Feb. 14, and a young man's heart turns to .... baseball, of course.
My memory was jogged yesterday by two things. Those three glorious words - pitchers and catchers.
Yes, the Phillies are back in Clearwater. Spring can't be far behind.
But I also noted another famous Phillies event yesterday in my daily 'Today's Upper' item that I post online.
It was on Feb. 13, 1953, that they changed the name of the famous edifice at 21st and Lehigh in North Philadelphia from Shibe Park to Connie Mack Stadium.
While I was daydreaming about warm summer nights and baseball, my mind drifted back all those years ago.
It was then that I remembered my very first trip to Connie Mack, which did not turn out so well.
Remember, we lived out in the sticks in southern Chester County.
Our father, a proud native of Southwest Philly, would collect his sons one day each summer and make the jaunt in to see our beloved Phils.
Actually, that was just the icing on the cake. Dad would use the day to visit his brother Charles, who just happened to own a fairly famous taproom at 33rd and Market streets. Heron's was just down the street from Franklin Field, and was a favorite watering hole for several members of the Eagles.
But for my father, it was a chance to spend an afternoon with his brother, talk about old times, and enjoy a few cold beverages.
My brothers and I would play endless games of shuffleboard bowling on the machine in the corner, while wolfing down roast beef sandwiches and root beers.
For years I had to watch, being the youngest in the family, as my older brothers piled into dad's massive old Pontiac to make the trek into the city. Mom still considered me too young for the city sights. I guess I must have been about 9 or 10 when she finally consented to me joining this decidedly boys' adventure. It was sometime in the early '60s.
I was beside myself.
The Dodgers were in town.
Now my father was not the kind of man who carefully planned out these things. Remember, the key part of the day for him was sitting at that bar and visiting his brother.
I had heard so many stories from my brothers about how the grass at Connie Mack was the purest green they had ever seen.
Eventually, we drove up to North Philadelphia, found a parking spot in the neighborhood, and dad obliged the kids who approached and offered to "watch the car for a quarter." Dad let it be known that it was not a good idea to ignore their pitch.
It wasn't until we approached the stadium that I sensed a bit of trouble.
There was a long line at the ticket window.
We made our way to the back of the line and waited.
And waited.
Eventually, a gentleman appeared to offer the sad news. That night's twi-nighter was sold out.
On my first trip to Connie Mack Stadium, I did not get in.
And for good reason.
The starting pitchers that night for the Dodgers? Just a couple of guys you might have heard of named Koufax and Drysdale.
Can you believe it?
I made several trips to Connie Mack with dad, and yes, I can still remember just how green that grass was.
But I'll never forget my first trip.
A church now stands at 21st and Lehigh. They tore Connie Mack down years ago.
That was before baseball rediscovered its soul - and its past - first in places like Camden Yard in Baltimore, then at Citizens Bank Park in South Philly.
But there will never be another place like Connie Mack.
Not to a 10-year-old kid whose eyes were bigger than those massive circles on the Ballantine scoreboard.
Even on a night when he didn't get in.
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