Place No. 12: Wrigleyville

Wrigleyville was a lot more fun before it became Wrigleyville, Inc.

Josh Pahigian picks the clubs and shops surrounding the Chicago Cubs’ home as his No. 12 place in the “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

But I think he clings to a romanticized view of boisterous little pubs filled with diehard fans hoisting a Bud in Harry’s name as they drown their sorrows after another loss.

I suspect he thinks those pubs are surrounded by mom and pop stores selling Cubs caps and t-shirts, with old Keith Moreland pins alongside those showing Sammy and Carlos Zambrano.

He no doubt remembers the people living across the street who drag their lawn chairs up to the roof to get a view of the game that’s closer and better than what you’d get in the upper deck at any modern multipurpose stadium.

And all of that was true – at one time.



Today those buildings across the street have metal bleachers on the roof and are rented out to groups for thousands of dollars, like skyboxes. I checked, some want up to $10,000 for a group of 50, and another wanted up to $150 per person.

The Cubs for a while erected screens to block the view, saying people were making big money off their product, and it was hard to argue with them.

The shops have been replaced by big-budget souvenir superstores that I praise for their completeness of the latest gear, but mourn that they have none of the ancient or quirky items that made the old stores so much fun.

As for the clubs, I don’t think a real Cubs fan would be caught getting a Bud at a place like Murphy’s Bleachers, even if he could make his way through the crowds into the door.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see a Hard Rock Wrigley or an ESPN Zone to pop up there.

Some where, some how the sad sack Cubbies became trendy. Wrigley is a place to see and be seen.

Will refers to the people there as the “Tyler and Trixie Crowd.” “They’re here to watch a game, but it’s not baseball,” he said.

I’ve seen these people up close. Will’s taken me to see the Mets play the Cubs in each of the last two years.

Both time, “fans” in the seats next us arrived late, beers in hand, stayed for an inning or two, disappeared for another couple innings, came back with more beers and left before the game was over, no doubt to get a spot inside The Cubby Bear or one of the other bars.

It seemed different when Rich, Mark and I made Wrigley our first stop on the glorious baseball road trip in 1989.

We made it down to the neighborhood hours before the game, had lunch on the roof of a sandwich place with a view of the park, explored some stores, and then went to a bar called “Sluggers.” The lower level is a bar, and the upper floor is filled with batting cages, arcade games and “Hi-Ball,” which is like two-player basketball on a trampoline.

After the game we walked across the street to Murphy’s Bleachers, and some drinks and threw peanuts on the floor.

A person could probably do some of those things today, but probably not all of them because of the crowds.

I don’t want to pooh-pooh all of it, because walking around Wrigleyville is still a lot of fun. There is still an atmosphere you are just not going to get in a stadium surrounded by acres of parking lots.


It’s just no longer authentic. This is not to say it’s bad, but you have to know what it is going in. This is from a guy who would rather go to the EPCOT version of Morocco.

There are still street vendors with all kinds of things, and you are going to see some very unusual people, some of them sober. You’ll also see apartments in the surrounding blocks with their Cubs flags, especially the white W banners if the team wins.

We’ve even had some adventures there in the off-season. Walking by one day – on our honeymoon, actually – I noticed the center field gate wide open, and a worker said I could walk out into centerfield to take a photo.

And in 1991 we walked up and saw what looked like old-fashioned billboards across the street, replacing the Budweiser ads that were always there.

Then we saw a sign mimicking the Wrigley Field sign, but calling it “Harvey Field.” And there was an old bus with Rockford Peaches” written on the side. Only later did we realize they were filming “A League of Our Own” inside.



So if you’re headed to see the Cubs, by all means walk around and see what there is to see. Just because it’s become corporate doesn’t mean you can’t have adventures.

And say “Hi” to Trixie and Tyler, but don’t ask them to tell you the score.

Place No. 11: Cape Cod League; and No. 11A: Milford, Conn. Newmakers

Amateur baseball can be fun to watch. No huge salaries or egos, and you can be relatively certain that no one is on steroids.

Josh Pahigian points to the amateur Cape Cod League for spot No.11 in his "101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

The Cape Cod League is summer baseball that attracts some of the best college players in the country and plays before decent-sized crowds.

