Outside Oberlin

Stadiums are falling, and they can't get up

Maybe it's the falling leaves or the crispness in the air, but something about this time of year always gets me thinking. This year, and especially now with the issue deadline appoaching, I was thinking about sports. During this year's baseball campaign, four major league ballparks either closed or played out their last seasons. Some, like the Kingdome in Seattle, are probably better off dead. Others, namely Tiger Stadium in Detroit, have actually spurned locals trying to save the historic buildings. But all four, regardless of physical beauty, had something special. So I'll spin a little prose this October about what baseball will lack after this season and, perhaps, why we should care.

Okay, the Kingdome was a parking lot. It was a bit too gray, a bit too poorly lit and a bit too dangerous what with ceiling tiles crushing large sections of the seats. But it launched the careers of Junior and the Big Unit. It was home to a hell of a playoff series back in 1995. At that time, the stadium sat silent witness, along with several thousand laughing fans, as Seattle's third baseman attempted to blow on a ball hard enough that it would go foul.

On the hijinks note: at best, the old County Stadium in Milwaukee looked like a 40,000 seat minor-league park with ads on the outfield fence and a more relaxed feel all around, probably derived from the poor seasons the Brewers have had as of late. (As one baseball writer put it, "one joy of following a losing team is you never worry about losing.") But that, to me, was all the charm - this was a bastion of immaturity in a sports world that ever increasingly takes itself too seriously. Aside from the Philly Phanatic, or the San Diego Chicken, what noticeable fun ballpark traditions do we have? Fireworks night or the ever ambiguous 'Fan Appreciation Day'?

If I could have lived in the days when Bill Veeck (late owner of the St. Louis Browns) was alive and sending midgets to bat, having fireworks explode from the scoreboard after every home team homer and staging Disco Demolition Night (which, by the way, resulted in a riot), I might just be a more happy, well adjusted young man. The point is that the saving grace of the brick and wood piece of crap that the Brew Crew called home were the sausage races between innings, Billy Brewer careening down the slide over the right field wall following a home run and players signing autographs for kids. Due to an unfortunate (not to mention fatal) construction accident on their new park, the Brewers will likely play at least some of next season in that creaky arena-and I plan to catch a game.

In an irony for the ages, the final game at The Stick (Candlestick Park in San Francisco) was played under sunny skies, with light breezes and warm weather. The park is being turned over to the 49ers for football use only this fall. The structure itself, normally complete with fog banks, icy breezes and hurricane force winds that come out of nowhere, will remain, so we can take some comfort in that.

Candlestick opened in 1960 with ceremonies led by the regrettably immortal Ty Cobb and a vice president named Nixon. It pretty much went downhill from there. The Giants were a middling team stuck 45 minutes out of town with a parking situation that is abominable. The weather is infamous and the first game of the '88 World Series played there started off with an earthquake.

But from Mays and Marichal to The Thrill and Bonds, the place has had its fill of stars. Players and fans won't be extremely heartbroken to leave The Stick, but they will leave with a grudging respect for that anomaly in the weather patterns and the part it played in the history of the game.

Beyond these grungy or accident-prone relics - with or without their charms - the most storied loss of the season was the closing of Tiger Stadium in Detroit. Out of stadiums that still stand, probably only Fenway and Wrigley Field can match the history that fills every bare iron girder, overhanging seating section and subterranean bullpen.

The corner of Michigan and Trumbull streets should be declared a shrine to all things of the Great American Pastime. Baseball has been played at that site for 103 years. It first opened under the name of Bennett Park in 1896 on the site of a former haymarket. That building fell and the current one, in all its gothic, industrial, cramped glory - not to mention even more cramped dressing rooms - was built in 1912. There it stayed, first called Navin Field, then Briggs Stadium and then Tiger Stadium.

The stadium changed through the years as seats were added and the color changed from green to today's blue. Along the way, that building picked up more history and magic than perhaps any other. Ty Cobb stole bases and hit the ball more often than anyone would for years. Trammell and Whitaker spent almost 20 years together in the center of the infield.

The right field bleachers were extended in a desperate attempt to increase run production after a shrewd attempt to decrease opponent's scores by erecting a screen in the outfield was disallowed by the commissioner. Clearing that ridiculous outcropping in right became a mark of honor, much like clearing left in Fenway or clearing anything in Wrigley.

The Lions won three titles in the 37 years they played there. Joe Louis defended his title in that stadium. Billy Graham preached, Nelson Mandela spoke and the Three Tenors sang there. Lou Gehrig ended his streak there.

"It's rough looking. It's tough looking. It's blue collar," Kirk Gibson once said. "You can look at this stadium and it says 'Detroit.' It has a ton of character."

Character. A word that seems to be lost with many of the new stadiums built out of black granite and stainless steel. I'm not saying these structures shouldn't be replaced, although in my ideal world, they would remain with us always. So long as throwbacks like Camden Yards, the Ballpark at Arlington and Jacobs Field replace cruddy firetraps like Municipal Stadium (remember those bleachers collapsing about ten years back?); and as long as the parquet floor is moved into the new Fleet Center, I'm relatively happy.

Next season the Tigers begin play in Comerica Park, a state-of-the art stadium a few blocks away. The Giants move downtown to the new $319 million Pacific Bell Park. I haven't seen a single artist rendering, but I can guess whacking one over the right-field roof won't be as much of a feat, and you can't move the wind and fog in - but most players prefer it that way anyway. Hopefully, the owners remembered that they aren't just relocating teams, they're relocating some history, and that they were respectful of that fact. Or perhaps the fans reminded them of the principles involved. For instance, could anyone imagine a new Fenway without the Green Monster? Art thou insane?

The largest regular season crowd in Candlestick history showed up to bid it goodbye, or perhaps good riddance. Before the park in your town closes to be replaced by a "new old-school" stadium or a state-of-the-art granite beauty, pay it a visit. Savor the feel, the aura that only that building will ever have. After all, history gets made there every game. Enjoy it. But try not to write sappy stuff about it later - that's my job.