I took the family to a Braves’ game the other night. My kids are spoiled, because we go to several games a year, and I always have company tickets that I have stumbled into. My strategy at every place I’ve worked is to find the secretary who controls the corporate tickets, then go by her desk every so often and tell her how nice she looks in that dress.
My experience going to games as a kid was quite different. We would go about once a year, to the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, which was always a sea of empty blue seats, because the Braves were atrocious for the entire decade of the 70s and almost all of the 80s.
I remember July 4, 1972, when my dad decided to take me and my brother Terry to a Braves’ game. The great Denny McLain was pitching for the Braves, only he was no longer the great Denny McLain, the last pitcher to win 30 games in a season. At this point he was the fat Denny McLain, who allegedly had his toes broken by a mobster for not paying a gambling debt.
We didn’t have tickets in advance, because that wasn’t my dad’s style. It was a rare large crowd for the Braves in those days, and the parking lots were full, so we parked in a sketchy neighborhood and gave some south Atlanta entrepreneur $5 to not break into our car, or let anybody else do that. We walked about a half-mile to the stadium, only to discover the game was sold out. We knew nothing about scalpers, so we saw no Braves that day. And of course there was no refund of the $5, since the “security guard” we hired had long since vanished.
Another night my dad decided he wanted to go see the Braves, so he asked my mother to call the radio station and make sure they were playing. She reported back that yes, they were playing Montreal. So we drive the 40 miles to the stadium, and it’s empty. Seems mom had not asked for the important detail of where the game was being played. From then on, we always checked the newspaper first.
We would sit in the outfield, in dead center, in the upper deck, and I would bring my glove. Talk about an optimist. It would be hard to drive a golf ball that far, let alone hit a baseball. Even a steroid-addled freak like Barry Bonds couldn’t do it.
I dated a girl once whose family had Braves’ season tickets, and I was pretty upset when we broke up. I didn’t really care for her all that much, but they were dugout level seats, for God’s sake. I could hardly bear the thought of another boy sitting in my seat!
It was a dream come true when I was a sportswriter and I got to go cover the Braves a few times. The first time I went in the clubhouse was during the 1991 World Series, and I was standing at Greg Maddux’s locker, interviewing him, and I thought, “This is pretty cool.” Then portly relief pitcher Juan Berenguer (see above) walked past me, completely naked, and the thrill was gone.
I have seen some interesting things at Braves’ games, mostly in the old stadium. I saw Craig McMurtry and Gene Garber stop Pete Rose’s 44-game hitting streak. I saw the Braves turn a triple play, Bob Horner to Glenn Hubbard to Dale Murphy. I saw Karl Wallenda walk across the top of the stadium on a wire between games of a doubleheader with the Dodgers. When he got halfway across, he stopped, pulled a baseball out of his pocket, and dropped it to a fielder below. I’m pretty sure Jerry Royster dropped the ball.
And I was sadly there for the home opener in 1990, when the late Jim Varney – star of the “Ernest” movies – was a featured part of the Braves’ promotional campaign. He was booed lustily when he came on to the field to throw out the first pitch, and again when he led the stadium in singing Take Me Out To The Ballgame, all in character as Ernest. It was worse than you are imagining it was. And so were the Braves that year.
I kind of miss the lovable, losing Braves, though it looks like they’re on the verge of making a return. I think my favorite Braves’ memory of that era was one night against the Astros, when Buzz Capra was pitching, and Biff Pocoroba was catching, surely the only Buzz-Biff battery in the history of baseball. The runner on first tried to steal, Biff fired the ball toward second – and watched it carom wildly off the head of Buzz, who had forgotten to duck. Even Ernest couldn’t top that.
My experience going to games as a kid was quite different. We would go about once a year, to the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, which was always a sea of empty blue seats, because the Braves were atrocious for the entire decade of the 70s and almost all of the 80s.
I remember July 4, 1972, when my dad decided to take me and my brother Terry to a Braves’ game. The great Denny McLain was pitching for the Braves, only he was no longer the great Denny McLain, the last pitcher to win 30 games in a season. At this point he was the fat Denny McLain, who allegedly had his toes broken by a mobster for not paying a gambling debt.
We didn’t have tickets in advance, because that wasn’t my dad’s style. It was a rare large crowd for the Braves in those days, and the parking lots were full, so we parked in a sketchy neighborhood and gave some south Atlanta entrepreneur $5 to not break into our car, or let anybody else do that. We walked about a half-mile to the stadium, only to discover the game was sold out. We knew nothing about scalpers, so we saw no Braves that day. And of course there was no refund of the $5, since the “security guard” we hired had long since vanished.
Another night my dad decided he wanted to go see the Braves, so he asked my mother to call the radio station and make sure they were playing. She reported back that yes, they were playing Montreal. So we drive the 40 miles to the stadium, and it’s empty. Seems mom had not asked for the important detail of where the game was being played. From then on, we always checked the newspaper first.
We would sit in the outfield, in dead center, in the upper deck, and I would bring my glove. Talk about an optimist. It would be hard to drive a golf ball that far, let alone hit a baseball. Even a steroid-addled freak like Barry Bonds couldn’t do it.
I dated a girl once whose family had Braves’ season tickets, and I was pretty upset when we broke up. I didn’t really care for her all that much, but they were dugout level seats, for God’s sake. I could hardly bear the thought of another boy sitting in my seat!
It was a dream come true when I was a sportswriter and I got to go cover the Braves a few times. The first time I went in the clubhouse was during the 1991 World Series, and I was standing at Greg Maddux’s locker, interviewing him, and I thought, “This is pretty cool.” Then portly relief pitcher Juan Berenguer (see above) walked past me, completely naked, and the thrill was gone.
I have seen some interesting things at Braves’ games, mostly in the old stadium. I saw Craig McMurtry and Gene Garber stop Pete Rose’s 44-game hitting streak. I saw the Braves turn a triple play, Bob Horner to Glenn Hubbard to Dale Murphy. I saw Karl Wallenda walk across the top of the stadium on a wire between games of a doubleheader with the Dodgers. When he got halfway across, he stopped, pulled a baseball out of his pocket, and dropped it to a fielder below. I’m pretty sure Jerry Royster dropped the ball.
And I was sadly there for the home opener in 1990, when the late Jim Varney – star of the “Ernest” movies – was a featured part of the Braves’ promotional campaign. He was booed lustily when he came on to the field to throw out the first pitch, and again when he led the stadium in singing Take Me Out To The Ballgame, all in character as Ernest. It was worse than you are imagining it was. And so were the Braves that year.
I kind of miss the lovable, losing Braves, though it looks like they’re on the verge of making a return. I think my favorite Braves’ memory of that era was one night against the Astros, when Buzz Capra was pitching, and Biff Pocoroba was catching, surely the only Buzz-Biff battery in the history of baseball. The runner on first tried to steal, Biff fired the ball toward second – and watched it carom wildly off the head of Buzz, who had forgotten to duck. Even Ernest couldn’t top that.
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