By Roger Wallenstein
It’s not really the gooey descriptions like “the verdant expanse” or “emerald jewel,” the “lush outfield” or the “symmetry of the diamond.”
No, it’s more like Williams, Mantle, Berra, Aaron, Feller, Ford, Pierce and MiƱoso, the men who left indelible impressions on the boy.
It’s the mustard smell, the iron pipes with layers of yellow paint surrounding the box seats, the non-descript scoreboards listing the results of the other seven games. It’s not rap, but the organ belching “Roll Out the Barrel,” and Whitey the Field Announcer telling us to “Get your pencils and scorecards ready.”
It’s the vendor hawking “Hey, Lemonade,” and the men in the left field stands stacking an ever-expanding snake of empty beer cups, a live monument representing their prodigious thirsts when no one focused on their ability to drive home.
What’s noteworthy is that the games, moments, personalities and milestones of 50 to 60 years ago provide more clarity to someone my age than those of the ’80s and ’90s when work, family, health and stability interfered with the attention one could pay to the sport. Even now White Sox pinch hitter deluxe Smoky Burgess (1964-67) occupies a clearer presence in my long-term memory than the team’s DH in 2005 – it was Carl Everett – when they somehow won the whole shebang.
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Posted on April 4, 2016