The Memory Of A Lifetime: My First MLB Game Pt.1. The Journey Begins.

I remember my first baseball game as if it were yesterday. At the age of 35 there is nothing more disheartening AND exhilarating than going to your first MLB game.

To most, this is a memory that is usually forged in childhood. The proverbial game with Dad, baseball cap hanging so low you have to look up an extra six inches just to see. The hot dog dripping with ketchup, or mustard, down to your sneakers as you watch your team throw around the ball in preparation of the game.

For me, this was a long time coming.

I am a Cubs fan living in New Jersey; about as far away from Wrigley as one can get. Instead of Wrigley I have Bernie Robbins Stadium, once home to the now defunct Independent league Atlantic City Surf.

Instead of fellow Cubbie fans I have nothing but Phillies fans; most of which are my family. If it weren’t for the MLB package I have on the television, I wouldn’t even be able to watch many games.

But, as the saying goes: Que sera, sera.

I enjoy being an outsider. I grew up to the swooning sounds of HK on the radio and the everyday visuals of Mike Schmidt, Von Hayes and his cookie batting stance, and Juan Samuel while secretly reading about Steve Trout (a personal favorite as a kid) Ryne Sandberg, and Andre Dawson—1987 was not a very good year for us but we had a ton of great players, go figure.

I lived in Pennsylvania when I was a kid but every year I would come to New Jersey and live with my cousin for a couple of weeks while also visiting my Grandfather; all of which we Philly fans except my uncle who is a Yankee fan.

My cousins would poke fun because sandwiched between the NLCS of 1984 and NLCS of 1989 we four of the most miserable years I can remember. But it was all in good fun. In fact, only my Grandfather would talk to me about the Cubs. He was Mr. Baseball, and knew just about every damn thing the game could offer a fan—a true baseball encyclopedia.

Fast forward to April 11, 2008 (nine days until my birthday) and I find myself reliving most of the memories while trekking down the Garden State Parkway in route to Citizens Bank Park.

As familiar as that drive has been to me over the course of 35 years, it took on a whole new identity.

Instead of the good old GSP, it was a red carpet laid before me with a throne at the end that had the number 17 at the top.

Instead of another common trip to Philly I found myself at the culmination of a journey that was two and a half decades in the making.

Instead of watching Chicago, I was going to live, breath, and be a part of Chicago—as real as it gets!

I will hand it to Philadelphia, they made a pretty special park in that, anyone, anywhere can watch the game—a true homage to the fans. I haven’t been to any other parks yet, but It was a very intimate experience for me.

I literally crashed through the gate like a kid at his first baseball game—oh wait.

Before my visual cortex had even a smidgen of a chance for overload, my olfactory senses were tantalized with scents of BBQ and pork. The food was trying to flirt, but this was no time for feeding the urge for there was something waiting for me.

In an almost dizzy manner, I made my way around the concourse not even taking noticed that everyone I was with were missing; no matter. I scurried past the thousands of Phillies fans and the sea of red stripes that surrounded me.

I scoffed at the countless “Phillies!” cries and chants. I began to rue the opposition. “No time for that now” I thought.

Then I was stopped dead in my tracks.

To my left, the scene opened up as wide as the ocean unto a beautifully tailored green field; unlike anything I have ever seen before. Players were on the field, seats were beginning to fill up—“MY SEAT, it must be close by now.” The unexpected interruption was unexpectedly interrupted by, what I sometimes believe, were the baseball gods.

Off I went, increasing my speed to a new level. I thought for a moment how cool it would be to have theme music as this played itself out; something with a bit of drama, and that proverbial crescendo of emotion as the song builds. Where’s Walter Murphy when you need him.

I rounded the last turn, not even stopping for a hotdog and there it was: Section 143 above.

I made my way down, no up, wait, how do I get to my seat? The lady pointed it out and off I went making my way to row 20 and as I turned it lay before me; No. 17, my throne.

Before I sat down, I once again lifted my eyes to the visual of the field that had caught its glance a moment ago; this time I was much closer, so close, I could see Big Z warming up in right.

It was more important to me now, the race was over and the pursuit had found its finale. I was now afforded the elusive pageantry of a professional baseball game before it begins.  I had about 10 minutes all to myself and believe me, that bubble was so fortified that a monkey smoking a cigar could have been right next to me and I would have never known.

The group I was with had finally caught up to in a far more relaxed state. They included a friend of mine who was of course a Philly fan and he heckled me the whole way there.

The other two? Well they were none other than those same cousins that poked fun at me as a kid and this day was a carbon copy of those days.

As I sat with them all I can remember how lucky and fortunate I felt to not only be there at the park to watch MY TEAM, but also to have them surrounding me.