Take Me Out to the Old Ballparks : Some Classic Stadiums Are in Their Own Last Innings. My Son and I Decided to Visit Them Before It’s Too Late.

A while back, my son and I were sitting around the dinner table when talk turned, as it inevitably does, to baseball.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” I suggested, “if we took off to see the great old ballparks?” Philip’s eyes lit up like a pinball machine. He was in his first year of Little League then, and his passion for the national pastime was approaching obsession.

We agreed to do it “someday.” Then I came across some disturbing news: Chicago’s Comiskey Park, where the immortal “Shoeless” Joe Jackson helped fix the 1919 World Series, will be flattened and turned into a parking lot later this year. Gasp!

Later, I learned that Memorial Stadium in Baltimore, where Orioles Manager Earl Weaver for years tended a meticulous tomato patch in the left-field corner, will be abandoned after 1991. And venerable Tiger Stadium in Detroit, built before World War I on the site of a hay market, was all but doomed.

That did it. We had to go this summer.

I envisioned us reveling in a series of classic American snapshots--soaking in the afternoon sun, hot dogs in hand, rooting for the future Cy Youngs and Ty Cobbs at the few ancient ballparks left in the land. Privately, I hoped for the kind of summer escape where my son and I could spend a fortnight together on the road chasing our own fields of dreams.

So, in July, Philip and I embarked on a nostalgia trip that covered 8,000 miles, five cities and seven baseball landmarks.

Most of the old ballparks were built between 1910 and 1923. Each has its own distinct features--architectural oddities ranging from the zigzag dimensions inside Fenway Park to the 125-foot flagpole on the Tiger Stadium playing field--so different from the cookie-cutter stadiums that dot the Southern California landscape.

I worried that Philip, at age 8, was just too young to appreciate the ambience of these vintage parks. He had cut his teeth on squeaky-clean Dodger Stadium, the modern-day showcase of the summer game. I was even more concerned that Philip would be too restless to sit through so many innings, or too finicky to survive a steady diet of hot dogs and peanuts.

As it turned out, though, both of us had a ball. We basked in the beauty of the ivy-draped brick in Wrigley Field and the glory of the “Green Monster” in Fenway. Our seats in Yankee Stadium were so close to the field that we could actually feel the players’ spikes dig into the turf. We got a healthy dose of Midwestern hospitality in Milwaukee. We signed on as members of a grass-roots movement to save Tiger Stadium. We bid goodby to old Comiskey. We cheered the home teams to victory in all seven games. And I needn’t have worried about Philip’s appetite for baseball or hot dogs.

During one long drive between cities, he leaned back in the car with a Cubs cap on his head and declared, “This is the life, isn’t it?”

I smiled from behind the wheel and thought to myself, “Yes, son, it is.”

JULY 21, COUNTY STADIUM,

MILWAUKEE

It’s not the ballpark’s early 1950s architecture or the landscape of nearby tree-lined neighborhoods that makes County Stadium memorable. It’s the people. An evening at the drab brick ballyard perched on Interstate 94 is more a social outing than a sporting event.

Unlike Dodger Stadium, where the BMW crowd zips into the parking lot in the third inning and departs by the seventh, 38,896 fans began arriving in Milwaukee several hours before the Saturday evening game and hung around till midnight to watch a fireworks display.

We pulled in two hours before the game to find the air filled with thick gray smoke: Thousands of tailgaters were grilling wieners and burgers in the parking lot while chugging beer and listening to Springsteen.

Folks were so darned friendly it was almost alarming. Parking attendants, vendors, ushers and sheriff’s deputies on patrol actually smiled and greeted us. They seemed determined to make surewe had a good time.

At the start of the game, the crowd enthusiastically joined in singing the national anthem. Everyone around us was so upbeat and full of civic pride that I felt like I had dropped into the local American Legion hall. Then, during the seventh-inning stretch, everybody sang “God Bless America.” I would have preferred the customary “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Philip thought this patriotic stuff had gotten a bit out of hand.

“I’m not standing up and singing this ,” he insisted.

JULY 22, WRIGLEY FIELD,

CHICAGO

The streets that border Wrigley were buzzing on a Sunday morning as Cubs fans engaged in pregame chit-chat, walked their dogs, munched on bagels, hopped off the El train and begged for tickets.

Built in 1914, Wrigley fits nicely into its thriving North Side neighborhood of mom-and-pop stores, newsstands, taverns, brick townhomes and souvenir shops. It’s an inner-city bustle missing from the modern stadiums with their acres and acres of parked cars.

But the setting beyond Wrigley’s gates is what makes this ballpark special. The moment we entered, our eyes fixed on the lush ivy that hugs the brick outfield wall.

