By Lemongello
Editor’s note – This article originally appeared on AstrosConnection.com on July 30, 1999.
Piled in the backseat and cargo bay of a ’75 pea-green Grand Torino wagon, the entire roster of the Firebirds in full uniform traveled along the freeway toward the Astrodome. This was back in the days when dads drank beer while they drove and seatbelts were for sitting on or whacking some other kid in the jaw. I am sure the back bumper scraped the pavement a time or two from the weight in the wagon.
Two of our dads sat up front seat with their ice chest between them and cussed at us to calm down. Soon we could see the glow of the Dome in the night and the lights of Astroworld. As we entered the parking lot, we were guided by the attendants’ red wands which looked a lot like Star Wars light sabres to us (it was the late 70s). Once we parked, we moved toward the immense glowing structure with our glove in one hand and our ticket in the other.
Once inside the cavernous corridors, we eagerly accepted our door prize – be it a cheap plastic raincoat from Pilgrim Cleaners, a duffel bag from Randall’s made of the same material, or a miniature wooden bat from whoever else used to sponsor the team giveaways. As a kid, you wondered how they could afford to actually give this stuff away.
When it was baseball league night, we didn’t get particularly good seats. But it didn’t matter. We would watch and wait all night for our league to appear in lights on the scoreboard – “The Astros Welcome the Meadows All-Play Baseball League.” A cheer arose from our little corner of the Dome. Wow. Plenty of peanuts and cokes and hotdogs to go around. The impossible dream of catching a foul ball.
Being seven years old, I don’t remember much about the game itself. Of course, the Home Run Spectacular made an impression. Also, I remember going down to the rail by the bullpen and seeking an autograph. I can’t remember who signed my glove, but the remnants of his signature remain there to this day.
The Astrodome in 1979 was a magical place. It was a destination, in a time when people still bragged of having seen a game there. The Eighth Wonder of the World. A place where you would take you relatives from out of town. Guided tours of those gaudy luxury suites. I dare say even the Oilers were magical back then. In the southwest suburbs where I lived, nobody was from Houston, but everyone claimed the Dome and the ‘Stros as their own.
The media and popular culture have sold America this bulls**t notion that the only real memories of baseball are those that they have legitimized as memories. Ken Burns and Peter Gammons and perhaps many of your friends and relatives want to tell you about 1953 when they rode the subway to Fenway Park with their grandpa and saw their first big league ballgame. They want to tell you how the Astrodome is an abomination, how the rainbow-guts were the ugliest uniforms in the history of the game, and how their first game was really “baseball.”
I got to see my first major league game only one time. And that time was at the Astrodome in Houston, Texas, under circumstances not too different than those described above. That is my reality and no documentary or book or sportswriter or old relative is going to change that. That is why the Astrodome is a beautiful place.
Some cheer the end of the Dome. I am pleased to see a new ballpark, but only in the sense that it will increase attendance and profits and allow for a competitive ballclub. I am saddened to see the era of the Astrodome end – as saddened as any New Englander will be when Fenway finally goes. Part of me wishes I had that sacred first ballgame memory that I didn’t have to explain or defend. The other part of me is proud that mine is a memory that few share in the grand scheme of baseball and fewer still understand or appreciate.
Here’s to all of the kids who will see their first big league game at the Astrodome in 1999. To them it will always remain a magical place.