Baseball place No. 75: Distant Replays; and No. 75A: Gerry Cosby's and the first real jersey

Back in the day, you couldn’t go buy a baseball jersey at any strip mall or place an order for any team at MLB.com.

It took a special store to have such things.

Josh Pahagian takes us to a jersey store, Distant Replays in Atlanta, as place No. 75 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Sounds like a neat place, full of retro shirts, caps and jerseys. They have a nice Web site, too. But I’ve never been to the store.

But it reminded me of another store that, when I was younger, almost seemed as good as a trip to Cooperstown.

Alternative Place No. 75A: Gerry Cosby’s in Westbury, N.Y.

I love baseball jerseys about as much as the game itself. I’ve always paid close attention to what players were wearing, taking notice of every slight change and patch. The uniforms worn on the fronts of baseball cards were studied just as closely as the statistics on the back.

Growing up in the 1970s, there weren’t many places where kids could obtain something that looked like a real baseball jersey. Obtaining the real thing was beyond comprehension, of course.

And I had my assortment of Mets t-shirts, sometimes with SEAVER 41 emblazoned with iron-on letters across the back.

Then I heard that polyester versions of the jerseys in kids’ sizes were for sale. Naturally, I became somewhat obsessed with this, and my parents knew about Cosby’s.

I remember the first time we went to the store, which seemed to be filled mostly with hockey equipment. But there was a section of shelves filled with replica jerseys.

And the best part was that the store didn’t just have the Mets, which were the obvious and automatic first purchase. But there seemed to be all the teams. This was a slice of baseball heaven, right there in Westbury.

I remember making the clerk pull down shirt after shirt, building a pile of polyester on the glass-topped counter for me to touch and ponder.

And in that glass were the real deal, actual authentic jerseys. I was amazed that a person could buy such a thing.

Needless to say, my birthday and Christmas want lists for the next years were to be filled right there at Cosby’s.

Before long, I had acquired the Dodgers and Padres, Expos and Phillies, Giants and, best of all, a rainbow-striped Astros replica.

Kids in school didn’t get it. I remember one classmate looking at me in total disbelief and disgust, saying, “Why are you wearing an Astros jersey?”

The answer, of course, is that if you can come into possession of an Astros rainbow jersey, you wear it proudly. Duh.

In 1984 I received what might still be considered the best Christmas gift ever. Naturally, it came from Cosby’s.

I remember exactly where I was sitting in my parents’ den when I opened the box containing a real, live Mets home jersey, the pull-over with the racing stripes.

It was magical. And it was almost incomprehensible that I could own the very same jersey the Mets wear on the field.

We added the anniversary patch in 1986.

Naturally, this jersey was constantly and considered suitable attire or any occasion – including proposing to my wife. True!

I’ve collected many other major and minor league jerseys since, both authentic and game-worn. There was a time when they were semi-affordable, especially if I could find a good sale. Those days have passed.

And we went back to Cosby’s for several years because they could customize jerseys with the proper letters and numbers. Let’s just say there must have been much celebrating at Cosby’s when the Mets obtained Eddie Murray.

The first and most-special jersey no longer fits, but I was proud to pass it down to my son, who wore it to his first home Mets game when we went to Citi Field last year. It’s treats it with the respect a family heirloom deserves.

I believe the Cosby’s in Westbury is long gone, and I recently learned that the Madison Square Garden store has moved. The company’s Web site indicates it still sells all sorts of equipment.

I can’t tell if it still sells jerseys, but I hope so.

Place No. 74: Bob Feller Museum; and Place No. 74A: Bob Feller statue and the amazing man himself

The only way you could learn more about Bob Feller than visiting the Bob Feller Museum is to spend a couple minutes with “Rapid Robert” himself.

I’m convinced about that after having the pleasure of meeting Feller a couple times.

Josh Pahigian takes us to Feller’s hometown of Van Meter, Iowa and the Feller Museum as place No. 74 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

I’ve never been there, so I’ll substitute:

Place No. 74A: Bob Feller statue at Progressive Field, Cleveland

It’s a huge statue just outside the rightfield gate at the Indians’ home, a fine meeting spot before or after a game, as you can tell from Will and I hanging out here in the mid-1990s.

If you’re an autograph collector and you don’t have Feller’s signature, that’s on you and not Feller. He is among the nicest and most prolific signers in the game.

My experiences with Feller were a few years prior to the new stadium and that statue. I was living in Connecticut and working in the Bridgeport Post’s Valley Bureau. Feller had relatives in nearby Waterbury.

Each summer he’d visit, and would be sure to line up a handful of appearances in the area. I’m sure he made a few bucks – and not many, based on the low-for-the-time rates he was charging. But I think Feller just liked meeting fans and talking baseball.

I was a little nervous the first time I met him at a card shop in Seymour, Conn. in 1987. I brought a ball for him to sign, and there were only a handful of other people in the small store.

With little prompting, Feller starting telling me about his amazing Hall of Fame career. After asking my name, he wrote on an 8.5 by 11 sheet with his photo on the front, and flipped it over to show me where it listed all his career achievements.

