It’s hot. It’s ridiculously hot. It’s the kind of hot that forces you to peel your sweat-logged shirt from your body in between pitches – and that’s if you’re sitting in the shade. A seat in left field provides a complimentary and thorough soaking by the second inning. But it’s my ballpark, and I must bid it farewell. More specifically, it is “The Ballpark in Arlington.” Take a seat for now, Ameriquest and Globe Life. Preferably somewhere in the left-field stands.
It’s the place where I fell in love with baseball. Sure, I knew about the national pastime when I was growing up. I played T-ball and Little League, went to a handful of games at Arlington Stadium, heard about Babe Ruth and knew a guy named Nolan Ryan pitched for the Rangers. That was the extent of my knowledge, and that was fine with me. I remember the hubbub when The Ballpark in Arlington opened in 1994, and that summer a country singer named Kenny Rogers (right?) threw something called a “perfect game.” The next year, baseball’s All-Star Game came to town, but I didn’t pay much attention.
Then 1996 happened. The Rangers were good, and I was drawn to the sport like never before. I became enamored with the team’s graceful left fielder, a soft-spoken Alabama kid who patrolled his position with reckless abandon. Although Rusty Greer made the game-saving catch in center field during Kenny Rogers’ perfecto two years prior, he was now entrenched in left. And he was my guy. He was the first player to prove me wrong when I saw a line drive heading for the corner or the gap and thought, “There’s no way anyone will catch that.” Greer often did. My red-capped hero jumped, dove and crashed into walls to turn impossible snags into stunning realities, then humbly re-adjusted his uniform like an office worker standing up after a long meeting.
There was Juan Gonzalez, obliterating baseballs with mighty swings that seemed too strong for a mere mortal. (Turns out that was the case.) Ivan Rodriguez, daring base runners to test his throwing arm, then flashing his trademark smile once the second-base ump signaled another caught stealing. Will Clark, exhibiting the smoothest left-handed stroke I’ve seen to this day. Mickey Tettleton, with his odd bat-parallel-to-the-ground stance. Dean Palmer, holding down third base when he wasn’t cranking home runs. The late Darryl Hamilton manning center when he wasn’t legging out triples. Mark McLemore turning in clutch hits from both sides of the plate. And of course, Kevin Elster driving in 99 runs despite batting ninth in the lineup.
When Texas lost to New York in its first playoff series that fall, I understood the meaning behind the title Damn Yankees. That thought crossed my 11-year-old mind several times, and over the next few seasons it grew to include more colorful words as my vocabulary expanded. In addition to having a favorite team, I now had a sworn enemy of a team as well.
After getting plowed over by the Yankees again in 1998 and 1999, the Rangers turned as sour as milk left sitting on the outfield bleachers during an extra-inning afternoon game. They finished in last place four straight seasons, then in next-to-last-place three years in a row, then in last place again. It was not a good time to be a baseball fan in North Texas. I wasn’t going anywhere, however. This was my team through thick and thin, and these lean years produced some of my fondest Ballpark memories.
On the photo days I attended near the turn of the century (usually sponsored by Fujifilm or some other camera company), I encountered players from the obscure to the legendary. In 2000, my inquisitive nature led me to ask David Segui why he wore the big wrap around his left elbow. “It’s for my elbow,” he replied. Well then. Rafael Palmeiro put his big hands on my little shoulders for one picture. I can distinctly recall my feet leaving the ground for about 10 minutes afterward. But nothing compares to my Johnny Oates experience.
Between one photo day session and the game itself – this was probably 1997 – I planned to trek down and ask the manager for an autograph. “You know, he may recognize you,” my dad told me as I grabbed my ball and pen. Huh? “He probably has grandkids, and he’s probably seen you in some Barney episodes.” Yeah right, dad. The Texas Rangers manager is going to recognize me. Sure.
As he was signing my ball, Oates looked up and said, “Hey, I’ve seen you somewhere before.” My jaw dropped. “Yeah, I’ve seen you on TV. I should be asking you for your autograph,” he said as he handed me my newest treasure. I could only walk back to my seat in stunned silence. Dad knew from the look on my face he was right.
On Opening Day 2001, I caught the only ball I’ve ever snagged off the bat of a big-league player. It didn’t happen during the game, but it didn’t matter. I’ll never forget running onto Greene’s Hill to chase a batting-practice homer struck by Andres Galarraga, sticking out my gloved left hand and feeling the pellet land flush in the pocket. I’m glad it occurred in batting practice, because I didn’t want any TV viewers to witness my awkward form. That July, I waited in a slow-moving line that wound its way down to Cal Ripken Jr., who was about to play his final career game in Arlington. After he signed my ball, I managed to feebly utter “Thanks, Cal” before scurrying away. Clearly, my confidence had grown by leaps and bounds since the Johnny Oates encounter.
For the summer of 2002, The Ballpark turned from my favorite destination to my place of employment. At age 17, I had the pleasure of directing cars into parking spots on the sizzling asphalt, then taking an open seat at the game once my duties were complete. These were the days of Alex Rodriguez and 24 kids, if you’ll recall. Nothing like watching a last-place team for free. I sure didn’t mind.
Good seats were easy to come by because the Rangers were so bad. Armed with a driver’s license, a hand-me-down vehicle and plenty of free time, I was at The Ballpark more often than not during my late high school and early college years. After woebegone experiments like A-Rod, Chan Ho Park and Carl Everett left town, I watched a new corps of youngsters graduate from Double-A Frisco or Triple-A Oklahoma City to the bigs. Mark Teixeira. Francisco Cordero. Hank Blalock. Armando Galarraga. Ian Kinsler. Laynce Nix. Edinson Volquez. Kevin Mench. C.J. Wilson. All within shouting distance at a stadium built for 50,000 fans. Heck, for a while it felt easier to score Rangers tickets than Frisco RoughRiders seats.