I’ve never been to one of those games, but I did have some experience with amateur ball in New England, and steroids were the least of my troubles.

Baseball Place No. 11A: Milford Recreation Department Girls Softball

I was covering Milford schools for the Bridgeport Post in 1989, and working on a story about how the city recreation department was having trouble finding umpires for its leagues. My wife was working nights and I certainly knew and loved the sport, so I later offered my services.

“Tell you what, Dave,” the department head told me. “What I could really use is one more coach. I have enough new players for a team, and a one of the parents said he’d do the job – if he had some help.”

How could I refuse?

The Newsmakers, with assistant coach -- No. 41, of course -- in the back.

I soon found out what they didn’t tell me up front. First, that this was considered a feeder league for the high school program, which means it was fast-pitch softball.

Second, all the other teams had older girls who had already played together for at least one season, two in some cases.

We had the youngest, least experienced players and were starting from scratch.

And, the other parent who wanted to coach was the editor of the Milford Mirror – my competition in the newspaper business.

I was actually OK with all of those. The fast-pitch game couldn’t be too different, and Chris, the editor, was a nice guy. And because I was part of the daily paper and he was in charge of a weekly, it’s not like we were in direct competition.

And I learned he was cunning. At the end of the first practice, we gathered the sixth-graders together to discuss important business, like picking a team name and colors.

Considering the occupations of the coaches, Chris and I thought “Newsmakers” would be a neat and different name, and blue and white would be fine colors. This was met with indifference from the players.

One suggested “Wildcats” and thought the colors should be hot pink and black. A lot of the girls liked the idea. A clear majority, in fact.

Chris and I conferred. “Dude, I don’t want to be caught wearing hot pink and black.”

“Good call,” he replied, and then turned to the group. “Ladies, we’re going to take a secret vote.”

Reporters always have pads and pens, so materials for ballots were not a problem. Each of the girls wrote down their choices for name and colors, and Chris went off to “count.”

Amazingly, “Newsmakers” and “blue and white” were declared winners. I didn’t ask, and I didn’t want to know.

The girls were nice, and practices were fun. One of the players introduced herself as “Caryn, with a C” and that’s what I called her, every time.

I covered the schools, and when I pitched batting practice, players would have to say one thing about their school before their first swing. I learned a lot of stuff.

We had a great summer getting some exercise and learning the basics. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

This is not to say there were not unique challenges.

We soon encountered a problem tougher than picking a team name. His name was Chad, and he apparently was the sixth-grade heartthrob.

Knowing he’d have an adoring audience, Chad started showing up at the school when we’d have practice and perform skateboard stunts in the parking lot while my infield swooned. They were completely distracted as he showed off. Occasionally, he’d fetch an errant throw, which only brought more swooning.

After two days of this, I took drastic action. From the mound, I yelled, “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Chaaaaaad! Whatcha doing over there? Skateboard stunts?”

“Ahhhhhh! Dave’s talking to Chad! Dave’s talking to Chad!” some of the players squealed in horror.

Chad stopped dead in his tracks, looked over, also in horror, and fled.

We also learned the dangers of a fast-pitch league, the greatest of which was base-stealing. My catchers could barely reach second base on a fly even before they were loaded down with pads and a mask.

Our only hope of throwing someone out at second would be if the runner A) fell down and could not get up again, or B) was on crutches. And I’m not even sure about the crutches.

It didn’t take long for other teams to realize this. Every walk became a double on the next pitch. So did every base hit, and every error. We gave up a lot of runs.

Fortunately, some of the other teams had the same problem. My job as first base coach became telling them to run to second on the first pitch. There was some reluctance at first.

“I think they know I’m gonna run.”

“Caryn with a C, I’m sure they do. Everyone in the park knows you’re gonna run. Don’t worry about it.”

The first time, she ran half way to second, got frightened, then ran back to first. I had to convince her to go.

We didn’t win too many games, but we were blessed with understanding parents.

“We’re going to get crushed today,” one of the moms said before one game.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“The other team has breasts,” another mom chimed in, meaning, of course, that they were all older and bigger.