I heard about the 266 wins and three no-hitters, and how he could have had more of each had he not enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, spending 44 months serving his country and earning eight battle stars.

He pointed out the line reading “The only pitcher in Major League history to win 20 games or more games before age 21,” then crossed out “only” and replaced it with “first,” since Dwight Gooden had matched the feat.

While proud of all he had done, Feller was humble, too. I handed the Hall of Famer a new ball to sign, and he chose the spot above the Rawlings logo, instead of the sweet spot, where only, managers and the best players sign. I met Johnny Mize a short while later, and he had no qualms writing his name in that spot on that ball.

I met him again the next year at a New Britain Red Sox game, sitting at a table near the concession stands, signing photos and telling stories. He signed everything for everyone and then walked around the stands talking, signing and shaking hands.

He come off a little crusty in interviews these days, not having a lot of love for modern players who don’t approach the game the same way. Don’t expect Feller to ever welcome Pete Rose, Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire into the fraternity with open arms.

But he’s also still throwing in Old-timers Games, too, and he's in his 90s. I think Feller views himself not just as a standard bearer for old school hardball, but as an ambassador for the game. And to that end, few are better than the “Heater from Van Meter.”

Counting our many blessings -- and the turkeys, too

I just finished preparing the mashed sweet potatoes and the steps that will lead to my turkey’s stuffing, events that can only signify that my favorite holiday is approaching.

I love Thanksgiving because I have so much to be thankful for, and I appreciate them all. I’m blessed, and I realize it.

So let’s launch into the annual list of all that is good – and the accounting of the turkeys who try to spoil all the fun.

I’m thankful that I have a job that I love. One and a half, actually. I don’t take this lightly, because Michigan is hurting bad. It’s been a rough year in my state and in my profession. We’re hanging on, and don’t think there isn’t a day when I don’t thank the Lord for this blessing. And I’m glad that I can continue my adjunct teaching job in the spring semester. Working with such wonderful students tells me there are still talented young people who are dedicated to journalism and have hope for the future.

Turkey! Hallmark. People mocked in the past when I bemoaned the Hallmark Christmas Ornament Curse. But I was distraught when I learned that Johan Santana was this year’s decoration. Of course, he had season-ending surgery just after the ornament was released. And he took most of the team with him, leaving us with an especially dreary season.

I’m thankful that I was able to see our beloved Mets three times this season, twice in the spring and on Aug. 5 in our Citi Field debut. And amazingly – considering my past -- the Mets won all three. The 9-0 destruction of the Cardinals in August was viewed from spectacular seats provided by my parents – awesome – and was marred only by Jon Neise being carried off the field to join the DL party. But my son was able to see his first Mets game in New York, and I got all weepy seeing my glorious FanWalk brick, provided by Cousin Tim, who was there to join the celebration. And we all caught up with blogging buddy Greg Prince at the game, too. It was a very, very good day.

Turkeys! The ESPN Sunday Night Baseball crew of Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. Look, I like Miller, one of the best voices in the game. But Morgan is killing me, and he’s an anchor around Miller. When Morgan is not reminding us that he “played the game,” he’s praising Derek F. Jeter. Jeter doesn’t even have to be playing at the time. But it’s darn near embarrassing when he is. How many times have you heard this scenario: A weak, routine five-bouncer to short, which Jeter gets only because it’s hit right at him, then promptly throws to first base, bouncing twice along the way. “Look at Jeter get to that ball,” Morgan will exclaim. “He makes that play look easy. Derek just brings that something special every time he steps on the field. He makes everyone around him better. I know how players do that, because I played the game.” Gag.

I’m thankful for my iPhone, which is very close to surpassing my iPod as the greatest device ever. It is life-altering. The apps are incredible for both work and home. I’m especially thankful for the “Lose it” app. All I’m saying is that I installed it on July 7 and now I’m 50 pounds lighter. Really. And there’s the app that tracks how far and fast I can run, with the pause button so I can flick over to the maps app so I can get unlost while running in Texas and find my way back to Aunt Darlene’s house. Yes, this happened.

I’m thankful for lax security in the Astrodome and tour guides who don’t mind giving individual tours of Minute Maid Park. That trip to Texas offered all kinds of adventures.

I’m thankful that the Baseball Hall of Fame is taking the task of adding executives and pioneers more seriously by adding a keen and brilliant mind to the selection committee. That would be Tom Seaver, who is being lured from the vineyards next week to make sure these knuckleheads don’t mess things up again.

Turkeys! Sadly, the Hall still managed to goof things up. The committee to consider managers and umpires includes Tom Verducci, the infamous Yankee hack who actually declared that cyborg/reliever Mariano Rivera should start the 2008 All-Star Game so applause could fall on him like soft rain. I almost gagged on the turkey just typing that again. But seriously, this is a bad idea. Is there any doubt that “The Duce” will start the meeting by protesting that there are non-Yankees on the ballot? Do we not believe that Verducci will, with a straight face, make a case that Billy Martin should have a spot in Cooperstown, then try to slip in Ralph Houk and Joe Girardi and goodness knows how many once and future Yankee managers into the Hall? Then he'll move along to Yankee coaches and bullpen catchers and the grounds crew and Derek F. Jeter's parents for their role in making the world a better place. I, for one, hope that they don’t put Verducci in charge of counting the ballots.

