Citizens Bank Park

“From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.” -“Casey At the Bat”

I have been drowning in a world of baseball since my earliest youth, anchored to the bottom of a diamond-shaped lake and perfectly unwilling to save myself from inundation. The most accurate and insightful picture that exists from my childhood is a shot of me, cheerfully rotund and garbed in a pair of ludicrous Red Sox suspenders, beaming into the camera with the twinkly-eyed look of smug self-awareness. I am a baseball fan, and I always have been. I helped teach myself to read by scrutinizing the sports page in The Philadelphia Inquirer and discovering the subtle phonetic intricacies that link “chi” and Chicago.  At the age of seven I quit soccer to focus on my other sports in an unorthodox way-by claiming “I ain’t no Bo Jackson” and refusing to speak any more on the subject. Many children grow out of this obsessive phase and move on in life. I have not. Instead, I have evolved, trading the Inquirer for fangraphs.com, and Bo Jackson for advanced sabermetrics. My burgeoning knowledge of the sport has lent me the terrible weapon of condescension and I wield it mercilessly. A Bucks County native, I am the persistent pilgrim to Citizens Bank Park, a polished jewel that holds in its belly many viruses, a collective plague that distributes baseball folly and arrogance in equally unappetizing servings.  

The trek from my residence in Newtown, Pennsylvania to the stadium in Philadelphia is often marred by the beautifully reckless traffic that pockmarks all large cities, and my friend’s Honda Odyssey is not especially notorious for its remarkable speed and acceleration. This minor motoring inconvenience is never a problem; it allows more time for the discussion of starting pitchers, batting averages, and win streaks. Talk about baseball is the most engaging distraction I know, and somehow, through the twisting labyrinth of our own dialogue, we always end up at the ballpark.

Citizens Bank Park is a gorgeous place, and stands up to the vicious judgment of the harshest ballpark aficionados. It has good seating, a delightfully convenient layout, and beautiful design. The home of the Phillies is the kind of building that baseball owners salivate over. There is really only one problem with this picturesque place, and that is the fans. Before I continue I would like to declare that most fans of any team are good ones, and it is the small minority that gives certain devotees a bad name. It just so happens that this minority in Philly is not so small and particularly outspoken. Loudmouth boors, they clap when opposing players are injured and intentionally vomit on enthusiasts of the Phillies’ opponent. The behavior of this cell of zealots can walk the precarious line between the offensive and the absurd. Driven by a potent concoction of alcohol and stupidity, this contingent of fans takes a particular and foolhardy delight in singling me out as a Red Sox fan and informing me of the various defects of my team, manhood, sexual orientation, and intellect. I am a thick-skinned individual who can take insults, however, slander upon my ballclub is an intolerable sin. I turn around, flip the tables and spoon-feed my foes a knife-sharp dissertation that explains, through statistical and visual evidence, why their brotherly beloved team only merits a fork being stuck in them. Pugnaciously pugilistic disagreements aside, most people do not dog me for being a Sox fan, and the stadium and the sport is worth any amount of verbal barking.

A baseball park can be many things: a cage of unreasonably ardent animals, a massive communal picnic, a cathedral. It has been all of these for me. However, it always has been, most importantly, a place to see baseball, and for this I am thankful.