I’m pretty sure no coach in the Cape Cod League has ever heard that one.

Presidents' Day? How about Seaver Day!

I have a neat tear-off-a-day calendar on my desk at work that has all kinds of neat things in it. But few have been as neat as what greeted me this afternoon.

Baseball Place No. 10: Dodgertown

It’s hard to believe that there is no baseball being played in Dodgertown this spring. It is, hands down, the best spring training site I’ve ever been to.

Josh Pahigian thinks so, too, He named the Vero Beach complex stop No. 9 in his list of "101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out."

The Dodgers converted the former naval base into a spring training site in 1949, and abandoned it this year to share a site in Arizona with the White Sox. The Orioles were expected to move in this year, but ESPN reports that talks broke down and the team is looking to move to Fort Meyers.



That would be horrible, because Dodgertown is perfect. No place else allows fans to get so close to players. It’s almost like watching major leaguers play in your neighborhood park.

There were adventures each time I went to Dodgertown. But the best one is here.

I thought it would be more fun to show photos from some of the other adventures.

Dodger players not in the game would hang out on the press box roof to watch.

That's future Met Hideo Nomo leaning on the ladder.

After the game, players walk back to the clubhouse through the fans. Brett Butler told fans to walk back with him, then get in a line and he'd be happy to sign autographs.

Mike Piazza counting the days until he is a Met.

There wasn't too much to the bullpens.

Here's the Mets dugout on St. Patrick's Day, 1994.

Glenn Davis was getting a tryout.


That's Kevin McReynolds in the middle.

There were sometimes Brooklyn Dodgers visiting. Here's Ralph Branca wandering over to the Mets bench. Visiting son-in-law Bobby Valentine?

Keith Hernandez was throwing a little batting practice.

Mookie was coaching at the time.

Mets win! But Carlos Baerga and Rey Ordonez are deep in conversation.

My Grandmother used to bring me to games at Shea, I was finally able to return the favor, bringing her to Dodgertown. Here she is getting Tommy Lasorda's autograph.

Baseball Place No. 9: Rosenblatt Stadium, and Place 9A: Ray Fisher Stadium and Wilpon Complex

I confess I have an aversion to Nebraska.

This probably comes from exposure to Cornhusker fans that would travel in hordes, take over our University of Missouri football stadium and cheer on their team full of monstrously huge farm boys as they beat the stuffing out of our Tigers.

So I was disappointed when Josh Pahigian directed us to Omaha and Rosenblatt Stadium as stop No. 9 in his list of "101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.

That’s where the College World Series has been played since 1950. It’s named after a semipro player who became mayor pushed to build the stadium. The Omaha Royals also play there.

Fearing a Husker flashback, I’ve never been to this stadium. But we do have an alternative:

Baseball Place No. 9A: Wilpon Baseball and Softball Complex, University of Michigan

I’ve been to only one college baseball game, and it was at Ray Fisher Stadium in Ann Arbor. My colleague John Munson is a Michigan grad and frequent ballpark companion, and thought it would be fun to check out a Wolverine game.

And it was neat. The team played in a small brick stadium, coached by former Tigers star Bill Freehan.

It was very different from the college football experience. There weren’t too many fans in the stands, and it seemed to be a lot of family members. But at least we didn’t have to worry about drunken frat guys hurling on our shoes.

We learned that the back-up catcher’s job is to lumber into the parking lot and retrieve all the foul balls.

The stadium was revamped last year when Mets owner Fred Wilpon and his family donated $12 million to the program.

The Wilpons’ gifts also provided for a Sport Injury Prevention Center. Fred came to Michigan in 1954 under a baseball scholarship, but he injured his rotator cuff between his freshman and sophomore years.

Living in Flint at the time, we were pretty familiar with another Wolverine baseball player – Jim Abbott. You can read about encounters with him here.

Baseball Place No. 8: Babe Ruth's resting place and No. 8A: Wally Pipp's resting place

Babe Ruth’s grave stone is as over-sized as the man himself.

The Bambino’s resting spot is in the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne, N.Y., which is in Westchester County.

Josh Pahigian lists the Babe as stop No. 8 in his list of "101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out."