I’m thankful that the Mets are not totally screwing up the new uniforms all the way. We love the team. You know that. But sometimes it makes questionable decisions when it comes to tinkering with the astonishingly great uniforms the Mets were blessed with. This week the team announced it would feature cream-colored pinstripes intended to honor the 1969 champs. I’m down with that, even though the typical Mets pinstripes are the best uniforms in baseball. But for reasons I can not figure out, they are leaving the black drop shadow on there. Help me figure this out. If you are going to recreate a uniform from 1969, why exactly are you keeping the feature from the past decade? We know the Mets. The team makes progress in increments. That’s why we’re getting a Mets Hall of Fame a year after the ballpark opens. As long as we’re headed in the right direction, it’s all good.

I'm thankful that I was allowed to coach the greatest church coed softball team ever. One a communication-forced forfeit prevented us from smashing through the playoffs. We settled for the consolation championship -- excellent -- and lots of wonderful fellowship. And now I can start planning and plotting for next year.

I'm thankful that I was able to hear Audio Adrenaline's Mark Stuart and Will McGinnis one more time. One of my favorite bands, Audio A called it quits a couple years ago when Stuart started losing his voice. Now he and Will tour as Audio Unplugged, and share their stories as they play a few songs, which is easier on Mark's voice. I had the chance to meet them after a recent concert, and share how much their music inspired me, especially when I was looking for ways to connect with the middle school youth groups. They probably hear that kind of thing all the time, but maybe not. I didn't want the opportunity to say "thank you" slip by.

I hope this holiday finds you happy and healthy and in appreciation of the blessings the Lord has given us. Even in the toughest of years on and off the field, may we never forget what is special about our lives, and the people we get to share them with.

Place No. 73: Baseball Reliquary; and Alternative Place No. 73A: South Shore Sports Legends and a Mets tragedy

I confess I had to look up “reliquary,” which the American Heritage Dictionary defines as “a receptacle, such as a coffer or shrine, for keeping or displaying sacred relics.”

We need to know this because Josh Pahigian takes us back to Los Angeles for The Baseball Reliquary or place No. 73 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Spread over several locations, the reliquary’s mission is to display objects “that more conservative, timid, or uninformed baseball museums have failed to bring to the public’s attention.”

According to Josh, the collection seems to run toward the scandalous, with items like thong panties worn by Wade Boggs’ mistress, a half-smoked cigar Babe Ruth allegedly left behind at a brothel and a signed record from “Disco Demolition Night.”

You can learn more about it here.

“Whereas the sine qua non of most baseball museums are bats, balls, and gloves, the Baseball Reliquary has pursued a more visionary acquisitions policy, which has resulted in many extraordinary discoveries,” reads the organization’s Web site.

“While each artifact is approached with meticulous scholarship and veracity, the ability of an object to invoke a sense of wonderment in, and to inspire the imagination of, the viewer is of supreme importance. The Baseball Reliquary's collections chart an eclectic terrain, and it is the purpose of this guide to introduce the public to the scope of materials that have been procured.”

Considering I once picked up some of Mike Schmidt’s lawn clippings, I suppose I can’t be hard on these guys.

I do like quirky little museums, so that takes us to:

Alternative Place No. 73A: South Shore Sports Legends display at the Indiana Welcome Center

You never know what you’ll find when you pull off the highway.

I had a mission while traveling back from Texas last month, trying to find postcards, key chains and a snow globe from each state I drove through, presents for my nephews.

Indiana was destined to be a challenge, since I’m only in it for the stretch from Chicago to Michigan City, and most places along that stretch offer souvenirs featuring the Windy City. Guess there’s not a huge demand for Gary snow globes.

But there is an elaborate welcome center in Hammond, partly shaped like a barn with a large exhibit space and a museum about John Dillinger, including his “death trousers.”

I have no interest in learning anything about bank robbers. They’re evil, like Yankees, but not as arrogant. And I was mildly offended to see photos of his corpse for sale in the gift shop near items from “A Christmas Story.” Ick.

And the key chain-postcard-snow globe selection was rather poor, too.
But I did wander over to a temporary exhibit called South Shore Sports Legends, saluting athletes from Northwest Indiana. There wasn’t much to it, other than a series of banners for each inductee and a small display case.

Among the 2009 inductees, I saw a baseball player in a Mets uniform, a blue batting practice jersey with the tail under the team name -- the short-lived style from the mid-90s – and pants with the racing stripes from the 1980s and early 1990s.

I had only a faint recollection of Tim Bishop, and was sad to read at the bottom of the banner that he passed away April 18, 1997.


It said he was one of only two players ever selected for state all-star teams in three sports, was selected by the Mets in the 1994 amateur draft, batted .325 for Kingsport in 1996 and that he played for Columbia.

