Closing Memories

Ah, memories. Sometimes they can cripple a man. During the 2000 Season I bought a scale model of the Murph, our former home in Mission Valley. When we closed it down in 2003 I had fourteen years as a fan and another six years as an employee under my belt. That’s twenty years of heartbreaking losses, two trips to the World Series, countless runs around the Plaza Concourse during Trevor Time and everything in between.

On many a lonely offseason night, I would take that model down from my shelf and stare at it, sometimes for hours on end while I wasted the night away drinking, writing and thinking. Each and every tiny section brought dozens of memories, often to the point where I could barely put together a clear thought. And while my alcohol consumption during those days may have had something to do with it, the real culprit was the uncontainable flood of memories, too large to accurately number.

The model is long gone now, lost during one of the many moves my family has made over the last eight years. Yet the other night, as I sat before a blank laptop screen, the memories of over a thousand games as a member of the Pad Squad and another several hundred as a ticket-holding fan came flooding back to me. It’s not a stretch to say I wrote at least fifteen opening lines for this piece, each worthy in its own right and each indicative of what I wanted to say. End-of-season doldrums began to set in, compounded by the fact that my family and I had gone to only two games this season.

 I wanted to write a blog and post it before Monday’s paper started landed on porches across the city, but how should I write it?

Did I want to tell my story as a chronological review of my gameday experience, starting with our arrival at Tailgate Park and end it with an account of our visit with my grandmother long after the last pitch, peppered with little anecdotes of what we ate, who we saw and who got swept?

Or should I talk about the multitude fans who constantly echoed the same sentiment of ‘the Pad Squad just isn’t the same any more…’?

Maybe it would have been a good idea to talk about the changes I’ve seen around the ballpark, like the way a once-blighted part of town has become another jewel in our crown of America’s Finest City, the hill at Park at the Park that has become hallowed ground, or even that little brat who used to follow the Pad Squad around the Murph, looking like that little girl from the Joe Pesci-voiced Pepsi commercials who has since grown into an outstanding young woman, albeit one who roots for the wrong team.

I realized I could take that tack with any of those but I also realized that there was no way I could stick with one and truly describe the feeling I had deep down long after my wife and children went to bed, providing me with the quiet time necessary to getting down the serious business of writing. I didn’t have a model of Petco Park to refer to but the memories; oh the memories flooded back the entire day and brought many more with them long through the night and deep into the early morning.

The year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen has been a trying year for our Friar Faithful, quite possibly the most trying year yet. We weren’t even a week in when our beloved Colonel, Jerry Coleman was called home for one last sortie into the heavens. Then, six months later we were hit with part two of the worst one-two punch us Padres fans could ever experience. My wife woke me early in the morning of June 16^th to tell me that Mr. Padre himself had passed away. No loss outside my blood family has hit me so hard, nor is it likely another ever will. Ironically, the last time I had a major block in my writing, sitting for hours and producing little more than a line or two when the ideas were flowing; was while trying to create a blog in honor of Tony Gwynn. As I wrote then, there were over 3,141 ways to honor him, just as many memories and just as many reasons to state why he has inspired me far above and beyond the game of baseball itself.

That’s when this piece finally came together. That’s when I realized that no matter how great the team is playing, or how poorly they’re doing; the game itself and the importance of it pales in comparison to the thing that kept me going back all those years and keeps me going back with my family in tow now;

The People…

My gameday experience isn’t about the game, it’s about the people. Much like Christmas isn’t about the presents, it’s about Family. It’s not about what you eat at the tailgate, it’s who you eat it with. It’s not about watching the team score runs, it’s who you watch them score with. Okay, I kind of take that last one back. After all, we want Our Padres to win. But wouldn’t you agree that the games would be much less exciting without someone to enjoy it with? It’s a team sport and it’s just as much a team effort in the stands as it is on the field.

Being that I decided to forgo three hours of sleep (at best) after clocking out at 3am Sunday morning, I was considerably tired once the game started. Knowing that sitting still at a ballgame was never a strong suit of mine, I decided to take my sons out for a stroll around our fair ballpark. Needless to say, anywhere my eyes lay held more memories to cherish. An empty feeling of nostalgia burrowed into my heart when we walked through section 108, where our good friend Mark Gomez used to spread a love and enthusiasm a man could not help but be affected by. I looked down towards first base, where my mom patiently waited while I walked my niece and nephew around the bases one sunny afternoon in 2004. I looked up toward section 301, where former Navy Corpsman and original 1969 Season Ticket holder Joe Donegan used to sit, not quite as happy as he was with his seats in the old Loge level at the Murph but happy nonetheless to take in a game every chance he could.

