Thoughts from a ballclub wake, a facilities funeral (More Boring Than Usual):
In the summer of 1998, I still had no job, but I had two nice freelance gigs: Practically part-time with the Post, and covering the… Somerset Patriots.
The Patriots and Newark Bears still didn’t have stadiums. Bridgeport’s, famously, was rushed into existence. So Newark played its home games here, lots of afternoons in front of camps and like nobody else. Somerset played a full road schedule, which meant between visits to Bridgeport and “visits” to Newark, the Pats were here for 40 games. When they were here and I could, I covered them.
(“‘I’m tired of this place,’ Jorge Morales said with a smile, looking back from the side of the team bus to the ballpark near the harbor.” (8/25/98))
That meant lots of Sparky Lyle and Lipso Nava, and it was a blast, sitting next to the man Rich Elliott for Bridgeport games.
Most of the time, I was sitting here, or hereish:
In among, that first year, several high school and grammar school friends and acquaintances. Zach Perles. Andy Paul. Edit: Embarrassing to leave out Rachael DiLauro. Dick Slawsky, may he rest in peace, lambasting Dave Agostino and me because Rich had the nerve to say a meaningless makeup game from the first half was, in fact, meaningless.
Time rolled on. Newark and Somerset got ballparks. I got a job. Gary had me fill in for Rich sometimes, usually in that same spot.
The press box showed its age quickly. It leaked. Once I went into the bathroom and went to wash my hands, not realizing the sink was no longer attached to the plumbing. Got wet.
I won’t tell you it’s a metaphor, though no promises about the condition of the right side of this year’s infield grass. There are lots of reasons this is it for the Bridgeport Bluefish, for BHY. (#Saffamphitheater) But I’ll remember lots.
Tommy John casually dropping that one of his pitchers had had Tommy John surgery.
Chico Lind saying he had only one thing to say, and meaning it, turning away from a follow-up question, after an 18-4 loss. (“When you play with no pride, that’s what happens. It’s embarrassing. That’s all I have to say.” –Jose Lind, 8/28/04)
Ken Paul bringing Roy Colsey, Sal LoCascio and big-league lacrosse to town for three years with the Barrage.
Charlie Dowd at the window on the third floor of the arena in spring or fall, having lunch and watching whatever game was going on at the ballpark he helped build.
Getting doused with champagne and beer in the clubhouse the night they clinched the second-half title in 2006.
Blair Mebane, unmistakeably, running the tunes down at the other end of the press box.
When Cap’n L.I. Sounder briefly came to life, which I knew we could make happen if we wished hard enough.
The Sound Tigers’ baseball games. (Somewhere, I still have my scoresheets from 2012.)
(And I’m thinking of our buddy Rich for more than one reason, too, this weekend.)
Time rolls on. That table sags now. Worse than I do. (I won’t tell you it reminds me of how the press box over the left-field wall has been falling apart steadily for 16 years, but, well.) That sag won’t matter anymore in a few hours. But I’ll miss it.