Friday night at 1:45am, I was driving home from my parents' house. Like usual, I drive by Globe Life Park. As I look out my passenger side window to catch a glimpse, "Black Betty" started playing through my speakers. Like clockwork, I could feel the tears coming.
Sunday midday, after the final baseball game to ever be played at Globe Life Park, the last out was recorded by a pitch from Michael Young to Pudge Rodriguez, and a throw out to Elvis Andrus at shortstop. The visual representation of the three generations of baseball I have had the pleasure of watching live. Like clockwork, I could feel the tears coming.
Baseball has always been something more than just a game. I can't tell anyone exactly why I have a deep attachment to it, but it has been in my life since before I can remember being a person. From playing catch with my dad in our front yard to the first memory of a game I have at Globe Life Park, it has always been there for me. Every year, it's been around.
I have memories attached to the walls of Globe Life Park. I remember the first game my family ever went to with our homerun porch tickets that said "obstructed view" on them because we were sitting behind a pole. I remember spending many Mother's Day celebrations in the upper bowl with my family because my mom loves baseball just as much as I do. I remember my cousins coming into town and getting to share something from my hometown. I remember taking my high school boyfriend to a game he didn't care about. I remember when my best friend moved to Orlando, and I didn't handle it well so I went to more Texas Rangers games than I'd ever been to in one summer. I remember when I was given the opportunity to write about the team, and every game meant someone I did not know would recognize me. I met quite a few really amazing people this way. I remember a first date after seven years of being single. Then I remember a last date where we fought over the most random thing, and I could see the writing on the wall of something we would not overcome. I remember going to a game by myself after it ended and never feeling lonely.
I've sat nearly everywhere a person can sit in that ballpark. The bottom level where I felt like I didn't belong, surrounded by businessmen or well-off families. The Lexus Club level, where I could feel fancy with servers at my seat. The top level, the "nosebleeds," where I spent most of my time. That's where I felt the most comfortable. All the way up top with my fellow cheap people, drinking too much beer, and yelling a lot. I've sat inside a club, which I hated, and in direct sunlight for three hours, which never really made me mad. I sat alone. I sat with one person. I sat with my high school band, and groups of friends.
That sweet spot I always coveted was row 1, section 326. It was right behind homeplate, up high, so I could see the entire field. I could always see exactly where the ball was going, and I could tell straight from the bat if a fly ball was out or gone. The second best was a shaded spot down in the lower bowl. Row 32, section 33. Close enough to the action, but maybe my skin wouldn't burn to a crisp that day.
No matter where I sat, any day spent at the ballpark was better than a day without it. Every April, the ballpark and baseball were consistently there. I knew it'd be there. I didn't have to worry or wonder. Every April, I'd get to go back. Every single April, I knew what I'd be doing. There was never a doubt or surprise. No matter what was happening in my life or in the world, one thing was always certain -- baseball would come back. This year, as I struggled to keep myself together, Opening Day still happened. The ballpark opened its doors to me one sunny day in April, and it still smelled the same. It smelled like grass, sunscreen, and sweat. It sounded the same. It sounded like batting practice and excitement. It felt the same. It felt like home, and like clockwork, I could feel the tears coming.
I grew up inside the walls of Globe Life Park. For 26 years, I shuffled in and out of that ballpark, watching my favorite players come and go. First it was Pudge Rodriguez, then it was Ian Kinsler. You would think I'd stop getting so attached, but I never learn. I heard Black Betty start off the Rangers lineup for the better part of eight years. I sat through rain delays with friends that were almost better than the games. I went to Fan Fests, and ran the bases, and ate way too many garlic fries. I went to a game 163. I took each one of my nephews to their very first baseball game. I've spent family birthdays and holidays inside those walls. I was even at the ballpark in 2011 during the final Dallas Mavericks vs Los Angeles Lakers game as my eyes darted from my phone to the field every few seconds so I could know when the Mavs completed the sweep.
You see, it's more than just a building. It's more than just a field. It's more than a sweaty rearend and trying to stay hydrated. It's more than the sounds of bats hitting balls and balls hitting gloves. It's more than Chuck Morgan's voice, and "The Natural" playing after every home run. It's a lifetime. A lifetime of family. A lifetime of friends. A lifetime of memories. A lifetime of me.