Beyond the ivy awaits the best bargain in baseball--the $5 outfield seats that are home to the famous “Bleacher Bums.” With room for only 3,300 fans, the bleacher section starts three rows deep at the foul lines and rises to a peak in center field. Atop the bleachers sits the world’s greatest scoreboard--a huge green-and-white, manually operated box that keeps track inning-by-inning of out-of-town games.

For Philip, part of the lure of Wrigley was watching the scoreboard’s square holes for the appearance of an elbow or a knee as operators inside climbed about posting the latest scores from around the country.

We observed a Wrigley tradition in the fourth inning when San Francisco Giants third baseman Matt Williams hit a home run into the left-field seats.

The fan who caught Williams’ hit hustled to the top step of the bleachers and raised the ball in the air for all to see. He then wound up and fired the ball onto the outfield grass to the delight of the capacity crowd. Cubs fans have been known to mercilessly jeer anyone who even considers keeping a home run ball hit by the opposing team.

The prospect of having to return a cherished souvenir clearly disturbed Philip, who brought along his mitt to every game.

“Dad, if I catch one I’m not throwing it back,” he said. “Even if they boo me.”

JULY 23, COMISKEY PARK,

CHICAGO

Comiskey, the oldest ballyard in the big leagues, boasts the same distinctive brick facade, original green wooden chairs and gaping cathedral windows as it did on Opening Day, 1910. The stadium’s natural turf is seeded deep in baseball history--Babe Ruth hit a home run in 1933 to win the first All-Star Game, and the infamous “Black Sox” allegedly conspired with gamblers here to throw the 1919 World Series.

In recent years, management has allowed Comiskey to languish. Signs of neglect are everywhere: rusted exit gates, splintered seats, peeling walls and cracked concrete. I got a sense of Comiskey’s plight before a Monday night game when I observed three young men urinating outside on the stadium wall.

After exploring the relic, however, we began to appreciate its charm and grow sad that the walls will soon come tumbling down.

Comiskey has the only exploding scoreboard in baseball, which erupts with fireworks whenever a White Sox player hits a home run. It is the only major league park where fans have unrestricted access to roam about every section. Try moving so freely around Dodger Stadium sometime and you’re likely to get arrested.

On our self-guided tour, Philip and I spotted a shoeshine stand operating in a tunnel behind third base and gazed at the towering Chicago skyline through the arched windows in the left-field corner.

We spent two innings in the “picnic area” located at field level under the outfield grandstand, where Philip got such a kick out of watching the game by peeking over the left-fielder’s shoulder that he didn’t want to leave.

Across the street rises new Comiskey Park, a rose-colored, ultra-modern, $150-million edifice with five spacious decks and dozens of luxury skyboxes. A new high-tech scoreboard will shoot off fireworks, the building will have cathedral windows, and infield dirt from the old stadium will be dug up at season’s end and transported to the new site.

No matter. The new park will never feel the same.

JULY 25, TIGER STADIUM,

DETROIT

Growing up in suburban Detroit, the highlight of each summer came on “Little League Day” when I put on my uniform, piled onto a school bus with my buddies and headed for the green fortress on Michigan and Trumbull avenues.

So it was with fond memories and not a little nostalgia on a Wednesday afternoon that I watched youngsters clad in blue, green, pink and yellow jerseys frolic in the left-field bleachers. I recalled for my son how I used to sit in those same lower-deck seats with glove in hand, anxiously awaiting a batted ball.

But Philip was far more interested in snaring a ball of his own than listening to me reminisce about my childhood. When a ball flew into the stands during batting practice, Philip quickly grabbed it, thrust it into the air and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Dad, I caught one! Dad, I caught one!”

Philip also lucked out in the autograph department. He collected signatures from Tiger all-stars Cecil Fielder and Alan Trammell, and Manager Sparky Anderson. Each wrote “To Phil” and “best wishes” on baseballs that we had brought along. The autographed balls are now kept in individual plastic cases, preserved from the rest of the elements in Philip’s bedroom.

During the autograph session, I confided the purpose of our tour to Anderson and asked whether he will miss the old ballparks once they are all gone.

“I never had no feeling toward Comiskey,” said the man widely regarded as baseball’s reigning philosopher. “ . . . I love this ballpark, but you have to keep up with the times. So there’s no sense cryin’ about it or all that sentimental stuff.”

Ironically, in the three decades that I’ve visited Tiger Stadium, I had never seen the state historical landmark sparkle as it did this time. Inside and out, the home of the legendary Ty Cobb and his wild base-running exploits glistened with new white exterior siding, orange-and-blue plastic seats and renovated restrooms.

