a Mustang fanatic, and I am pretty sure he would wash and wax it again shortly after I was done. I was soon soliciting neighbors for cars to wash, as I got the news that I was going to an “O’s game” later in the week!
I was always aware of The Baltimore Orioles growing up. From the mid-‘60’s and for about 20 years, they were perennial winners almost always at or near the top of the standings. They won their second World Series title in five years the year I was born and had gone to a couple more World Series since (Don’t get me started about the Pittsburgh Pirates). As a little kid, I recall liking the Bird logo on the hat and I knew that Brooks Robinson was “The Man”. I also learned early on that if my Dad and Grandad were watching the game on TV, most anything dumb coming out of my 4 year old mouth could be saved for another time (THAT’S where I get that from . . .).
So, cool, I was heading to my first MLB game. I knew I liked playing baseball, I kinda liked watching it, I loved seeing and doing new things, and, I just officially became a baseball card collector earlier in the week. . . I was completely primed to fall in love.
So I was finally off to a place that everyone in my Maryland family except myself was familiar with, Memorial Stadium. Situated on the near North side of Baltimore on 33rd Street, it was a multi-purpose stadium that was redone extensively in the ‘50’s to accommodate its new tenants, The Orioles, when they moved to Baltimore from St. Louis. So, by 1980, it was already a classic. I believe that my Grandfather, through his job (Esskay was the official Frankfurter of The Orioles), was able to get us really good seats on the 3rd base line. It was a night game with The Milwaukee Brewers in town. At the time, I wasn’t aware that they were pretty good seats (what did I know, it was my first game?). We got there early, and I wanted to explore a little bit. I wanted to get a closer look at the field, so with my Dads permission, I wandered down the aisle to the railing. There were players on the field still participating in the pre-game warm-ups and baseballs were flying everywhere. Directly below me and the railing was one of the huge tarps that are rolled-up and on standby in case of a rainstorm.
The details are a bit blurry 38 years later, but long story short, a baseball bounces toward me and lands in between the tarp and the wall I was leaning on. I wasn’t too far from the Orioles dugout, and one of the players warming up ran over and retrieved the ball. It didn’t even occur to me that I could get a baseball by being down there; I just wanted to get closer to the action. This player was so cool already; he had on catchers gear, and was sporting a killer mustache. He looks at me, says something, and hands me the ball. I’m sure I sprinted up the aisle steps, probably only hitting every third one as I made my way back to our seats. When asked by my family who it was that gave it to me, all I could say was “Number 24”.
There was one thing most red-blooded American kids had that I hadn’t yet acquired . . . a favorite baseball player. Rick Dempsey would now fill that role for me from there on out, although later on he would have to share that title with a new guy named Cal Ripken Jr. I was one step closer becoming a normal kid, and both feet in on my fascination with this sport of baseball.
Also, when you get a second, google “Rick Dempsey Tarp Rain Delay”.
That baseball would be one of my prized possessions. I would hold onto this memento forever and ever and never let it go . . . that is until sometime in the Summer of ’82. I was living in a small rural town in Southeast Georgia. Us neighborhood kids had a pretty fierce sandlot game going on, pretty sure the score was tied, the sun was setting, and our only ball rolled down the street into the sewer drain. Leaving this game unfinished wasn’t even an option . . . so I made the guys promise that we would only use the “Rick Dempsey Ball” to finish the game.
That’s the last time I recall the whereabouts of that ball. I would have to wait until the 2000 season to get my second MLB baseball (more on that later in my “Summer or ‘00”!). At the time of this writing, I have caught 168 baseballs, but it’s ball #1 and player #24 that got me hooked on baseball for life.
Later that summer, after our trek across country, we settled into our new (albeit temporary) home in El Paso. By the time we were un-packed, I had about a month of summer vacation left. I spent that remaining time checking a few more things off of my list to become a normal American boy. I discovered the video arcade at the local mall. I caught a rattlesnake, with the help (maybe more “insistence”) of my new hoodlum “friends” in the neighborhood. I spent several hours a week teaching myself how to swim at our apartment pool. And, I found a little convenience store a few blocks away that sold baseball cards and Mountain Dew.
