We all know that the United States is pretty young, as countries go. And what do the young do? They imitate. It’s no surprise that quite a bit of our culture is borrowed or adapted from other, older cultures. And, before you go about calling me un-American, let us examine some basic facts: hamburgers and “French” fries are not ours. We did not come up with democracy or television. We didn’t invent the automobile or football. Heck, even some of our most revered, patriotic hymns are rip-offs. People, there’s a reason why Great Britain’s national anthem sounds so familiar.
But, there is one thing we can be proud of. There is one thing that was ours—first, last and always. No, I’m not talking about rock ‘n’ roll, or motion pictures (though, as far as cultural contributions go, those are pretty cool). I am talking about our national pastime. I am talking about baseball.
Oh, sure, some historians trace baseball back to cricket and other such games played with a stick. I’m sure, if we look hard enough, we could find evidence of cave men swatting at rocks with tree branches for sport. It’s not a sophisticated concept, really. But, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”? Louisville Sluggers? Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Babe Ruth? Ours, ours, ours.
And, though we may not live in the lands of legend like New York, Chicago and Boston, humble St. Petersburg has written its own significant part in the story of baseball in America.
After taking in one of the Rays’ final spring training games at Al Lang Stadium a few weeks ago, my dad and I decided to investigate St. Petersburg’s baseball past by strolling down Central Avenue’s “Baseball Boulevard.” Maybe some of you have seen, or stumbled over, those plaques commemorating teams you’ve never heard of (the St. Louis Browns, anyone?), in times so bygone that your grandparents can’t remember them. Perhaps you’ve nodded thoughtfully on your way to Mastry’s Bar: “Hmm, Babe Ruth was a Boston Brave?” Chances are, however, you’ve looked upon those plaques and the history behind them with the same sort of apathy that most residents—and, it seems, the baseball world in general—view the state of the game in St. Petersburg.
But all of that’s about to change, right? I mean, have you seen the plans for the new waterfront stadium? The Rays will be the envy of the country! Er, okay, perhaps that’s going a bit far, but can you imagine it? Taking in a baseball game the way nature intended? In an actual, honest-to-goodness, open-air park?
Yeah, I know. Nothing’s official yet. Just recently, a study by the Rays showed that there was “plenty” of parking downtown to fill the needs of baseball fans heading to a 35,000 seat park. Um, sure, if you say so. I think anyone who’s been late for a movie at Baywalk on a Friday night might beg to differ, but I’m not going to let that spoil my dream.
People, the Trop has to go. There is nothing about that monstrosity of a dome that says “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” There is nothing about that “field” that has anything to do with baseball. If there’s anything that my little excursion to Al Lang taught me, it’s that America’s pastime is about sunshine and grass and dirt. How can you celebrate “The Boys of Summer” in a windowless, frigid bubble?
After years of being the big league’s training ground, we finally got our own team. And, maybe that’s why it took us so long: baseball has really always had a place in St. Petersburg. From Babe Ruth’s exploits, to Joe Dimaggio and Marylin Monroe on the beach, the Grapefruit League has brought us our share of legends. But now, I say it’s time to step up to the plate. I say it’s time to bring a little of the American Dream to America’s pastime, right here in our hometown. I’m going to root for that semi-covered, air-conditioned, open-air ballpark until the last man is out. Even if I have to walk two miles from the parking lot to get there.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
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