Braves.Today.Com

By Bud L. Ellis
braves.today.com

ATLANTA — They pressed their faces to the gate, staring through the bars toward the field of dreams where, for the past two summers, they have spent quality time with dear ol’ Dad (and, yes, at times with Mom, too).

“Can we go in,” asks Rhett, my 5-year-old who doesn’t accept “no” lying down.

The old journalist in me laughs at his persistence as I patiently try to explain to Rhett and his 6-year-old brother, Chas, that no, it’s not time yet to enter Turner Field. We will be here Friday night, tickets in hand, for the Braves’ home opener, the third home opener in a row my sons have attended.

But on this day, we’re playing tourists.

Or, to be more specific, we’re playing a dad on much-needed vacation from work, with two sons on spring break. An afternoon lunch at The Varsity, followed by a surprise stop-over at the home of the Braves, before we point the car south toward the southern rim of the capital city.

It’s a sun-splashed Wednesday afternoon. The Braves are an hour away from playing their third game of the season, one in which the bullpen totally implodes in losing to Philadelphia. We’re more than 48 hours away from Friday’s home opener against Washington.

But for my boys — and for myself — being here on this day is meaningful. It’s our re-introduction to a place where we’ll spend plenty of time during the next six months.

In Monument Plaza, we stop to take pictures by all the plaques and statues that remind us of the great history of this franchise. There are guys who I saw with my own two eyes, folks like Phil Niekro and Dale Murphy. There are ones who I heard about from my grandfather, like Warren Spahn and Hank Aaron and Eddie Matthews.

To this day, it boggles my mind that we’re strolling through a place that once upon a time served as a parking lot for old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. I wrote a column the day of the All-Star game back in 2000 waxing poetic on strolling through that parking lot — which today is Turner Field — holding my grandfather’s hand as we left old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium.

And now here I am, holding the hands of my own little double-play combination, walking alongside the new Home of the Braves, amid reminders everywhere of the rich history of my team.

“Who’s that?,” asks Chas, intrigued by the weird way the statue before us is holding the baseball.

“That’s Phil Niekro,” I say, explaining how Knucksie held the knuckleball that led him into the hearts of Braves fans everywhere, that paced a career that led Niekro to 318 career victories and a spot in the Hall of Fame. I go on to tell the story of a 43-year-old Niekro winning 17 games — and homering in his final regular-season start — in 1982, leading the Braves to the NL West title and causing me, as a 9-year-old, to feel like Christmas had come early. I also speak of how gracious and funny Niekro was to talk to, having interviewed him several times during my newspaper career.

This is the essence of baseball, of passing down the names, the memories, the history of the grand old game, from one generation to the next. One minute, I’m explaining that Eddie Matthews hit 521 career homers and is the only player who played for the Braves in Boston, Milwaukee and Atlanta. The next, I’m showing my guys the Magnolia tree planted in honor of the Atlanta Crackers. A minute later, I’m giving a lesson on Jackie Robinson and all he endured to pave the way for so many of the heroes of today …

One of the coolest things, though, is the fixation my boys have with the parking lot on the north side of Turner Field. From 1966-1996, that lot was a yard in and of itself, Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, where I spent countless days and nights with my grandfather as a kid, and with buddies and girlfriends in my high school and college days.

It’s where I saw Francisco Cabrera swing and Sid Bream slide to win the pennant in 1992. It’s where I saw David Justice go yard and Tom Glavine bedazzle and Marquis Grissom glove the final out of Game 6 of the 1995 World Series, thrusting the Braves into the hall of champions.

The old diamond is laid out in the parking lot, and we re-enacted both of those grand moments on a sunny April afternoon. Amazed at the distance in comparison to how far they must run in their Little League games, nonetheless, Chas lumbered around third and raced home just like Bream.

(I don’t think Barry Bonds would’ve thrown Chas out, either.)

“Wow dad,” Chas exclaims, “look at that.”

We stop by the spot marking Aaron’s record-breaking 715th career homer. I’m disappointed that I didn’t realize, until listening to the Braves’ pregame show on the way home, that we performed this exercise on the 35th anniversary of the Hammer’s passing of the Babe on the all-time home-run list.

“It landed here?,” Chas asks.

“Yes son,” I said, unable to hide the smile at my son asking about one of my hometown’s grandest moments. “At this very spot, Hank Aaron became baseball’s home-run king.”

As we pile into our Toyota Camry and prepare to leave, I pull to a spot down the right-field line.

“Imagine there is a stadium here,” I said. “Picture yourself in the upper level, directly above where we are sitting … this is the spot where I was when the Braves won the 1995 World Series.”

The mere thought of it makes my kids giddy, and it makes the hairs stand up on my arms. Both boys start firing questions at me, asking what was it like to see this moment or that moment.

I pause, then collect myself.

“Above all else, above the playoff games and the great players, this place takes me back to being your age, to watching baseball with my grandfather,” I said.

The car falls silent. We drive around the bases, and we turn toward the Downtown Connector. It’s quiet in the car, but I feel something over me.

It’s the greatness of this great sport taking hold of me. A generation ago, I was asking the questions. Today, I’m answering them.

Baseball, and the process of teaching the next generation, marches on.

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