A quick Google search revealed the rest of the story, and it’s pretty sad. In a New York Times story from June 1997, Buster Olney reported that Bishop and a Bombers teammate were driving home after a game was postponed.

A tire blew out and the car spun around into a highway passing lane. The players got out, but Bishop went back to turn on the hazard lights. As he was doing that, the car was struck by another car, throwing Bishop over the median and into the path of another vehicle. He was just 20.

Olney reported the Mets two months later asked for resignations from Bombers manager Doug Mansolino, pitching coach Dave Jorn and coach Tim Leiper.

Olney reports that a “high-ranking official in the Mets' front office,” told him the three men did not appropriately address whether players had been drinking on the team bus before the crash.

Frank Thomas, from the original Mets team, also is in the Sports Legends hall, along with baseball players from lesser teams, like Ron Kittle, Don Larsen, Kenny Lofton.

Sadly, the display was taken down this month and is looking for a permanent home. That’s a shame, because it will make it more difficult for fans to learn about player like Bishop. And I'd rather learn about people like him and Frank Thomas as I stretch my legs and buy a post card than some outlaw.

Place No. 72, Pink's Hot Dogs. Seriously. And, 72A, Nathan's Famous

Is the World Series over yet? I’ve been hibernating, attempting to avoid exposure to the whole sordid affair.

I did emerge and see a photo of ARod dressed in his Halloween costume. I’m assuming he was dressed as Rocky Balboa. Seriously, that had to be a costume, right?

"Yo, Adrian! Trick or treat!"

Speaking of people trying to pull our legs, Josh Pahigian tries to salute ballpark hot dogs by taking us to Los Angeles and someplace called “Pink’s” for place no. 72 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Based on this entry, the book should be renamed “100 Baseball Places and one Hollywood Eatery That Has Nothing to Do With Baseball.”

Seriously, even Josh points out that the place has a Hollywood motif, and that you have to look hard to find a baseball connection.

The fact that Josh looked to Los Angeles for hot dogs is an outrage and makes be uneasy about places Nos. 73 through 101.

I shall come to his rescue.

Alternative place No. 72A) Nathan’s Famous, Coney Island.

Nathan’s, of course, is the kind of hot dog served at Citi Field and formerly at Shea. So it only makes sense that we had to return to the epicenter of all things Nathan’s to pay proper tribute when we returned to the homeland this past summer.

Hot dogs have been a ballpark staple since Harry M. Stevens began serving them at the Polo Grounds in the early 1900s.

Tim and Andrew liked thier dogs.

History tells us that Polish immigrant Nathan Handwerker, in 1916 opened his small stand at Coney Island, serving the dogs and crinkle-cut fries are served with a little fork.

The company's Web site claims President Franklin Delano Roosevelt served Nathan's Famous hot dogs to the King and Queen of England in 1939, and had the dogs shipped to Yalta when he met with Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin.

Dad, Tim, Andrew and I headed to Coney Island after seeing the Mets beat the Cardinals 9-0 in our Citi Field debut.

After braving the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel, we made our way down to Nathan’s. Things had changed, but not that much. Dad ordered a round of dogs and fries, and we sat down on some tables to watch the colorful world that is Coney Island walk past.


There are massive signs about the annual hot dog eating contest, which seems kind of freakish.

New York requires restaurants to disclose the number of calories on menus. A hot dog with bun had 296 calories. This year's hot dog eating champion, Joey Chestnut, ate a record 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes on July 4. That would be 20,128 calories.

The dogs were glorious, and I’m sure I savored my one more than Joey enjoyed his 68.

We came right from the game, though I removed my Tom Seaver jersey for safety, lest there was any hurling on the Cyclone.

I was in standing on line for a second round of Diet Cokes when I guy looked over and said, "Hey, were you at the game today?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"Well, you got Mr. Met on your face."

I'd forgotten to remove the menacing Mr. Met temporary tattoo. Not that strange facial tats made me stand out in a crowd on Coney Island.

Truth be told, I’m not keen on franks at the ballpark. Order a dog at your typical stadium, and an employee will open a drawer and hand you a ball of foil, the contents of which will be a shriveled dog and a squished, soggy bun that sticks to the dog.

One of things I liked best about the old Tiger Stadium was that vendors would roam the stands with boiled dogs floating in water that I assumed was hot. (If you know otherwise, don’t tell me. I’m in my happy place.)

Anyway, the vendor would capture a dog with tongs, take a fresh bun out of a bag, slap it there and then offer you mustard or ketchup, which he’d apply from a bottle.
The dogs were Ball Parks and not Nathans, but I could pretend.

Baseball place No. 71: Phoenix Municipal Stadium; 71A: Oldsmobile Park

Sometimes you go to a ballgame and something just seems ... off.

I can't exactly put a finger on why we didn't have that great a time during what should have been a nice day at the park.

