Post-Father’s day memories of the Vet
It’s not exactly a Father’s Day memory, but it is a memory that will always be there with any recollections I’ll ever have of my father. I can’t remember how old I was, but at some point in my early double-digit years, I fell into the quasi birthday tradition of going to the annual Phillies fireworks night with my father.
It was always on or near my birthday and it bore entertainment value of a dual nature: first the ball game, then the fireworks afterward. There were times that my whole family (or most of them) would join us, sometimes a friend or two, but mostly, it was just my father and I. For several years in a row, we didn’t miss one. It was my most cherished birthday gift, especially at the start.
As a young boy, it was a wonderful experience. I still remember coming out of the tunnel toward the seating area, that first instant when you could see the field along with the monstrosity of the entire stadium surrounding it. I know many of us here in Philadelphia grew to think of Veteran’s Memorial Stadium as an ugly, dilapidated pit of a sports venue, and many will remember it more for the historically dangerous playing surface or the sections of concrete that always seemed on the verge of collapse. But no amount of popular belly-aching about the stadium’s shortcomings could erase the elation I would always feel as a young man entering within the sightlines of that artificial, faded green playing surface. It was magical—even now I look back on it wistfully.
It may have been 1986 or 1987, the first time I saw a young southpaw named Bruce Ruffin pitch victoriously, a sufficiently isolated occurrence in the whole of his big-league career, but all I knew was that he must have been a pretty good pitcher, because he won my birthday game. It’s funny how a kid might think a player better than he really is, based on one or two triumphs at the right point in that kid’s memory.
But anyway, the games would always end, and then the fireworks would inevitably begin; they’d last for what seemed to me like an hour—for all I know now it might have been. The music would blare, which I didn’t mind, but my father would always mention his annoyance at the volume, as well as the music selection. To me there was nothing cooler than a little Springsteen, Bob Seger, or even a little John Cougar Mellencamp as the pyrotechnics exploded overhead.
Well, maybe there was one thing cooler: My dad and I going to the game and watching the home team, then the fireworks. It was very cool, right from the start when we’d hitch a ride on the EL from Frankford to Center City, then the Broad Street line to Pattison, right on through to the late night ride back out to the Northeast. Then, if we had a few extra dollar bills, there might be a Slurpee or Big Gulp waiting for me at the 7-11 down the street from the station before we drove the rest of the way home.
Nothing ever will be cooler than that.
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