Michael Young was there through it all, of course, debuting with Texas in 2000 and sticking around through the franchise’s best and worst moments. The best came later, only after Jon Daniels took over as general manager and solidified the team with outside reinforcements. Here came Nelson Cruz from Milwaukee. Josh Hamilton from Cincinnati. Elvis Andrus, Neftali Feliz and Matt Harrison from Atlanta. Then, in 2010, longtime nemesis Vladimir Guerrero came to town a few months before Cliff Lee arrived to anchor the pitching staff. The Rangers were good again, and The Metroplex began to take notice. Tickets were suddenly in high demand.
That didn’t keep me away. It simply kept me in the cheaper seats. You think I cared? The Ballpark seemed to receive annual upgrades in the years following Ron Washington’s two pennant-winners. The first game I attend each season calls for the purchase of a crisp new media guide, and the inner flaps of these detailed the ongoing improvements. A new club built within the structure atop Greene’s Hill one winter. Another winter brought the replacement of advertising panels with a second video board in left-center field. It made for an ever-changing vista when I started attending games with the woman who I somehow convinced to marry me. She patiently waited in line with me to get autographs from Feliz and Martin Perez at a winter Fan Fest. Then she patiently waited for other major life events unrelated to baseball.
Together we saw Washington pass the managerial torch to Jeff Banister, who assembled two more playoff entrants with the likes of Shin-Soo Choo, Rougned Odor, Yu Darvish and Cole Hamels. This time around, the Blue Jays handed Texas first-round exits in 2015 and 2016. The Rangers haven’t been competitive since then. All of the sudden, games became less crowded and tickets were easier to come by. This allowed us to get up-close views of slugging monsters like Joey Gallo and Nomar Mazara. Fittingly, this was around the time she suggested I may be too old to bound down the aisles and leap over empty seats seeking pregame autographs. As usual, she was right. Some things never change.
I wasn’t there for any of The Ballpark’s most iconic occasions. I missed the anticipated big moments – the All-Star Game, Nolan Ryan’s number retirement ceremony, Major League Baseball’s first interleague game, any of the playoff clinchers, the 2010 and 2011 American League pennant clinchers. Nor was I present for the Rangers’ first World Series contest win, sparked by Mitch Moreland’s three-run homer, or Derek Holland’s Game 4 masterpiece in the next year’s Fall Classic. I was absent for Adrian Beltre’s 3,000th career hit because I was in Cooperstown seeing Pudge inducted into the Hall of Fame, so that’s an excused absence.
The unforeseen memorable games escaped me as well, including the perfect game in 1994, Gary Matthews Jr.’s stunning catch in 2006, Mark Teixeira hitting for the cycle in 2004. Then Ian Kinsler hitting for the cycle in 2009. Then Adrian Beltre in 2012. Then Alex Rios in 2013. Then Beltre again in 2015. Then Carlos Gomez in 2017. And Odor’s melee-sparking right hook to Jose Bautista’s face. I missed them all. And I don’t regret it one bit.
Over the past two-plus decades, I’ve enjoyed many games at The Ballpark by myself, sometimes chatting with nearby fans and sometimes letting my internal dialogue suffice. I’ve been to several games as part of group outings. I’ve taken friends and girlfriends, in-laws and outcasts, classmates and bandmates. I’ve sat in the front row of the lower deck, the farthest reaches of the upper deck and just about everywhere in between. I’ve taken in games from plush suites, from broken seats and from the scorched aluminum of the outfield bleachers. I’ve been so invested at some games, I never left my seat, lest I miss something for the pristine scorecard I was keeping. And I’ve been rather uninvested at some games, more interested in hanging out with my company or roaming the gift shops or seeking out better seats or kicking back with a couple overpriced adult beverages. I’ve sat through triple-digit heat and what felt like triple-digit humidity. I’ve sat through pouring rain under haunting skies. I’ve sat through unseasonably cool games with a hot chocolate instead of a cold bottle of water. I’ve run the gamut of emotions watching the action on the diamond, from heart-pumping elation to gut-wrenching depression to casual indifference.
I was an 8-year-old kid when The Ballpark in Arlington opened its gates, and I’ll see the final MLB game played there as a 34-year-old man (some would argue against the latter title). The majestic mecca has been a constant throughout my formative years and young adult life. It may no longer host big-league baseball contests, but its memories will live on:
The giddy feeling of walking to the yard from my favorite parking lot, tucked between the Arlington Visitors Bureau and a nondescript industrial complex near the center-field gate. The pungent aroma of hot dogs, jalapeno-topped nachos and beer that hits my nostrils before I even have my ticket out of my pocket. The booming voice of Chuck Morgan careening off every surface from the public address system. The songs that ring out during batting practice, including ballpark staples like John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” and Terry Cashman’s “Talkin’ Baseball.” The swelling anticipation as first pitch approaches. The unique song snippets that precede each Ranger’s trip to the plate. The home run music, swiped from the climactic scene in The Natural but never feeling more natural than in Arlington. The dot races. The celebratory fireworks. The seventh-inning stretch, when “God Bless America” merges seamlessly into “Cotton-Eye Joe.” The sweet taste of victories and the bitter pills of defeat. And after each final out, the soothing voice of Eric Nadel recapping the game’s events on the ride home.
Sure, it’s hot at The Ballpark. And it will be considerably more comfortable in the new retractable-roof, climate-controlled park. And new legions of fans will come to love the game in the new environs, much as I and thousands of others did at the current stadium. Luckily, cherished memories don’t melt in any temperature, meaning I get to carry those with me for the rest of my life. The Ballpark in Arlington is the gift that keeps on giving.
Nate's Notes 
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