During this little walk of ours my boys relished every moment, all the while there was something deeper going on in Daddy’s heart. For a brief moment, my heart sank as I thought about the memories of watching T hit one through the 5.5 hole, the should-almost-be-illegal natural high I got every time that first gong signaled the beginning of Trevor Time and the longing for the times I used to tell my coworkers when they claimed they had nothing to do “There are forty-thousand people out there, go shake hands with every one of them.” To my knowledge, no one ever shook hands with all forty thousand *at least in a single night but that didn’t stop me from trying, and it didn’t stop me from encouraging my coworkers to do the same.

We’ve had many games over the years when there were much less than forty thousand fans in attendance. You know things are bad when you’re sitting behind first base and you can hear someone coughing while high up beyond the Western Metal Company building. Heck, I remember a night at the Murph when we had a crowd that wouldn’t have filled the Sports Arena and while standing in right field, I swore I heard a spirited conversation between two people sitting under the smaller Jumbotron board along the third base side.

But someone is always there and although we as a family don’t get out to the ol’ ballgame nearly as much as we would like to, I can always count on seeing a member of my Family of 40,000 during a highlight reel on the news, or in the papers and of course, in their own social networking posts which keep me living the Ballpark Dream vicariously through them. So I know that even though my opportunities to create ballpark memories don’t come nearly as often as they used to, I do know that every night someone is out there doing just that.

I strongly believe that one of the most important things a member of any generation can do is share his/her traditions with the next generation. The way Tony Gwynn talked of how veterans guided him as a rookie and the hundreds of testimonies from players who in turn were guided by Tony are not only a prime example but a testament to that.

On that note, I recall an evening when my wife and I were babysitting my niece Hannah and nephews Santino and Abraham. To give you an idea of how long ago that was, Trevor was an only child then. Just before I set the dinner table I changed the TV from The Simpsons to Channel 4. Trevor was playing with his cousins and it took me a few moments to get his attention. Finally, he looked at me and I pointed to the TV. His eyes lit up, and I say this with all honesty, brighter than they did on Christmas Day later that year.

“Baseballlllllllllllllll!” Trevor yelled, jumping up and down with excitement. “Baseballlllllllllllllll!” My eighteen month old son yelled again, louder as he looked in my nephews face, making sure he knew how important it was. “Baseballlllllllllllllll!” He screamed a third time, running down the hall, slamming into the screen door and back into the living room before sitting down in front of the TV, oblivious to his toys and even to his cousins until a commercial break came. Then it was right back to business.

Fast forward to this past Monday, as I sat and tried in vain to create something worthy of what I was feeling Sunday afternoon as I enjoyed one last game for the 2014 season. My twenty-two month old daughter Layla walked out of her room swinging an inflatable bat, saying in that melt-my-heart voice of hers; “Bee-bah, bee-bah.” She might not have been as loud or nearly as intense as Trevor was on that night seven years ago, but the look in her eyes held every bit of excitement his did, just as they did when the fireworks went off signaling the sweep of the team lead by our dear friends Bruce Bochy and Tim Flannery. And before I go into the memories I have of those two, from McGregor’s to the golf course to the beach, I’ll leave you with this:

Memories; the only thing greater than creating them is showing the children how to create their own…

See you next Spring,
The Gonzales Tribe

BS Plaza

Every one has had them. Teachers who convince you that they’re in the business because they hate children and have dedicated their lives to making our lives miserable. (Of course, this is not about the many wonderful teachers over the years who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself, not to mention the many dear friends of mine who dedicate their lives to one of the noblest of professions.) In first grade we had a substitute teacher one day and she gave us a very curious assignment; each of us had to write a letter to her son, telling him how great he was, how much we wanted to meet him and any and all other compliments we could come up with. Throughout the assignment many of us we forced to erase what we had written and write exactly what the teacher told us to.

I think about that day every once in a while. Was her son bedridden? Was he stricken with a serious illness? Did he recently have a devastating experience?” She never told us and I’ll never know but if he did, I now look back and think that maybe something I wrote may have helped brighten his day. If that was/is the case, I am all for it. But today, over thirty years later I cringe at the thought of being forced to write what the teacher told us to write; to pay tribute to this boy using someone else’s words; to go along with something because of one person in charge regardless of what we thought about it.

Since that day, I had never had a similar experience.

