Take me out to the ball game. Take me out to the crowd.
Clutching my father's hand, I zealously waddled through the towering sable gates into the park. Enchanted by the echoing calls of fans and pungent aroma of fries wafting in the air, I weaved my way through the crowd towards the heart of the action. Wedged in between the jumbo-tron, hot dog stands and Homer was a wonderland of activity embellished in red, white and blue. Groups of families, couples, friends and children bustled through the arena sporting their jerseys with pride. If it were not for those Sunday afternoons at the ballpark with my dad I'm not sure I would be the same person I am today. It was those scorching summer months spent aimlessly wandering up the ramps to the giant Coke bottle seated next to the equally large red seats, or carelessly waving my foam red chopper in the air, that serve as some of my fondest childhood memories. But it was not until those same hot dogs stands began to close and that same group of dedicated fans began to dwindle that I realized how much these experiences meant to me. I grew up at Turner Field.
Since before I can even remember my family has had season tickets to the Atlanta Braves. They were the staple of our household. Some families cherish football others follow soccer, my family worshipped baseball. It was our pride and joy.
To some baseball is America's pastime; merely a way of killing three or four hours with their buddies while throwing back a couple chilled beers and impersonating sportscaster commentary. "And Kimbrel closes the inning with another killer pitch." But to my father baseball was a religion.
Beyond the buddies and beers was a timeless game carefully constructed from science, natural capability, practice and luck. Each pitch has a reasoning behind it whether it is a screw ball, fast pitch or a curve. Every move is both calculated and reactionary. From the moment the ball leaves the pitcher's glove to the second the batter hits the sweet spot, there is purpose. This is why he came to Turner Field.
To him there was something about baseball that he couldn't quite pinpoint in other sports. It had a way of bringing people together under one roof for four hours to support a common love, the team. The fans were passionate, rowdy and yet entirely diverse. Each game welcomed baseball goers from all over the Southeast who claimed the Atlanta Braves as their own. No matter the age, race or gender, Turner Field was our stomping grounds.
For sixteen years I sat in those mediocre seats and watched nameless players became dignified athletes, collecting both shirts and bobbleheads along the way. I passionately observed some of Chipper Jones' best years, and wistfully followed some of his worst. Clutching a Brave's cap in one hand and a seasonal collector's cup in the other I strode through the park as if I owned it, comforted by the thousands of mutual fans bustling through the pathway.Unlike my father my favorite memories at Turner Field often had nothing to do with the team itself. Sure I had my share of recklessly screaming players' names or giddily jumping after incredible plays, but these were not what made me fall in love with the place. What made me fall in love with Turner Field was how the fans brought the stadium to life each game. It was the inviting culture of baseball from its irresistible greasy food to the assortment of entertainment. It was the obscure people in the stands I would meet and the conversations we sparked in between innings. It was the moments when all 49,000 raised our arms and opened our mouths in unison to chop for our favorite team. These were what made baseball special as a child.
Over my sixteen years at Turner Field I drank hundreds of gallons of cola and downed more foot-long hot dogs than I am willing to admit. I spilled Ketchup all over my fan gear and spooned through magical cups of dip-n-dots. I endured the chilling shock of getting my whole face painted and put my MLB skills to the test on Sunday afternoons when I'd run the bases. Turner Field has not been the magical wonderland of my toddler dreams for awhile now. As I have gotten older the stadium too has evolved and the atmosphere has grown more and more commercialized. Fans have slowly disappeared and my team has slowly fallen apart, nevertheless SunTrust Stadium will never fill the void in my heart. There is apart of Atlanta that will forever rest peacefully in the late, great Turner Field.