I then went on to start the fifth grade at Crosby Elementary School, which was conveniently about a two block walk from home. It was a pretty uneventful year there . . . although the “new-kid” beatings were a little higher than normal as El Paso is a pretty tough town, and I was small for my age. I’m glad to say I held my own, yet again, ingratiating myself into my new surroundings. I was always quick-witted, and when that didn’t work I was pretty quick-footed, and when that didn’t work, I was pretty lucky to have been pretty good with my wrasslin’ skills.
With summer turning to fall, it was my first real chance to watch a World Series on television. The Philadelphia Phillies were matched up with The Kansas City Royals. I didn’t know a thing about either one of those teams, but could tell you both lineups from top to bottom by the end of the week. There was that guy on The Phillies with the bad haircut named after a flower. There were those guys on The Royals who could run fast on the base paths. There were the two third basemen that were the biggest stars on their respective teams, both would go on to win the MVP award in their leagues that same year . . . and also end up in the Hall of Fame.
Then there was that charismatic closing pitcher for the Phillies, who upon wrapping up the sixth and final game of the series, enthusiastically celebrated the final out with his teammates on the mound. I never saw anything like it, a team winning a World Series, and I haven’t missed any of them since. I still get excited to watch the celebration of a team winning the series to this day . . . unless of course that team is the Yankees.
Looking back now, the Summer of ’80 was a big one.
I would have to wait another couple of summers before going to Memorial Stadium to see The O’s again. It was a chance to go back and see if my first impression of this happening was the correct impression. This time though, I knew about it in advance and had time to sock away my lawn-mowing money to be able to buy things at Memorial Stadium. It was late June of ’82, a night game, versus The Texas Rangers. This time, we had seats on the first base side, up in the mezzanine . . . it was the first time I ever heard of that word.
This game was extra special for me because I got to sit next to my Grandfather for most of that game. He was a stoic man, man of few words, or at least he was with me as we probably had ZERO in common. . . . But he still taught me a lot about how you behave when you attend a ballgame. “You keep score like this . . .”, and “You get one Hot Dog, one Coke, and one bathroom break, you’re here to watch the game”. Also, if you’re talking to people around you while the game is in play, you cannot possibly be completely paying attention to the game. . . now can you?
. . . And THAT’S where I get that from.
Fortunately, I was able to negotiate a trip to the concession stand (probably had to wash his car again) where I gladly spent my cash I had squirreled away for weeks for this very moment. I got an Orioles hat, Orioles comb, Oriole stickers, Oriole pennant, and some other stuff . . . all with the Orioles on it.
I cheered on my favorite team. I cheered on my favorite player. I cheered on with Wild Bill Hagy. And, I cheered, only because everyone else was doing it, when the little grey-haired Manager of the Orioles came out of the dugout to yell at guys in blue hats.
I learned that you don’t get a baseball at every game. I learned that your team doesn’t win every game. I learned that while a plastic comb might last longer; eating a hot dog at the game can be a much more treasured memory. I learned that no matter where your seats are located, the game is just as good. I also thought that I learned what Gods voice sounded like, but later learned it was just Rex Barney.
I learned a lot in the Summer of ’80. And by reliving it here in this writing, I feel like I am still learning from it. . . . and I still to this day strive in my quest to be an normal American boy.
John Rikard Dempsey (born September 13, 1949) is an American former professional baseball player He played for 24 seasons as a catcher in Major League Baseball from 1969 to 1992, most notably for the Baltimore Orioles. Dempsey was known for being one of the best defensive catchers of his era. He also gave a baseball to little Mikey Smith in the Summer of ’80, unbeknownst to them both, changing his life forever. He would later mistake Mike for a girl in ’86, but more on that in a later chapter.
Mike Smith runs a business in downtown Sanford, is the proud owner of a Sanford Historic Home, and is better known around town as “Maggies Dad”. He also claims to have the largest baseball memorabilia collection the city . . . and dares you to challenge him otherwise.