And, for the second time, he goes there alone.

There are a lot of myths about Babe Ruth, but there is a myth about another late Yankee, one of Ruth’s teammates, in fact.

That leads me to our second alternative site.

Baseball Place No. 8A: Wally Pipp’s resting place.


Friends, today I aim to clear the name of Walter C. Pipp, a fine Grand Rapids resident who is buried here, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

Legend has it that Pipp on June 2, 1925 told Manager Miller Huggins that he had a headache and wanted to sit out. Miller put that new Lou Gehrig kid in the lineup for the day, and he remained there for the next 14 years.

Yet another Yankee lie.

Wally Pipp was no slacker.

First of all, Gehrig’s streak of 2,130 consecutive games actually started the day before, when he pinch hit for shortstop Pee Wee Wanninger.

But the 1925 season was not a good one for the Yankees. Ruth had all sorts of issues. By the time June arrived, the team was already near the bottom of the standings and 11 games under .500.

With the season seemingly lost, Huggins was ready to make some changes.

The New York Times on June 3, 1925 reported that Huggins, "took his favorite lineup and shook it to pieces. Wally Pipp, after more than 10 years as a regular first baseman, was benched in favor of Lou Gehrig, the former Columbia University fence-wrecker. Aaron Ward, another old standby, surrendered second base to Howard Shanks. Steve O’Neill and Wally Schang perched themselves comfortably on the bench while Benny Bengough donned the mask and protector."

And five days later, the Times reported, "Miller Huggins’ withdrawl of Ward, Pipp and the Schang-O’Neill combination was an admission that the absence of Ruth was not the only thing wrong with the club. Not all of these men are through — Ward least of all; but they were in a slump, and Huggins did the obvious thing by injecting a little youth into the team."

The Yankees sold Pipp, 32, to the Reds after the season, and he performed well, hitting .291 and driving in 99. His next two years were not as productive, and he retired after 1928.

Pipp finished with a .281 average, 997 RBI, and 1,941 hits over 15 seasons. He played before there were All-Star Games and Gold Glove Awards, but three times he was in the top 15 in voting for the Most Valueable Player Award. He also led the American League in home runs twice — the first Yankee to do so.

While those numbers fall short of the Hall of Fame, they show a career to be proud of. Pipp just had the misfortune of getting a little old when one of the all-time greats was ready to take the stage.

Pipp died in 1965 just shy of his 72nd birthday, and his family still lives in the Grand Rapids area.

He’ll never be in Cooperstown, but he was a member of the first class of the Grand Rapids Sports Hall of Fame when it was established in 1972.

Technically, I haven’t paid my respects in person. But I’ll be sure to make my over to Woodlawn Cemetery when the snow is gone — maybe on June 2.

Baseball Place No. 7: The Green Monster

Getting the Green Monster ready before game in 1991.

There are many words you could have used to describe Shea Stadium. “Intimate” was not one of them.

It is, however, the perfect way to describe Fenway Park.

Technically, Josh Pahigian targets only one part of the ballpark, the “Green Monster” as stop No. 7 in his list of “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

But I don’t see how you could go without the entire Fenway experience. There’s a reason Ray Kinsella was sent to the Boston Red Sox’s home in “Field of Dreams.” It’s darn near perfect.

Boston was a little more than two hours away from our town in Connecticut, a longer drive, but do-able.

Rich overlooks the Fenway field.

Rich is a Boston native, attended hundreds of Fenway games and was happy to show me his stomping grounds during my three years there.

My only ballpark experiences at this point were Shea, the disaster in the Bronx and Busch Stadium in St. Louis. All were large, modern stadia surrounded by parking lots and garages with lights mounted atop multiple decks.

But we were practically on top of Fenway before I even saw it. Rich is a master at finding parking spaces tucked into the surrounding neighborhoods, and I vividly remember walking through the blocks surrounding the parks, past the bars and shops.

The streets were filled with vendors, and the smell of sausages, peppers and onion on huge grills beckoned. Rich pointed out that it is far better to enjoy the smell than to eat one of the sandwiches, especially with a two-hour drive home. He spoke from experience.

