I found a Philadelphia postcard a couple of years ago in an Old City gift shop that I snapped up immediately. It was because I knew the sight pictured on that card would someday soon be dust in the wind — and that sight just happened to be a great, inescapable part of my neighborhood.
That postcard of the Vet now hangs on my office door — certainly not a sign of a great editor, as it’s spelled "Veteran’s Stadium" on the photo. But then, through my years here, I’ve found myself removing many an apostrophe from, or adding an "s" to, the Vet’s formal name.
If only I was as successful in editing its reputation.
The not-so-old ballpark took a lot of abuse in the last few years, perhaps as a scapegoat for the city’s ebbing pro football and baseball performances. When it wasn’t enough to boo the players, the playing surface was vilified. (The Vet should have responded with bumper stickers: "Don’t like my turf? Call 1-800-EAT-GRASS.")
But what do I know? I’m an admitted bandwagon-jumper. I root for our home teams, sure — especially when they’re already winning. Life can be heartbreaking enough without having to suffer losses within our sports franchises. A proud citizen can handle only so much degradation of her fair city.
Thus, the earsplitting criticism of Veterans Stadium fell on my deaf consciousness. Call it sappy nostalgia if you like, but in my part of town, we all hailed the concrete crown of the neighborhood, our personal coliseum. We were close enough to see it and to hear it and to host its spectators in our coveted parking spots, but not close enough to smell any of its so-called failures.
It was, and still is, a building.
It was, and will be, a blast.
It was, and will remain, a vital chunk of history — for the city, for the sports teams, for the fans and neighbors who loved it and hated it and anything else in between.
Like all the other neighborhood kids, I sneaked into the Vet for Phillies games on occasion. Back then, before we knew of an Osama bin Laden and before kids were toting guns into their classrooms, security was happily not tight at the stadium, and kids weren’t considered threatening. We routinely moved down to sit close to the field — and not in the latter innings, either.
My favorite sound was not the synchronized chants and cheers of the crowd but the one coming from the big guy who routinely worked the upper levels: "SO-DA!" For reasons known only to Freud, I found this hugely funny and giggled for hours on end.
I remember jumping over a railing at one of the glorious and victorious playoff games of ’83 and losing a gold bracelet in all the screaming excitement. (If anyone’s found it since then, I think I can still identify it.)
I waited like the groupie I am for the players to show up for practice before the games. Some of them snubbed us, and some of them were downright nasty about it. (I won’t mention any growling, paranoid pitchers whose numbers — 32 — were retired.)
Schmitty signed but never spoke. Rose and Tugger and Trillo and Sammy were more than fan-friendly. But, being a preteen girl, I favored the lanky Von Hayes. Though I’d gotten his signature several times, I wanted him to autograph my softball glove. (Once upon an adolescence, I actually used a softball glove, and to catch softballs.)
Accompanied by the neighborhood boys of summer, I accomplished that mission one sunny afternoon outside the bowels of the Vet, and it would have been a sweaty yet sweet memory — had Dallas Green not been there to taunt me through my early teens.
"Now hold on ‘ere, daddy long-legs." That’s what he said to me as I jumped up and down in a crowd of mostly young boys who were mostly much shorter than me.
Bad enough I was all spindly legs and an inch of torso, but that snide little comment from the J.R. Ewing of baseball — was I actually clamoring for his autograph? — provided at least a year’s worth of impetus for the boys of the block to mock me.
I still get twisted when I see Dally Green.
Then there was the time the Phanatic tried to run me over in the concourse.
But that’s all water over the stands now as I behold the lonely stadium from my front bedroom window — dark and dethroned.
Admittedly, I attended few events at the Vet in the last decade. My childhood love for baseball waned as career and other interests moved in. But the white circle that remained part of my neighborhood skyline always reminded me of the good ol’ days in southern South Philly. The days when walking three blocks to the ol’ stadium wasn’t considered exercise, and my biggest worry was whether one of the three Bonafiglia brothers was going to pick me ahead of the other three girls on the block for their handball team in the back driveway.
In so many ways, the Vet was an extension of our playground.
I was in the ladies’ room at the Vet (no, I wasn’t the one who walked out with a toilet seat around my neck) when I heard Harry Kalas over the PA system: " … in the final game here at Veterans Stadium." Of all places for reality to hit me, perhaps fittingly it was there. Until then, the strange blend of contemplation and exhilaration among a sellout crowd of 58,594 and dozens of baseball greats was surreal to me — someone who had been lucky enough to get in as a member of the press and roam about like I was 12 again.
When Harry belted out Auld Lang Syne from the field during closing ceremonies — tearful reality.
Compiling this special issue just brought it all home. I’ve read it all, and if I were you, I wouldn’t miss a word of it — not fact nor figure nor fan tribute to this ol’ Vet.
Oh, what an implosion it’s going to be. Considering I welled up when the Naval Hospital came down, I doubt I’ll be unemotional on that day in February. And I know I’ll have plenty of crying company.
The prospect of a new South Philly skyline — already half built — is attractive enough, even to a person who hates letting go. But my vision would have kept that not-so-old ballpark in the picture. Parking lot? No, an office building — for the Review, of course.
But alas, to dust it shall return.
And the Vet will become a true South Philly veteran.
So thanks for the Vet-mories — until, at the demolition, we weep again.