But first we have to deal with the formalities. Josh Pahigian takes us to Phoenix Municipal Stadium, the spring home for the Oakland Athletics, for place No. 71 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Phoenix is one of the rare cities that host both spring training baseball as well as regular season games. And the city is Arizona's state capital, too.

The stadium sounds nice, with red rocks of Papago Park rising above the field.

I’ve never been there, but I have attended a game is a ballpark built in another state capital.

Alternative place No. 71A: Oldsmobile Park

Lansing isn’t far from either of the places in Michigan where we’ve lived, only about an hour away.

But I’ve been to Oldsmobile Park, home of the Lansing Lugnuts, for a game just once since it was built in 1996, and I really can’t say I’m in a rush to get there again.

It’s a nice enough ballpark, made of brick with a retro feel. It replaced an entire block of buildings that were historic but in bad shape, filled mostly by porn shops, according to one report I read.

But something sure seemed unfriendly when we attended a game against the Fort Wayne Wizards in 2005.

We have a tradition of the whole family attending a game as a Father’s Day treat, and we had high hopes checking out a park for the first time.

You have to remember that I always bring my backpack to games, and just about everywhere else. I got the blue Jansport for my freshman year in college, and it’s held up remarkably well since. It’s my essential game companion, holding pens, pencils, a small pencil sharpener -- for keeping score, of course -- packets of sunscreen and whatever else I think I might need for a game.

My youngest was seven at the time, and when we’d go to see the Whitecaps here in Grand Rapids, I’d bring along some Capri Sun juice packets. Sometimes they’d get left in the backpack if she didn’t drink them all.

Well, the Lugnuts are one of those teams that search every backpack, and the guy working the gate poked around mine.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that Capri Sun,” the worker said.

Huh?

“There’s a Capri Sun in the backpack. No outside food or drink allowed.”

Seemed kind of weak. I was bringing a family of four there for Father’s Day, and it’s not like one Capri Sun was going to sustain us for the whole time. Clearly we were going to be buying more food and drink inside park.

And when it was time to grab some lunch, I found out why they didn’t want anyone sneaking in snacks. You expect to pay more at a ballpark, but these prices seemed excessive, especially for the Midwest League.

The team store wasn’t any friendlier on the wallet. The team had tweaked the uniforms that year, keeping the logo but changing the caps from red to black. Not only were the out-dated caps not on sale, but they had a sign reading “retro caps” or “heritage caps” or something along those lines.

And lets talk about the logo. The team is called the Lugnuts. And the logo is … a screw. Did nobody realize this, or didn’t they care?

The mascot is a dragon-like monster with lugnuts – not screws – where his nostrils should be.

On the bright side, we won a bottle of warm Sprite for doing “the Twist” during a between-inning promotion.

In the end, the Lugnuts won, 4-3, and the kids seemed to enjoy running through a fountain on the plaza outside the ballpark.

But something left a bad taste in our mouth, and we’ve never been back.

No one likes to feel gouged. A major league team can get away with it. Fans expect it, especially when they see $10 million players on the field. But minor league teams have to realize they’re selling the experience.

We do appreciate the fan-friendly West Michigan Whitecaps.

Baseball Place No. 70: Dome World -- and the Metrodome, too

"Are you here for the tour?” the Metrodome employee asked me.

Sometimes baseball adventures happen with no advance notice, and a fan must think on his feet.

Josh Pahigian takes us back to Minneapolis for spot No. 70 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out” for Dome World, a souvenir store that bills itself as the original baseball hall of fame.

I was in the Twin Cities for an education writers’ conference in 1996, and such trips sometimes allow for some limited sightseeing.

With a break one day, I walked down to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, which is located on the fringe of downtown Minneapolis. I remember popping into a souvenir store with some baseball displays in the back, and that was probably the Dome World of which Josh speaks.

To be honest, it didn’t make much of an impression on me. The stores surrounding Wrigley, Fenway and even Tiger Stadium had more of the fun, old things that I liked.

And the Metrodome itself will never be confused with those ballparks. It’s pretty dull looking, virtually the same from any angle. There were some stylized cutouts of athletes and musicians in an area outside, a tribute to the multi-use nature of the facility.

I walked around snapping photos and noticed some people in the lobby, so I pushed through the revolving glass door, thinking maybe a gift store was open.

An employee approached as soon as I stepped inside.

“Are you here for the tour?”

There is, of course, only one answer.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Oh, good, your group just started. Go down this hallway and you can catch up with them.”

I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I also proceed with caution. If this was some senior citizens club or some folks who did not appreciate a late-arriving imposter, I’d be outed – and ousted – immediately.

Turning the corner, I found what appeared to be a group of Cub Scouts with dad chaperones.

I stood at the end of the group. A couple people of looked over. I waved and smiled – one of those awkward “Sorry I’m late” waves, at them as well as the group of kids.

I suspect they figured I was the father of one of the kids in the group, one of those dads who does not get too involved and chaperones only cool sporting activities.

The tour guide continued talking as if nothing was amiss and everyone’s attention quickly turned back to her.

Phew!

It was a pretty good tour, starting in one of the inner tunnels of the stadium, which looked more like the inside of something like the Nassau Coliseum than a baseball stadium.

