Author: jasoncards

I’ll admit when I think of the Landmarks Committee and the SABR Baseball Map, what I love most is the mapping and chronicling of the obscure, out of the way spots that–like the brush dabs of a Monet–are so easily overlooked but collectively amount to a the masterpiece that is the geography of our National Pastime. Drive three hours south to see the pedestal a Jim Bottomley statue once stood atop? I’m there! An abandoned ballpark where minor league history was made? Count me in! A home plate inside a hospital? Why not!

Forgive me then for writing about the absolute least off the beaten path landmark of them all: Yankee Stadium. “Ah, you almost had us, Jason. Surely you mean the footprint of the old Yankee Stadium, the original House that Ruth Built!” Nope. “Good one then. Old Hilltop Park, home of the Highlanders? Nice!” Nope again. I’m talking about the Yankee Stadium the actual New York Yankees play in right now. “Sublime! We can’t wait to read about the obscure features and history only a top notch SABR researcher like yourself might uncover!” Oh, how I wish!

No big reveal awaits, only one fan’s reaction to visiting the most famous baseball site in the world for the very first time. The occasion was Game 3 of the 2024 World Series between (of course) the New York Yankees and my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers. Having never been to a World Series, much less one matching these two titans, some prodding from a friend convinced me this would be the year to cross off the ultimate baseball bucket list item. Plan A would naturally be to fly to Los Angeles, crash with friends, and cheer for my team surrounded by my fellow Dodger fans. However, various family and work commitments meant that Game 3 in New York was my only option. Framed differently, however, my rigid schedule was actually a blessing since it meant I’d also cross off a second bucket lister, Yankee Stadium itself.

Though I landed in Newark clad head to toe in Dodger Blue, I was not entering enemy territory. Apart from its sports teams, I am a New York super fan. I love everything else about the city, and most of all I love its people. In the same way that tourists used to visit the Los Angeles I grew up in and get excited if they saw a celebrity, I get excited just looking out the window of a cab (a New York taxicab!) or walking down the street and seeing ordinary New Yorkers and their unmatched mix of class, cool, and attitude. 

My friend found us a hotel near Central Park and West 94th Street, about 4 miles from the Stadium. It wasn’t much to look at inside or out, but that was no matter. Our total stay in New York would be less than 24 hours before I’d head back to Chicago and she’d head back to L.A. Rather than take the subway right by the hotel, which would involve a transfer we might screw up, we opted to walk half a mile and catch the “B” line, which had its 161st Street exit right outside the Stadium. 

As you might expect our train was filled with other fans heading to the game, though none in Dodger gear. The baseball nerd in me loved seeing various jersey numbers and guessing the player. Of course, most were gimmes like “2” and “99.” For most of the quick ride made conversation with a dad who was taking his two kids to their first World Series. As excited as I was for this game, I can’t even imagine how magical it would have been to me as a kid when even a meaningless Dodgers-Astros game in May was the kind of thing I looked forward to for a month and couldn’t stop talking about for months afterward. Lucky kids. 

I believe our train was underground the entire time, so there was no real scenery to speak of beyond the sea of pinstriped jerseys. However, this was a feature, not a bug, as it meant we had no approaching view of the ballpark. Rather, when we exited the station and stepped into the light for the very first time, the majesty of Yankee Stadium hit us all at once. Bam! It was awesome, and I don’t really have words for its full frontal assault on the senses. Let’s just say the ballpark 100% makes its presence felt.

We entered through Gate 6 to a vista without subtlety. On banners above us there were Yankee legends lined up as far as the eye could see. Even knowing the history of the franchise, I stood there in disbelief at the number of absolute legends who have worn the pinstripes. This is literally a team where a healthy debate could be had as to whether Joe DiMaggio belongs on its Mount Rushmore. Joe DiMaggio.

As we made our way to Monument Park, we passed all the things you expect to pass at any modern ballpark: restrooms, sushi stands, gift shops, etc. However, like much in New York, the ordinary took on a magnitude not found elsewhere. This wasn’t just a men’s room. This was a MEN’S ROOM AT YANKEE STADIUM!

