My Lifelong Relationship with Larry Bowa: A Man I've Never Met

I’m sure I did a half-assed job of any homework that I might have had, an even more half-assed job than I normally do. But I had to make it look good, I couldn’t just run right back downstairs, so I waited about a half-hour, most likely fifteen minutes. I ran down the steps, jumping down the last four, like I always did. My mom was telling me to bundle up; she said that it was going to be cold at the stadium. For some reason my mother always thought that it would be colder at the game than it was at our house. Strangely I still believe that to this day, and I even use that same line on my son. But I didn’t care, I was just happy to be going to the game. My dad had gotten two tickets from some guy at work, who couldn’t go: his loss. I grabbed my baseball glove, my Phillies hat and two jackets as my mom suggested. My dad and I got into his tan Oldsmobile and headed out. I sat in the front passenger’s side seat, unseat-belted and staring out of the side window. My father put on the radio and lit up a cigarette. “Here, hold these,” he said as he handed me the tickets. Two tickets, gray and white, which I held onto tightly, like my life depended on it. I looked at them and studied them closely. September 26, 1980, Philadelphia Phillies vs. Montreal Expos, Section 238. My dad said that the seats were on the third base side; they were season tickets that some guy at his work couldn’t use. ‘What?’ I thought, ‘couldn’t use? What could be more important than a Phillies game?’ With the windows rolled up, the interior of the car quickly filled with second-hand smoke from my father’s cigarette. Second-hand smoke wasn’t considered that big of a deal back then and truthfully it didn’t really faze me at all. I kind of liked it. Even today when I get a lung full of someone’s lit cigarette, it feels kind of comforting in a way. My dad and I didn’t talk much on the way to game. It didn’t take long for him to start bitching about the traffic either. Traffic was a big deal to my dad. You could see his demeanor change the moment things got congested. I knew not to bother him during these times, just sit back and shut up, before he told me to sit back and shut up. I looked out of the side window and brought my baseball glove up to my face. I loved the way it smelled up close. Eventually we made it through the snarling traffic and parked what seemed to be three miles from the stadium. My dad made me hand him back the tickets. He then told me to remember where we parked and pointed to the light pole, which had the number eleven on it. Eleven, I got it. Walking into Veterans Stadium was exciting, the smell of popcorn or at least I think it was popcorn. The sound of the guy yelling “programs, yearbooks!” The ticket-taker ripped our tickets in half and handed the stubs back to my dad. I passed through the small green turnstile and I was in. My father was looking at the map on the wall, trying to figure out the fastest way to our seats. I peeked through the tunnel and looked at the field. I saw the green Astro-Turf, the green just popped out. It was greener than I’ve ever seen on television. The players were on the field, stretching, running and warming up, I was in awe. “This way,” my father barked out, snapping me from my trance. We found our way to the seats. They were the best seats we ever had. They were on the third base side, about 20 rows behind the dugout. “You want a hotdog?” my father asked. “Okay,” I said. “Wait here,” he ordered. I immediately started looking for Larry Bowa, searching the first base side, where the Phillies were warming up. Trillo, nope. Maddox, nope. Schmidt, God no. There he is, running in the outfield. There he was, Larry Bowa, right there in the flesh. I watched every move he made. I watched how he talked to his teammates and how he joked and laughed. I watched how he seemed to ignore the people along the first base side who were yelling for his autograph. During the game Larry batted left handed, which was fine with me, because I had a better view of him from that side of the plate. He choked up on the bat, the same way I do, and hit a single his first time up. I’m guessing that he didn’t do much after that, because I don’t remember. What I do remember is Bake McBride hitting a walk off homerun in the bottom of the 9th inning to beat the Expos. I remember the stadium being so loud. I was cheering and screaming. I looked at my dad; he was standing and clapping but not screaming. Larry and the boys piled out of the dugout the greet Bake McBride as he crossed home plate. “Let’s go,” my dad said over the deafening noise as he headed up the aisle trying to beat the traffic, which was to no avail. Traffic was a killer on the way home, all the way from pole eleven, to the pushed in screen of my front door. But I didn’t mind my father’s grumblings this time. What a game we saw, what a night, a walk-off homer, the Phils were in first place and Bowa got a hit. I was content to just to sit back, shut up and smell my glove on the way home.