We went up into the press box, and looked down at the field for the first time. A college football team was practicing down one end of the field, but the infamous “Hefty Bag” outfield wall was there for all to see.

It looked like there were giant curtains in the upper deck in the outfield covering some of the seats, and massive banners of players hung in front of the curtains.

Still, it looked like a pretty sterile place.

We peeked into a luxury box, and then back down to the lower level.

Moving around with the group, I engaged in careful small talk with the dads. “Pretty neat, huh?” “The kids sure are having a good time.” “We should do this again sometime.”

No one asked which kid was mine. I worried about this.

We paused in front of a door that led to the Twins clubhouse, but were not allowed inside. Then we took the tunnel out to the field and on to the artificial turf.

The guide pointed out the luxury boxes again from the field, noting one in particular. She said that Rick Aguilera was ticked off at something that season and threw a ball so hard that it broke one of the windows. Manager Tom Kelly, she said, was not pleased and made Aguilera pay to replace the glass.

Aggie seemed pretty mild-mannered as a Met, so I figured something about Minneapolis must have got to him. Probably Prince.

Then the guide told us we’d have some time to ourselves to run around the field as long as we didn’t go too close to the football players or go on the mound and dirt sliding places around the bases.

Sweet!

I headed straight to the Hefty Bag because A) I didn’t want to linger near the other dads in case one started to get chatty and ask questions, and B) It’s the Hefty Bag in the Metrodome!

I remember a Dodge ad stretched from the right field foul pole all the way into far right-centerfield. Simply massive.

And I was surprised there was little effort to conceal all the seats in the outfield sections that were sideways because they were folded up. It seemed kind of like the kind of thing you’d see in a high school gymnasium.

Before long, some of the kids joined me and we were all making pretend Kirby-like catches up against the wall. Kids don’t ask questions.

I also paused to look up at the inflatable gray ceiling and imagine what it’s like to follow the flight of a fly ball, a notoriously difficult act in the Dome.

After a while, the guide waved us back in and the tour was done. I stuck with the group through the lobby then drifted away outside, quickly making it back to the hotel and the conference.

The Twins this year also bid farewell to the Metrodome, with the Division Series defeat against the vile Yankees likely to be the final baseball game there.

The field opened on April 3, 1982, baseball’s third domed stadium -- behind the Astrodome and Kingdome -- and first with an inflatable roof. It cost $68 million, and, as the guide proudly told us, was $2 million under budget.

It remains the only venue to host an MLB All-Star Game, a World Series – twice – an NCAA Final Four and a Super Bowl.

And, apparently, it allows tours for Cub Scout groups – and their friends.

Baseball Place No. 69, Land Stadium; Alternative Place No. 69A: Victory Field

How important to a stadium is the view beyond centerfield?

Josh Pahgian taps a seaside park in San Diego for place No. 69 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Carroll B. Land Stadium is on the campus of Point Loma Nazarene University, built into the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Baseball America named it the most scenic ballpark in the country.

I’ve never been there, but I did get to what the Baseball America called the best ballpark in the minors.

That would be:

Alternative Place No. 69A: Victory Field

As Pat Zachary will surely tell you, it’s difficult to replace a legend. Yet that’s what the Indianapolis Indians Triple-A team tried to do when in wanted to replace Owen J. Bush Stadium in the mid-1990s.

Not only was Bush a classic, old-school ballpark, but was a movie star, too serving as the backdrop for "Eight Men Out."

But Victory Field does a fine job.

The Baseball Truth gang made Victory our Day 2 stop for the 2007 Executive Game the day after watching the Cubs smack around the Reds in Cincinnati.

We were impressed. Fans enter the brick ballpark through the centerfield gates, strolling around the grassy berm seating area before entering a two-deck seating area.

The view from the seats is spectacular, showing off the Indianapolis skyline and the RCA Dome. The park has room for about 15,000 people, but didn’t seem that large from the inside.

Located downtown, the ballpark opened in 1996 and is surrounded by the Indianapolis Zoo, the NCAA Hall of Champions, the Indiana State Museum and other cultural institutions.

It takes its name from the original ballpark, which opened as Perry Stadium in 1931 but was renamed Victory Field in 1942 to salute celebrate victory in World War II, which wasn’t over at that point. It was renamed after Bush, a former player, manager and owner, in 1967.

Will, Scott, Scott's daughter Leah and I arrived early – of course – and found some fun, playing baseball-themed carnival games and checking out the usual assortment of ballpark snacks.

We had seats in the upper deck along the first base side, and found them not too high at all, kind of like the old upper seating area at Tiger Stadium.

Leah got a little bored halfway through the game, so she and I went exploring. We managed to sit right behind the home dugout for a spell, watching coach Hensley “Bam Bam” Meulens interact with fans.
Scott and Leah had fun playing on the berm in the outfield -- a great place to see the game, too.


Then we mingled and posed with players in the bullpen, ran up and down the berms for a while, made it over to the other bullpen for more mingling and posing and finally caught up with Rowdie, the mascot.