Sunday midday, after the final baseball game to ever be played at Globe Life Park, the last out was recorded by a pitch from Michael Young to Pudge Rodriguez, and a throw out to Elvis Andrus at shortstop. The visual representation of the three generations of baseball I have had the pleasure of watching live. Like clockwork, I could feel the tears coming.
Baseball has always been something more than just a game. I can't tell anyone exactly why I have a deep attachment to it, but it has been in my life since before I can remember being a person. From playing catch with my dad in our front yard to the first memory of a game I have at Globe Life Park, it has always been there for me. Every year, it's been around.
I have memories attached to the walls of Globe Life Park. I remember the first game my family ever went to with our homerun porch tickets that said "obstructed view" on them because we were sitting behind a pole. I remember spending many Mother's Day celebrations in the upper bowl with my family because my mom loves baseball just as much as I do. I remember my cousins coming into town and getting to share something from my hometown. I remember taking my high school boyfriend to a game he didn't care about. I remember when my best friend moved to Orlando, and I didn't handle it well so I went to more Texas Rangers games than I'd ever been to in one summer. I remember when I was given the opportunity to write about the team, and every game meant someone I did not know would recognize me. I met quite a few really amazing people this way. I remember a first date after seven years of being single. Then I remember a last date where we fought over the most random thing, and I could see the writing on the wall of something we would not overcome. I remember going to a game by myself after it ended and never feeling lonely.
I've sat nearly everywhere a person can sit in that ballpark. The bottom level where I felt like I didn't belong, surrounded by businessmen or well-off families. The Lexus Club level, where I could feel fancy with servers at my seat. The top level, the "nosebleeds," where I spent most of my time. That's where I felt the most comfortable. All the way up top with my fellow cheap people, drinking too much beer, and yelling a lot. I've sat inside a club, which I hated, and in direct sunlight for three hours, which never really made me mad. I sat alone. I sat with one person. I sat with my high school band, and groups of friends.
That sweet spot I always coveted was row 1, section 326. It was right behind homeplate, up high, so I could see the entire field. I could always see exactly where the ball was going, and I could tell straight from the bat if a fly ball was out or gone. The second best was a shaded spot down in the lower bowl. Row 32, section 33. Close enough to the action, but maybe my skin wouldn't burn to a crisp that day.
No matter where I sat, any day spent at the ballpark was better than a day without it. Every April, the ballpark and baseball were consistently there. I knew it'd be there. I didn't have to worry or wonder. Every April, I'd get to go back. Every single April, I knew what I'd be doing. There was never a doubt or surprise. No matter what was happening in my life or in the world, one thing was always certain -- baseball would come back. This year, as I struggled to keep myself together, Opening Day still happened. The ballpark opened its doors to me one sunny day in April, and it still smelled the same. It smelled like grass, sunscreen, and sweat. It sounded the same. It sounded like batting practice and excitement. It felt the same. It felt like home, and like clockwork, I could feel the tears coming.
I grew up inside the walls of Globe Life Park. For 26 years, I shuffled in and out of that ballpark, watching my favorite players come and go. First it was Pudge Rodriguez, then it was Ian Kinsler. You would think I'd stop getting so attached, but I never learn. I heard Black Betty start off the Rangers lineup for the better part of eight years. I sat through rain delays with friends that were almost better than the games. I went to Fan Fests, and ran the bases, and ate way too many garlic fries. I went to a game 163. I took each one of my nephews to their very first baseball game. I've spent family birthdays and holidays inside those walls. I was even at the ballpark in 2011 during the final Dallas Mavericks vs Los Angeles Lakers game as my eyes darted from my phone to the field every few seconds so I could know when the Mavs completed the sweep.
You see, it's more than just a building. It's more than just a field. It's more than a sweaty rearend and trying to stay hydrated. It's more than the sounds of bats hitting balls and balls hitting gloves. It's more than Chuck Morgan's voice, and "The Natural" playing after every home run. It's a lifetime. A lifetime of family. A lifetime of friends. A lifetime of memories. A lifetime of me.
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