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….