Darned if I can figure out what Rowdie is supposed to be. He looked kind of like an opossum with a baseball for a nose.


We enjoyed a tight game, with the visiting Charlotte Knights beating the Indians 3-2,with Darin Erstad making a rehab appearance.

Sports Illustrated, too, called Victory Field the best minor-league ballpark in America. I don’t know if I’d call it that. I might opt for Holman Field in Vero Beach. But Victory sure was all that we’d hoped for and a fine way to close out another successful Executive Game weekend.

And I'm a little strange, but I'd rather see a cool skyline over the centerfield wall than the ocean.

Baseball place No. 64: Nolan Ryan Center; Alternative Place No. 64A: The Astrodome -- and an unauthorized peek

I was hoping my trip to Texas would lead me some sites in Josh Pahigian’s “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

I came close.

Josh leads us to the Nolan Ryan Center in Alvin, where the former Met grew up, for place No. 64. Located at Alvin Community College, the center posts exhibits about the hurler, and I’m confident there’s a whole wing dedicated to the 1969 World Series.

But I didn’t venture beyond Houston, where Ryan pitched for the Astros. I didn’t see too many references to The Express at Minute Maid Park, though there was a statue of him at a hotel across the street.

Fair enough, since Ryan didn’t play at Minute Maid, and maybe the fine folks of Houston are a little ticked that Ryan has become more attached to the Texas Rangers.

So I set out to find the place where Ryan actually pitched, which would be:

Alternate Place No 64A: The Astrodome

Yes, the Eighth Wonder of the World still stands, though it has seen better days.

The Astros moved downtown and the Texans football team have massive Reliant Stadium, which towers over the first-ever domed stadium.

There’s a lot of Mets history in that dome, including what one author called “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” Game 6 of the 1986 National League playoffs.

So I figured I’d head over and just walk around the outside, taking some photos. The Texans wanted $8 to park, even though there was nothing going on at either stadium. A friendly attendant suggested I could park in the shopping center across the street and walk over.

After grabbing a quick turkey sandwich at Subway – proving that I had an official reason to park in the lot – I strolled over to see the dome.

It was sad. The mighty Astrodome, which inspired the team to change its name and even create plastic grass, looks pretty unloved next to the new stadium.

It has a new name – the Reliant Astrodome – but it appears there has been no maintenance on the building since the move. It looked dirty, and there were missing pieces of siding here and there.

It was also surrounded by a series of cowboy statues – as opposed to Cowboys statues – since the dome hosted the Houston Rodeo for years.


I figured I’d make a lap, snapping photos near and afar.

Then, on the far side, I saw what appeared to be a truck ramp leading under the stadium. There were two swing-out garage doors, and one was open.

Hmm. I thought maybe I could walk down and an employee or kind security guard would allow me to poke my head in and snap photos.

So I slinked down the ramp, and as I got closer to the door I could see a little inside. It led not to some inner hallway, but to what was the centerfield gate. Off in the distance were the famous rainbow-striped seat sections, with light pouring though the panels of the roof.

I stood in the door. I looked to my left, and to my right. There were no employees to be found.

“Hello?”

Silence.

An adventure should have a little risk. If I had taken another step forward, I supposed it could be considered trespassing.

I pondered what would happen if caught. I was an obvious fan, with cap on head and camera in hand. No harm was intended. I figured I’d get a, “Hey! You’re not supposed to be in here!” and escorted to the door – or I’d run back to the car at the Subway before they could catch me.

After about 10 seconds of deep contemplation, I took a bold step into the Astrodome.

It was spectacular.

I started snapping photos, first with my camera then with the iPhone, quickly sending shots to Will and Greg Prince, figuring that I could be tossed out at any moment and knowing they'd like to share in the fun.

I stood were the outfield fence once was, heart racing and trying to absorb everything I could see.

I don’t remember if there were lights on, or whether the semi-transparent roof was allowing enough light in to illuminate the inside. But it was plenty bright.

The famed plastic grass was gone, the floor was hard concrete. The third base side was filled with those golf cart-like trams that I guess are used to drive fans in from the distant regions of the parking lots for football games.

The first base side was littered with folding chairs and other odds and ends. It struck me that the Astrodome was now the world’s largest storage shed.

After several minutes of not being discovered, I became a little bolder, and started walking into centerfield. Not too far, maybe 10 to 15 feet beyond where the warning track once was.

Turning around, I saw some old advertising signs, blank scoreboards and a sign reading “Home of the Houston Astros" with the orange and blue logo the team hasn’t used since the rainbow days, the design with the stadium in the middle and orbiting baseballs.

I looked at the light coming in the roof and wondered what it would be like for a player to stand in that very spot trying to track the flight of a fly ball.

I swear I could see Mike Scott and his scuffballs, the Toy Cannon launching bombs, Don Wilson and J.R. Richard and Jose Cruz and Cesar Cedeno and those magnificent rainbows.

