ARLINGTON – It’s going to take a long Irish wake, this process of telling The Ballpark in Arlington goodbye.
In Irish lore, the wake was a revered liturgy, a gathering of family and friends to offer the deceased a final farewell.
Growing up in a predominately Roman Catholic town, the wake tradition spanned all social and religious lines – Irish, Italian, the Creole French. When someone our parents knew passed, they dressed us in our Sunday clothes and took us with them to the funeral home to play – quietly, please — with the other kids.
We didn’t protest; there were snacks.
At the front of the viewing parlor, the departed lay in cold repose, dressed in his or her Easter best. The wives would hover and sometimes sob. Invariably, they would remark “how good” so-and-so looked. On the evening before the funeral service, the parish priest would arrive and lead the gathering in praying the rosary.
And then the priest, too, would join the men in the parlor to smoke and drink and swap stories about the time the departed friend trampled the neighbor’s bushes and blamed it on the dog.
The current rush to the grave is a sad, modern evolution. What — is cremation an eco-friendly thing? Is there a line of hearses parked outside our funeral homes, waiting like the lunch rush at Chick-fil-A?
The wakes that I remember were reverent two-day affairs. There would be a requiem mass followed by a tearful burial. As an altar boy, more than once did I see a widow or a loved one faint.
But by the afternoon, the families would all be back at the deceased’s residence, drinking highballs and eating oyster patties. The sendoff neglected to include a Billy Joel concert.
And thus, our own Irish baseball wake begins today.
One last Opening Day, followed by a final, fitful summer of viewing, and then the Rangers’ regal home is scheduled to host baseball no more.
Truly, The Ballpark in Arlington has lived up to its regal God-given name. Early in its existence, The Ticket’s Mike Rhyner dubbed it “The Temple,” and the name stuck. It has been every bit a holy, local baseball shrine, and Chuck Morgan’s PA voice has been like our voice of God.
As it turned out, no Opening Day surpassed its first. The elaborate ceremony had been threatened by morning showers, which led to a 55-minute pregame rain delay, while Rangers officials debated the prudence of wheeling out a $150,000 Steinway concert grand piano.
The showers abated, and legendary pianist Van Cliburn emerged in white tie and tails. Around him, the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra was seated, all wearing the Rangers’ new red ball caps.
The loudest I ever heard The Ballpark in Arlington was when Neftali Feliz struck out Alex Rodriguez to send the Rangers to their first World Series.
The quietest, though, came during Van Cliburn’s playing of that first Star-Spangled Banner. There are five pieces Cliburn played better than anyone in the world, music critic Wayne Lee Gay once wrote – and one of them was the national anthem.
True to its classic design, the ballpark hasn’t changed all that much in its 25 years. The left-field bullpen was reconfigured. The scoreboard atop the Home Run Porch now spans 120 feet, allowing spectators to see the Rangers lose 95 games in 4G TV.
But the park’s essence remains. It’s been a welcoming, albeit sweaty place. The sight lines have been excellent.
Visitors paying their respects this season will remark “how good” the place still looks.
And, yes, there will be snacks.
There is a moment that every baseball fan should identify with. It’s that exact instant when they walk through the entry portal and are struck by the rich green panorama of a real baseball field for the first time.
It took my breath away when my dad brought me to a minor league ballpark for the first time. Maybe that’s what I’m still feeling, each time I first see the green grass at The Ballpark in Arlington.
I think of my dad. I think of the times we spent together, watching baseball.
Let the Irish wake begin, therefore. Here’s hoping the Rangers do it justice, or at least don’t cause anyone to faint. Praying the rosary is optional.
It’s called Globe Life Park these days, and we respect that. But it has a God-given name, too, and it’s been a true temple of baseball.
So let’s get this over with, Chuck Morgan. There are highballs waiting.