The fans were spectacular too. The jerseys I saw most were of the modern greats: Jeter, Judge, and Mariano, and they served as a reminder that the Yankees “big three” of this century alone could hold their own against the all-time big three of many baseball franchises. Of course, just to remind everyone that the Yankees had other great players too, there was the occasional 3, 5, or 7, not to mention deeper cuts like 15, 20, and 26. Oddly, I don’t recall seeing a single 44, which is THE jersey to wear if you’re looking to petition the baseball gods for postseason miracles.

Monument Park itself was essentially where the random bombardment of Yankee greatness gave way to order. So famous is the Yankee pantheon that there was no reason to even read the plaques. Our very DNA as baseball fans is constituted from the stories and achievements of these men. Ask most fans to tell you about a player on their team who won five World Series and they quickly realize there aren’t any. Ask a Yankee fan, and they ask “Which one?” or “Only five?”

That said, Monument Park was not without welcome surprises, including plaques honoring Nelson Mandela, Stonewall, 9/11, and various Papal visits. However, an unwelcome surprise was that the largest monument by far belonged neither to Ruth nor Gehrig nor Mantle but to George Steinbrenner. Could there be any greater blasphemy in Baseball’s holiest temple? I get it that the Yankees won some titles under his tenure, but what Yankees owner hasn’t won titles? Yankee fans will have to let me know what they think of this. I suppose the Dodger equivalent would be a statue of Walter O’Malley four times the size of our Jackie Robinson and Sandy Koufax statues. I just don’t get it.

Our next stop might have been the Yankee Museum, but we opted instead to grab dinner and head to our seats, which were by no means close. We were in Section 408, which technically qualified as in the ballpark but equally felt halfway to the Moon. Had the Goodyear blimp made a flyover, we might have had to duck. We would have sooner been struck by a comet or asteroid than a foul ball.

Without a doubt the ballpark had seats with better views of the playing field, but I’m not sure any had better views of the Stadium itself. I sure wasn’t going to complain. I was at Yankee Stadium for the World Series. If this wasn’t living the dream, it was at least living the movie, specifically “Arthur.” For one thing, the film came out in 1981, the last time the Yankees and Dodgers met in the Fall Classic. For another, its theme song was essentially an ode to our seats.

When you get caught between the moon and New York City
I know it’s crazy, but it’s true
If you get caught between the moon and New York City
The best that you can do
The best that you can do
Is fall in love

And fall in love I did!

A wedding brought my family to Mobile, Alabama, for the weekend. While time did not permit many baseball adventures, we did carve out just enough of a Saturday morning to check out two landmarks of Hank Aaron’s Mobile.

First up on our tour was the Hammer’s childhood home, which for several years doubled as a museum. Though the Baseball Map had this landmark located at Hank Aaron Stadium, Mobile’s minor league ballpark, I was glad to have queried SABR local Patrick Bone in advance.

In fact, the Aaron house no longer resides at the park but instead in the Aaron family’s old Toulminville neighborhood, outside the Mobile Police Department’s Third Precinct where it sits indefinitely closed and inaccessible to the public.

I don’t think this is the city’s permanent plan for the landmark. At the moment I think there is simply no plan. Personally I have no idea what it would cost in terms of dollars and time to give the museum a more permanent home and open it to the public. Still, I have to imagine some combination of private and public support would be out there the second the city asked.

Anyone wondering why the house left its ballpark location in the first place would quickly find the answer upon pulling up to 755 Bolling Brothers Blvd.

The ballpark, like its former tenants, the Bay Bears, are no more. Instead we have the Rocket City Trash Pandas up in Madison, Alabama, and a whole lotta land for sale.

Fortunately, there are still some signs of the Hammer, for however short a time they’ll survive vandals, scavengers, or a next owner’s future plans. Though inaccessible by car, a short walk takes you to the front of the stadium where an Aaron stand-up and ground site marker are quickly found situated on a well manicured patch of grass.

Here is a close-up of the marker itself, which honors the five Hall of Famers born in Mobile: Satchel Paige, Hank Aaron, Willie McCovey, Billy Williams, and Ozzie Smith.

On the other side of the circular patch of grass are individual plaques for these same five Mobile legends. (Though of interest to nobody but me, I can’t help but remark here that the first plaque honors Leroy Robert Paige, and the wedding that brought us here was that of Robert and Paige.)