I thought about Billy Jean King and Bobby Riggs playing tennis, the Bad News Bears with the crowd chanting “Let them play!” and the 1986 All-Star Game with Doc, Gary and Keith wearing their white cleats.

But mostly I thought about Oct. 15, 1986. The Mets needed to win that Game 6 or face Mike Scott in a deciding seventh game. Scott, a former Met, had our boys completely psyched out, beating them in two starts in the series.

I was at the University of Missouri at the time, watching the game on Tony's television in our off-campus apartment.

The Astros scored three runs off Bob Ojeda in the first inning, and neither team could score again until the top of the ninth, when the Mets got two two runs off a tired Bob Knepper, then drew two walks off Dave Smith before Ray Knight hit a sac fly to tie the game.

At that point, I had to go to class. I played the "I had to watch the Mets" card once before, for a 1985 trip to St. Louis to see Dwight Gooden in person. The professor was not impressed. I didn't want to try that again.

After class I pedaled back to the apartment as fast as I could and turned on the television, hoping some station would have the final score. And to my total shock, the game was still being played.

I missed Darryl Strawberry scoring a go-ahead run in the 14th inning, only to have Billy Hatcher tie the game again with a home run. And I arrived with the Mets batting in the top of the 16th, scoring three runs.

But we know the Mets do nothing easily, allowing the Astros score two runs. After Keith famously warned him to stop throwing fastballs for face the consequences, Jesse Orosco struck out Kevin Bass with the tying run on second and the winning run on first. We were going to the World Series for the first time since 1973.

The Astrodome matters.

The team came into the league with the Mets in 1962 as the Houston Colt .45s with assurances that an indoor stadium would protect fans from the sweltering Texas summers.

The first game came in 1965 one a field with real grass. But players complained they couldn’t see the ball against the Lucite roof. Once painted over, the grass died and the team played on dirt painted green.

That, of course, led to the invention of the plastic playing surface forever known as Astroturf.

Now, there are people who bemoan the existence of both domed stadiums and plastic grass. But you could not have had retractable roof masterpieces like Minute Maid Park and Miller Park – both with real grass – without that first step, the Astrodome.

Minute Maid opened in 2000, and Reliant Stadium opened for the Texans in 2002. The Houston Rodeo moved next door in 2003, leaving the Astrodome hosting only an occasional event.

It seems to me that it’s wrong to demolish history. I wish there was more left of Shea than plaques in the parking lot. But I don’t know if it is right to keep up an unused stadium.

So for now it stands -- a garage for trams and a storage shed.

I stood there in deep centerfield, looking for ghosts in rainbow jerseys and wondering if I could walk deeper or even up into the stands for more views.

There’s a difference between boldness and recklessness. I’d experienced what I came for and far beyond. Intentional or not, The Astrodome offered a wonderful gift and I didn’t want to abuse it. I took a long last look and headed back out into the sunshine.

Clearly there was a baseball statue out here at one point, but I have no idea what it was.

Vivian L. Smith was an Astros co-owner who played a big role in the the development of the Astrodome complex.
I thought it was funny at a fire hydrant across the street from the Astrodome was painted in Mets colors. A tribute to "The Greatest Game Ever Played," perhaps?

Tiger fans, these New Yorkers know your pain

One of the nice things about going to a game at Comerica Park is that you occasionally bump into another New Yorker.

I ran into Liberty near the carousel food court last month and a Tigers photog snapped this shot. Both of us are dressed for the occasion, though I’m wearing Pedro Martinez’s Mets All-Star Game jersey from 2005.

My relationship with the Tigers is complicated.

There are two big strikes against the team.

First, they play in the American League. Ick.

Second, they’re not the Mets.

Neither are entirely the team’s fault. But I can only obsessively follow one heart-breaking franchise at a time and I certainly cannot abandon my roots.

After all, I’m not a Michigander who was born in New York. I’m a New Yorker who lives in Michigan.

The former fondly remembers eating great poppy seed bagels for breakfast every day. The latter still eats poppy seed bagels for breakfast every day and bemoans that they’re just not as good as the ones in Massapequa Park.

I don’t root against the Tigers. I treat them with friendly indifference.

A lot of friends here are big fans, and the Tigers have provided a venue for some amazing baseball adventures for me over the years, including a World Series game.

It’s nice to see former West Michigan Whitecaps wearing the Old English D. I make an annual late-season trip to Comerica. I watch some games on television while on the treadmill.

This year, however, was a little different.

With the Mets decimated by injuries, I started paying a little bit of attention to the folks in Detroit, checking the scores each night and looking to see if Curtis Granderson was doing well.

I cared, for a change.

And I commiserated with co-workers as losses to the Royals and White Sox mounted and the Twins crept closer.

I followed Tuesday’s disaster on my iPhone, and felt a very familiar feeling setting in.

On Wednesday, a distraught co-worker slumped into her seat, saying she was still unable to get over that the Tigers lost first place on the final game of the season, blowing the tie-breaker in extra innings.

After months of planning and looking forward to post-season baseball, there would be none for her.

"Oh, I know how you feel," I said with a sigh. "Exactly how you feel."