Nevertheless, owner Tom Monaghan disclosed last year that he is seeking to build a new facility, preferably one paid for by taxpayers.

On a street corner after the game, Philip and I met a Tigers fan yelling, “Help save Tiger Stadium! Don’t let Monaghan tear this place down! Keep baseball here where it belongs!”

His name was Mike Gruber and he was distributing leaflets that sought to preserve the 78-year-old ballpark. We wished Gruber well and promised to enlist as $10 “bleacher” members in the fight to save Tiger Stadium.

Sadly, the grass-roots effort will accomplish little. Fans in Chicago launched a similar campaign several years ago called “Save Our Sox.” Just as the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field in New York, Shibe Park (later renamed Connie Mack Stadium) in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh’s Forbes Field all were once condemned in the name of progress, such is the destiny of Tiger Stadium.

JULY 29, SHEA STADIUM,

NEW YORK

Before the Mets took the field on a Sunday evening, the loudspeakers played a Fine Young Cannibals song that was an appropriate anthem for Shea: “She Drives Me Crazy.”

The fenced-in sections, surly employees and crummy food made the only modern facility on our trip--Shea was built in 1964--feel like a prison. In the mezzanine section where we sat, the aisles were so narrow and steep that they were nearly impossible to navigate while carrying drinks.

From our seats, the sound of 747s taking off from nearby La Guardia Airport was deafening. The roar reverberated off the stadium walls and continued long after the planes disappeared beyond the roof. On more than one occasion Philip complained of an earache.

I decided to mark a slash in my program every time a plane passed overhead. The total: 44 aircraft. That’s five takeoffs per inning!

Within minutes of the final out, police officers swept through the stadium and rousted fans who remained in their seats, ordering them to leave at once.

In this case, we were all too happy to flee.

JULY 30, YANKEE STADIUM,

NEW YORK

The view from behind the plate in “The House That Ruth Built” is awesome and exhilarating, much like seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. The elegant white facade stretched high atop the deep-blue outfield wall adds a touch of architectural class that no stadium can match.

But what separates the Bronx cathedral, built in 1923, from other ballparks are the legendary heroes in Yankee pinstripes who have graced this grass diamond. Monument Park, the tribute to Yankee greats beyond the center-field wall, brought chills as we strolled past some of the most distinguished names in sport: Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, Mantle, Maris, Ford, Rizzuto, Stengel. . . .

Ruth’s plaque states simply: “A great ball player, a great man, a great American.”

The Monday night game ended with a Yankee victory and a nice touch: a recording of Sinatra belting out several verses of “New York, New York.”

AUG. 1, FENWAY PARK,

BOSTON

Riding the subway to Kenmore Square on a Wednesday evening, we found ourselves wrapped up in the pregame excitement and commotion for which Beantown is noted. The Red Sox were in first place, which meant that a Fenway ticket was the most precious commodity in town.

Signs of pennant fever abounded: Patrons inside the Who’s On First? tavern spilled onto the street; vendors served up sizzling Italian sausages; cars were double-parked outside the stadium, and fans lined up 15-deep waiting for the gates to open.

Inside, the most startling spectacle in baseball--the famed Green Monster--stands 37 feet tall in left field without so much as a nick or a scratch. The wall, erected in 1936 as a billboard before being painted over in 1947, is the only home run obstacle of its kind in baseball.

Although smaller in appearance than I had envisioned, the wall seized our attention immediately and never let go. Whenever a fly ball was hit anywhere near the wall, our eyes locked on the left fielder. Would he turn around and dash for the wall, risking a collision? Or would he position himself to deftly play a carom off the Green Monster and hold the hitter to a single?

The last thing I expected to see in historic Fenway was The Wave, the audience-participation cheer where people stand up and symmetrically flail their arms like human dominoes falling over one another. To my dismay, The Wave made the rounds seven times here. Philip, on the other hand, loved it.

By strange coincidence, our seats in the Fenway grandstand behind first base were located in the same spot where Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones sat in the film “Field of Dreams.”

While Costner and Jones left early, Philip and I moved down into the box section and inched our way forward until we sat in the front row behind the Red Sox dugout. The game ended with the fans around us toasting another victory and a Red Sox coach tossing a ball our way.

A perfect nightcap to a perfect evening.

At Fenway, as in each of the old ballparks, we found ourselves enveloped in a mystical aura that somehow is missing from newer facilities such as Dodger Stadium. These shrines all have a feel and a touch that connects the game’s past to the present.

In short, we spent two weeks in baseball heaven. Now we want to go back someday.