The landscaping of this patch of grass along with the excellent condition of the plaques definitely belies what becomes apparent upon approaching the stadium entrance. So much for the once grand Hank Aaron poster that greeted visitors!

And what of the “Hank Aaron Stadium” marquee once perched above the entrance? My wife’s keen eyes spotted it unceremoniously ditched behind a gazebo.

Here are the poster and marquee in better days.

Landmark czars Racanelli and Kamka will have to let us know if the ballpark’s Hall of Fame keeps its status given that one can no longer enter but can peep some plaques through the fence. Here are the plaques for Ben Davis and Kevin Towers, for example. About eight such plaques are visible in all.

Continuing past the entrance, you are able to see the back of the stadium’s scoreboard, which I’ll regard generously as the last of the site’s highlights, before returning to the main road.

More or less going 0 for 2 on my pilgrimage to the birthplace of a baseball demigod, I couldn’t help but grapple with a single thought.

How do you put the Hammer’s name on something and let it die?

That evening we took our seats in the pew as Robert and Paige prepared to wed. Father Jones, in fairness just doing his job, reminded us we were all sinners. As Henry Aaron’s Mobile landmarks stood somewhere between dormant and dying, the truth of these words, for the very first time, hit me and left a mark.

A recent work trip took me to Alabama…Prattville, specifically. If you don’t know exactly where that is, you’re much like I was when it was time to book my travel. About 15 minutes north on 65 from Montgomery, it turns out.

“Schwartz,” I said, as I handed my license to the clerk at the rental car counter. I didn’t imagine it to be an everyday last name in this part of the country.

“And you’re sure you have a car here?”

Like all modern travelers these days I took out my phone to search frantically through emails for my confirmation. Relieved it have found it quickly, I handed my phone to the clerk who would no doubt be a little embarrassed to have lost track of such an organized traveler.

“Sir, this is out of Montgomery.”

“Okay…?”

“And you’re in Birmingham.”

It was at this point that something I’d known intellectually for decades but had never really processed hit me like a ton of bricks. Montgomery and Birmingham, whatever their similarities, are in fact different cities.

Having forfeited all chances to play it cool, I asked the obvious.

“Nope, not far. You could get there in about two hours…”

Long pause.

“…if you had a car.”

“I take it you’re out of cars then?”

“Yep. Whole airport’s out.”

Taking a Lyft into town I was able to procure wheels from an Enterprise with one vehicle remaining, a rather large Dodge Ram pickup, and checked the map—the SABR Baseball Map that is!

Ten minutes later, there I was. The marker says it all: “The oldest surviving ballpark in America.”

I asked a guy packing baseball equipment into his truck if it was okay to go inside. “Yeah, sure thing. Have fun.”

“Satchel Paige faced Josh Gibson here,” I thought to myself. “I will definitely have fun.”

At first I simply stared out at the field. It was a site that shouldn’t exist anymore: a ballpark 113 years old being worked on for a game the same evening. So let me try again. This was a site that should exist. Living history.

The groundskeeper was fine with my walking around the field but asked that I avoid the infield dirt.

He also gave me a tip I might have missed on my own. “Go through the gate by the 392 marker to see the original wall.”

It was here I said goodbye to the spray charts of mere mortals and hello to those of Babe Ruth, Josh Gibson, Willie Mays, and Reggie Jackson. I was venturing into the land of 478-foot homers. Holy f*ck.

If I had all day I might have wandered this stretch for hours, rummaging for old toothpicks I might decide were Oscar Charleston’s or, as if it were possible, a baseball or two. Unfortunately I had to pick up some colleagues at the airport. And that would be Montgomery, not Birmingham. Different cities it turns out.

Still, I made some time to visit the gift shop, which doubled as mini-museum.

Checking the baseball map, I also found I had time for a brief stop at the Willie Mays statue outside nearby Regions Field.

And with that, it was time to hit the road. It was a dumb mistake to fly into the wrong city, but it was a smart one too. Plus, it could have been worse. Far worse.

Business brought me to Fort Worth this past week, though a tight schedule prevented me from planning any baseball detours as part of the trip. Too bad since I’m currently working on the SABR Games story that took place in Fort Worth in 1952 and would have benefited greatly from even a few extra hours in town. But then I looked at the map. 🤔

Wait a minute! My meeting (at Tarrant County College) is only a mile from LaGrave Field?! Maybe, just maybe, I can pull this off.