And there was a massive old souvenir store on Yawkey Way packed with some items that probably were sitting on those shelves for decades – my favorite kind! I picked up an ancient plastic snow globe that for some reason has a moving see-saw with a batter and pitcher. I treasure it.


We walked around the back to see the other side of the Green Monster, which was neither green nor monstrous from that angle. But we could readily see batting practice home runs flying both into and over the net.

We entered through a rear gate for our seat in the centerfield bleachers, and there was then-rookie Ellis Burks standing on the other side of a chain-link fence in the tunnel, happily talking to fans and signing autographs.

There’s really nothing to prepare for that first glimpse of the Fenway’s field from the inside. But I understood immediately when I read that colorful Athletics pitcher Joaquin Andujar reportedly stepped out of the dugout before his first game there and said, “What is this? Are we playing softball today?”

Rich took me on a tour, first of the seats behind the bullpens, where you can look through the slats into where the players sit. I was less than a foot from Phil Niekro, which I thought was really cool.

Rich pointed out the cool little quirks, such as the Morse code hidden in the lines of the scoreboard, and the spot at the end of the press box where owner Jean Yawkey watched the games.

We sat in a spot called “The Triangle, a small section of the bleachers framed by the mighty monster itself.

We often snagged seats either in that spot or near it, and I was always amazed at the interaction between players and the fans, who were so close to the action. There was heckling, but much of it was good natured and even funny. I remember Brett Butler of the Indians one night cracking up and turning around to smile and wink when he thought one was particularly good.

We were semi-regular Fenway visitors over the next three years, dividing our trips between Shea, Yankee Stadium and Fenway depending on who was in town.


Two visits in particular stand out.

I brought my wife to Boston for Valentine’s Day weekend the first year we were married, and it was brutally cold. Naturally, I had to show her Fenway, even though it was the dead of winter. And like Rich had taught me, I grabbed the first possible space I found.

“Aren’t we far from the stadium?” my wife asked.

“Trust me, we’ll never get one anywhere near the place. I speak from experience.”

Of course, every other time I experienced this was when there was a game, and we turned the corner to see block after block of empty street spaces.

Don't let the smile fool you. This person is in trouble.

I am reminded of this to this day. And I still apologize. It was really cold.

My last visit was memorable for different reasons. Fenway was the last stop on our 1991 ballpark tour with Will and our colleague John.

The game, against the Chicago White Sox, went back and forth, and of course included Frank Thomas, one of our favorite players.

Boston was up 8-7 when future Met Robin Ventura smacked his second homer of the game tie it in the ninth.

The game went to the 14th inning, when Ozzie Guillen opened with a single and was sacrificed to second. Ventura was walked, and Frank loaded the bases with a single. Dan Pasqua singled to bring Guillen and Ventura home. Then Frank, by no means a base-stealer was caught trying to swipe home.

Our man Frank goes up against Dennis Lamp.

Bobby Thigpen then came in and closed down Boston to give the Chisox a hard-earned win.

But we soon learned that Will's Civic (not John's) was broken into, with some thugs stealing one of his cameras and some of the film he had shot at some of our previous ballpark stops. It wasn’t pretty.

So I need to get back there one more time and leave Boston with a happier feeling.

Baseball Place No. 6: Rickwood Field. (And 6A: Old Comiskey Park)

I’ve never been to Alabama. I’ve never even been close to Alabama.

So this is the first time that Josh Pahigian has tread somewhere where I have not. But when these things happen, I shall offer up an alternative site.

Josh taps historic Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama, as No. 6 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Built in 1910, it’s the oldest standing professional ballpark in the country. It was home to the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro Leagues, then the minor-league Barons until 1988 when it was semi-retired. Future Met Willie Mays played there as a teen-ager.

I’m sure it’s a great place. But I’m reminded of another ballpark that was built in 1910, and was used for two years after Rickwood became more museum than ballpark.

Baseball Place No. 6A: Old Comiskey Park


I attended five games at what was called “The Baseball Palace of the World.”

The first was in 1988, when I was in Peoria and had a day to myself before a job interview, and boldly made the two-hour drive to see.

