Veterans ’85
Veterans ’85
By Robyn Milliken
Veterans Stadium, 1985. The parking lot is full of fans. Music streams out of hatchbacks and vans, and the acidic warmth of hotdogs and beer hangs heavily in the air. I am young, tanned with smudged cheeks, and drunk on anticipation. All week long, I dreamed of the crack of the bat and the smell of the city. There I was, in the reality of my fevered dreams. Standing next to my dad, I couldn’t be happier. The sun beating down, sweat forming a river on his furrowed brow, a holy calm overtakes his face for a moment. There is exultation just behind the eyes and the air of hope.
The stadium rises in front of us from the concrete, a monolith. She’s not a conventional beauty, she’s a classic. Hard features and a warm heart much like the city she’s nestled within. The steely grey exterior gives way to the muted greenery below: rapt with scars that are invisible to my young eyes, she’s perfect. A ruddy brown diamond adorns her, a greater finery than any jewelry store could offer. I am in love.
We follow each other like ants, winding our way around and around the maze to enter. The crowd is buzzing with conversation and energy; you can feel the electricity, the vibrancy in the air. It’s a promotion day and there is a give-a-way: a catcher’s mitt. My hand is small in my father’s. Calloused and hard, it seems larger than the free mitts. His face, generally set in stone, is cracking with the hint of a smile.
We navigate the labyrinth and reach our aisle. The rows are narrow and metallic. It becomes a ballet of comedy: Climbing over those seated, careful not to tip their cups or popcorn. We go on pointe, sucking in hard to pass through, finally pirouetting into a graceless but welcomed fall onto our seats. I feel a crunch under my feet like grass at the end of summer, the popcorn remnants of someone else’s memory. Sitting tall in the stands for hours, I take it all in: the hard seat, the noise, the cheers, the cold rush of a soda. This feeling…this is home.
Home was a foreign concept until that day. With many moves back and forth, my sense of place was dizzy. Here at the park, this was my equilibrium. Knock-kneed, pigeon-toed and always the outsider. This day was my in. This day I was part of the crowd, part of the rush, part of a family. The crowd rises to their feet. I complain quietly that I can’t see well and am hoisted upon broad shoulders. No longer am I the outsider: I’m tall, I’m strong. The day is special, the first of seemingly endless summers and falls that come too quickly. This is where my thoughts dwell in the sunny warmth of the good days and in the arcadia lakes of impending autumn. Of camps and clinics, away games and home, the memory remains the same. This is first base. This was the start of confidence, identity, and one of the few static things I would grow to rely on.
The game whirls through the innings and before I know it the heat of the day is replaced with the docile cool promise of evening. Eyes heavy with sated exhaustion, I drift off while being carried to the truck. Curled in the front seat, I dream of the days ahead, blissfully optimistic in my visions. It was a simple time. Before relationships could harden hearts, before jobs could drain energy, the stadium was a vacuum sealing us all, without worry, without fear, in time. When that stadium was imploded, we felt the vibration in our hearts. The plumes of smoke danced in the air above it, reminding us that it would rise again.
That day at the stadium is frozen in time. It’s knowing you are in the moment, feeling a memory be made, Polaroid snapshots developing in front of your eyes. You’ve never been there before and you’ll never be there again. It’s exhilarating. Whether we won or lost that day didn’t matter. It was feeling part of that team, if only for a few hours, that left an indelible tattoo on my heart. Never have I ever been more part of something than in those stands. Has anyone?
Robyn Milliken has her Master of Arts degree in Sociology. She lives in sunny Florida. Robyn enjoys the beach, baseball, reading, spending time with family, daydreaming, and writing.