Luck was with me as my event ended almost an hour early, so after saying my goodbyes and packing up my gear I set off on my mile-plus walk to the site of the Texas League’s first of two Dave Hoskins Nights. (If the name is unfamiliar, Hoskins was the two-way sensation who not only broke the Texas League’s Color Barrier in 1952 but was also the circuit’s top draw, top pitcher, and third best hitter. Previously he had starred in the Negro Leagues as part of the Homestead Grays Murderers Row!)

While the second Dave Hoskins Night was hosted by the ace’s home fans in Dallas, this first tribute, on August 28, came from the fans of his team’s crosstown rival, the Fort Worth Cats. Hoskins for his part pitched well enough to reward celebrants with a shutout and his 20th victory of the season. He even banged out two hits for good measure.

So this Dave Hoskins history was what was on my mind as I began the short walk to the ballpark, though Hoskins was hardly the most renowned player to take the field at LaGrave. Two of my favorite Dodgers, for example, were Fort Worth Cats en route to the big leagues: Duke Snider and Maury Wills, the latter breaking the team’s Color Barrier three years after Hoskins integrated the league.

The walk itself started out simple enough but got a bit dicey halfway through. Google’s walking directions had me take Main Street, which for several blocks became more highway than street. That there was no sidewalk over this stretch added adventure if not danger to this part of the journey. To boot, wearing a suit and carrying two travel bags wasn’t exactly optimal for dodging traffic, so I was fortunate that there weren’t many cars at this time of day. I was definitely happy to reach the stretch where the sidewalk resumed.

Abandoning the Google directions, I followed this street sign and turned off Main St. early to take a shortcut through a parking lot. I was quickly rewarded by a view of the ballpark. While taking my first photo, a car pulled up to me and asked if I was trying to get onto the field. Before I could respond fully, the driver warned me that the field was patrolled by a security guard whose car I could now see.

Just seeing the old shuttered ballpark, from any angle, made the walk worthwhile, but I had a second goal. To qualify for SABR Landmark status, abandoned ballparks, no matter how historic, need markers. Would my walk around the perimeter lead me to one?

Bingo!

Shadows didn’t permit a clean shot of the marker, but I could still make out the words.

FORT WORTH CATS HISTORIC LAGRAVE FIELD – Nearly 50 members of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown have played at LaGrave Field over the years.

In better days there was actually a bottom half to the sign, which named the Hall of Famers. In fact, the sign sells the old ballpark short as Satchel Paige and many other Negro League greats played here as well.

Having nabbed a picture of the marker, I also managed a picture of the old ticket office just before the aforementioned security guard interrupted my hardball voyaging.

The concerned watchman let me know they really didn’t like people walking around the ballpark, but he softened his stance somewhat when I told him I was from the Society for American Baseball Research. He asked how much longer I needed to be there and I told him I maybe needed just one more picture from a different spot. Reluctantly, he assented, and thanks to his largesse you are now looking at a shot of the centerfield scoreboard, complete with clock.

Here is an image from Google Maps that shows a much better view while testifying to the overall state of neglect and disrepair to which the ballpark has fallen victim. Graffiti runs the gamut from “Pimp” to “See God in everything.” (Click here for a photo not nearly as depressing.)

Between the watchful eyes of security and a plane to catch, my visit to LaGrave came to a quick end, though not without some humor. Having taken the most direct path to a spot I thought Uber could retrieve me, I sent my driver a helpful note.

“It’s Jason. I’m on Main and 7th, right across the street from…wait, what?!”

I enjoyed my short trek to LaGrave but also left saddened at the current state of the ballpark and its even more uncertain future. It’s easy to picture that even a year down the road, the history I was able to visit will be gone entirely, and with it, I believe, no small part of the cultural wealth and heritage of Fort Worth itself.

Baseball can be played in many places, but that isn’t to say they’re interchangeable. Some places are sacred, and I believe this is one of them. Walt Whitman sung of grass as “the beautiful uncut hair of graves.” Taking some liberty with his verse, here’s hoping the uncut hair of LaGrave might once again provide fans and yawpers alike with “the thrill of the grass.” Until then, if you’ll pardon the “potty” humor, I guess there’s always Bud Sellers. 🤣