There was a game with my buddy Rich in, 1990, the park’s final year. Will and I returned for the final two games, and we had enough adventures on that trip to fill a week of blogs. We’ll get to those days at some point.

But Rich, his friend Mark and I included Comiskey as part of a glorious, week-long baseball road trip through parks of the Midwest. That, too, was a pretty wild day and the source of our tale today.

Our trek took us to Wrigley, Comiskey, Milwaukee, Detroit, Toronto and Cleveland, with all kinds of side trips.

I convinced my editors at the Bridgeport Post and Telegram to allow me to write all this as a travel story. This was approval to contact each of the teams and secure press passes.

Unlike Fenway Park and Wrigley Field, Comiskey isn’t tucked into a neighborhood surrounded by shops and bars. Instead, you pull up and see train tracks, parking and housing projects that you didn’t dare venture near.

And while the other parks had a aesthetic charm, Comiskey was a misshapen pile of whitewashed bricks with its name painted on in green paint in a style that looked like some high school art students were kept busy for a couple days.

It was neither pretty nor trendy, and carried an element of danger. Needless to say, we loved it.

I was pretty green, which explains why I wore my White Sox jersey as hopped on the field, press pass dangling around my neck. OK, I was really green. I cringe at this memory.


The Sox were playing the Texas Rangers, managed by once and future Met Bobby Valentine. Bobby V was from Connecticut, owned a sports restaurant in Milford that was a frequent haunt.

I saw him hanging around the batting cage, summoned my courage and approached him. Bobby was very pleasant, and I explained that we were from Connecticut, told him how much I enjoyed his restaurant.

“Gimme your pad,” he said, and wrote “Mike, Mark, Jan or whomever. Please take great care of Dave. He’s doing a great job. Buy him. Bobby Valentine.” Naturally, I prized the note more than the nachos and never presented it.

I then said something lame like, “Let me get a photo for the folks back home.” Bobby humored me, even waving, before I ran off to get more photos.

And I was shooting everything that moved, or didn’t move. Players, batting helmets, caps, gloves, bats – it was all fair game.


Sox outfielder Eddie Williams was relaxing in the dugout as I snapped away.

“Mr. Williams, would it be OK if I took your picture?” I bravely asked.

“Might as well. You’re taking pictures of everything else,” he said with a smile.

Then I joined Mark and Rich to explore the rest of the stadium, which was full of quirky corridors, alcoves and arches. We met famous organist Nancy Faust and discovered Andy the Clown, a stadium fixture who was trilled to talk to us. Mark even snagged a foul ball.

Mark meets Andy the Clown. Note Andy's light-up nose!

Mark and Rich are diehard Red Sox fans, that’s important to know. After the game we were walking around some more, and Rich recognized John McNamara, the former red Sox manager.

He was fired the year before and was working as a scout. He signed Mark’s ball and my pad, and I noticed his huge ring, which looked kind of like a World Series ring with the Red Sox “B” logo. I knew it couldn’t be a Series ring, since his Sox famously lost to our Mets three years prior.

“Nice ring,” I said. “What’s that for?”

“The American League championship from ’86,” he said. “One out away. One more out and it would have been a much bigger ring.”

I could not believe that the man who made the infamous decision to send Bill Buckner out to field first base at the end of Game Six -- move that brought me so much joy when it turned sour for him – was right there talking about the move.

I decided not to tell him about my Mets fandom, or thank him for the move.

Rich, however, brought up McNamara’s unfortunate recent firing, and McNamara then went off on an absolute tirade about Boston Globe sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy, whom he blamed for the dismissal.



McNamara was getting really worked up, and we started backing away slowly.

The next night we saw the Red Sox play the Brewers in Milwaukee, recognized, Shaughnessy and told him about McNamara’s outburst.

“Well, glad he’s not bitter,” he said.

We had a lot more fun that day than in Comiskey’s final two games, which the Sox could have handled better.

We went to the new ballpark the following season, and watched as crews demolished the Baseball Palace of the World, which was even sadder.




Today, all that remains of Old Comiskey is a marble marker where home plate sat, and foul lines painted in what is now a parking lot across the street.

Scott and Will pose with the Comiskey home plate marker prior to BaseballTruth Executive Game 1