Until now…

Padres fans have been forced to honor someone who in effect has had no bearing on their existence, no lasting impact and we should not have to show the type of gratitude and lasting tribute as we are with BS Plaza. Rather than whine about how the 1994 MLB Strike was overseen by BS, instead of ranting about how BS was all for contracting franchises in Montreal and Minnesota (The latter of which was curiously close to BS’s market; a matter which brought him racketeering charges that were settled out of court…) and  before I go on a venomous tangent for the ages regarding BS’s flat-out refusal to acknowledge the existence of Tony Gwynn during an All-Star Game less than a month after he was called home to the Big Lineup in the Sky, I give you my top ten suggestions of who would be a much better fit for our new “Hall of Fame” Plaza.

 

      1.      Jack Murphy

Some of us may be “too young to remember” (I am, but fortunately I am old enough to read) but it was Jack Murphy who first brought the Padres to Major League baseball. If it were not for him, we would still be a Triple-A team. The name itself still holds weight in the hearts of fans who still refer to our former home as “The Murph” and nothing else, yours truly included.

 

2.      John Moores

Yeah, I know the Natives are a little restless over Mr. Moores skipping town with 200 million dollars in cable rights money. But hey, that’s business. He didn’t do anything illegal. Furthermore, John Moores was a 90’s version of Ray Kroc. John doesn’t buy the team, we don’t have a 1996 or 1998. Just as important, John hired the next guy on the list.

 

      3.      Larry Lucchino

Need I even explain this one? Without Larry, there is no Petco Park. And while some of you may think this is silly or maybe even creepy, since day one every time I’ve been to the Ballpark for San Diego, I’ve stopped at least once and quietly whispered “Thank you, Larry.”

 

      4.      Tom Werner

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. But hear me out. Mr. Werner did oversee the fire sale, but after the fire sale he did sell the team to John Moores. So while his actions may not warrant his name being immortalized in our ballpark, his selling the team did indeed save Padres Baseball in San Diego.

 

      5.      Dave Winfield

He was after all, the first player to enter the Hall of Fame as a Padre and as far as I see it, the popular opinion that his decision to enter the HOF as a Padre rather than Yankee stems from his hatred for the Yankee organization rather than his love of the Padres is just that, an opinion. Either way, naming the Padres Hall of Fame after the first official Padres Hall of Famer makes a lot of sense.

 

      6.      Bruce Bochy

Winningest manager in Padres history and a good bet to make the MLB Hall of Fame (Albeit for his successes with the giants), I don’t think there’s a Padre fan out there who would disagree with naming our HOF after The Skipper.

 

      7.      Bob Breitbard

Yes, I know he already has a local Hall of Fame named after him. But it would provide a tie with another of our crown jewels, Balboa Park and would be beneficial to both.

 

       8.      Shamu

No, it doesn’t make much sense. But at least Shamu has a San Diego connection. His likeness is plastered on nearly every generic “San Diego” trinket I’ve ever seen. And since PETA is already pissed off at us for naming our Ballpark after a company that sells dog food, I wouldn’t mind pissing them off a little more.

 

9.      Angus Young

If you don’t know why this would be a more suitable selection, you’re reading the wrong blog and probably listening to the wrong music. Log off, go to iTunes and get turned on to real music, by real musicians.

 

      10.    Jerry Coleman
             
  Yes, the press area at Petco Park is named after the Colonel. And long before he became a    Padres treasure, he was United States Marine; having gone to boot camp just a few miles away at MCRD San Diego. Instead of the Hall of Fame Plaza, we should push to have the left field tribute to MLB players who have also served in the armed forces dating back to the Civil War.

 

Honorable Mentions

 

 

1.      Keith Olberman

He wasn’t always the most liked sports media personality around, but that has changed drastically in 2014 in San Diego. With his heartfelt tributes to Jerry Coleman and Tony Gwynn earlier this year the man has paid much due respect and reverence to our fair team; much more than most…

 

            2.      Luigi

       Except for when he’s an Angels fan or a Red Sox fan, he’s a Padres fan. More than I can say for the name that’s been chosen.

 Notice how I’ve mentioned only two former players? That is because it goes without saying. Any player who has ever donned the brown-gold-blue-orange-sand-camouflage has had and will always have more reason to be honored than BS. I’ve thought much of what has transpired over the past few days, reading articles, comments, listening to interviews and having conversations on the subject. And while very few people have expressed a ‘whatever’ attitude about it, I have found zero people who are for the naming.

 I have two theories regarding the seeming head-where-the-sun-doesn’t-shine decisions made to honor someone at Petco Park who

 One: I spent a summer working in Del Mar, getting something of an insider’s view of the annual meet at the Del Mar Racetrack (here I go, pissing off PETA again!). Throughout the race season, the place where ‘the Surf meets the Turf’ is the hottest ticket in town. Maybe, just maybe the Padres are trying to recreate the smell one might catch coming from the stables when the wind is just right…

 Two: In a revolutionary cost-cutting measure, the Padres are trying to manufacture their own fertilizer; freeing up funs to enable them to hire a better think tank.

 No, those two theories don’t make a whole lot of sense. And neither does naming BS Plaza after someone who has less to do with Padres baseball history than, say, Moe the Bartender from The Simpsons…

Home(plate)Sick

From the early to mid-1990’s I lived in a small New Mexico town called San Antonito; on the eastern slope of the Sandia Mountains about a forty minute drive outside of Albuquerque. As a baseball fan, I could not have picked a better time to seek new trails far away from my hometown of San Diego. In the pre-internet days that mountain town was something of a shield from the Werner-era Fire Sale and .400-season denying strike of 1994. Throughout childhood my brother Joe and I kept as much tabs on Tony Gwynn’s batting average as we did on the teams standings and during that season; Tony’s quest for baseball immortality was all us Padres Fans had to be excited about. We had Triple-A ball in Albuquerque with the Dukes but as my brother was fond of saying, “It’s hard to root for these guys, since they grow up to be Dodgers!”

The formative years we spent in The Land of Enchantment brought many moments of homesickness; Christmas, Easter, July 4^th and a host of other holidays left us wishing we were home in San Diego with our friends and families. But even on those holidays, families with names like Candelaria, Wood, Trujillo and Chavez welcomed us into their homes and into their hearts. Their kindness and hospitality always tempered our sadness; we were a thousand miles away from home and they always went above and beyond to make us feel right at home among them.

There was one holiday when no matter what our surrogate families said or did, the homesickness was incurable. Opening Day. Every family in every region has their own way of celebrating our national holidays but when it comes to the Padres Opener there is only one place I want to be.

The way I longed for Mission Valley back then was the same feeling I had today when thinking of Petco Park. My sacred duties as a husband and father called and I was unable to attend the 2014 Opener. I haven’t donned the Pad Squad jersey since the final game of the 2010 season and missing opening day has not gotten any easier. On the way to work today I drove east, which felt about as natural as rooting for anyone other than my beloved local nine. On the cd player was a mix of my favorite ballpark memory songs; “Ready to Go” from Republica; “Unchained” from Van Halen and “Summertime” from Kenny Chesney, among others. I didn’t even bother trying to listen to Hells Bells; as to hear that song on a day like today would do to me what “Danny Boy” does to an Irishman. I don’t think Brian Johnson and Angus Young intended the song as a power ballad, but that’s what baseball can do to a man!


Throughout the morning and into the afternoon I kept mumbling to myself “I should be heading downtown right now…” The closer I got to work the more that feeling grew and the worse I felt.

Then it dawned on me. Even though I’ve been to less games in the past three years than I used to take in during an average month, I’ve experienced more baseball than most people do in a lifetime. For thirteen magical seasons I was in a unique position that even the rabid everyday fan never felt. My daily life consisted of interacting with every person involved with gameday; from the guy in the nosebleed seats who worked some overtime to bring his family to the game to our boys on the field, and everyone in between. Not many people could say they did that for a thousand games.

So today as I went to clock in for my current not-quite-as-exciting-as slinging-t-shirts-to-a-crowd job, I could not help but smile when I reflected on the wonderful opportunities given to me during those years. I smiled because I was no longer homesick. I have developed the one sure-fire cure for homesickness:

I have developed gratitude. Gratitude for being able to represent my hometown team for so many years at the Stadium, at the Ballpark and sometimes even on your TV screens. Gratitude for having met my wife there. Gratitude for the Family of 40,000 I gained.

I couldn’t hit a basketball with a tennis racket, the average Little Leaguer probably throws about 20 mph faster than my best and I may as well be wearing a set of Chinese fingercuffs on any time I put on a glove. But some way, somehow, the baseball gods saw fit to put me in a position alongside guys like Tony Gwynn and Trevor Hoffman; guys with names like Jeter and Pujols; Helton and Ichiro; the Next Generation of Hall of Famers. And of course, Ricky. Rudy always been a fan of Ricky.

So on this Opening Day; even with all the Facebook posts from the Park and tags from the Tailgates; I couldn’t be homesick anymore. I was too busy being grateful for the times I was home; and excited for the times I will return in the future….