A Day at the Park

Brothers and Pirates Fans Strike Out on Their Own.

Suburbs spread at the expense of farms and populations in city centers. Families are smaller, and kids stay busy with supervised clubs and sports. An explosion of children’s TV is divided between the entertainment equivalent of snack food (cartoons and sitcoms) and nutritional basics (Sesame Street).

IN THE SUMMER OF 1970, Three Rivers Stadium, home of the Pittsburgh Pirates, had just opened and my brother and I wanted to see a game.

I was 13 and Tony 11. We hopped on the bus, the airport flyer, which took us from our neighborhood in the east end of the city directly to the ballpark.

We wound our way through the stadium until we located our seats in the far reaches of the upper deck. There we sat, eating peanuts and Cracker Jack, enjoying the game—until Manny Sanguillen, the Pirates catcher, hit a broken-bat single.

I grabbed Tony’s hand.

“C’mon,” I said. “I’m going to get that bat.” Around and around we went, making our journey to the other end of the cavernous park, until finally we arrived at the first-class seats next to the Pirates’ dugout.

There we saw pitcher Doc Ellis pacing back and forth, bat handle in hand.

“Hey, Doc!” I yelled. “Can I have that?”

Now this is where my version of the story differs from Tony’s.

Tony always said that Doc joked, “give me five dollars first” before handing me the bat handle. I don’t remember that part.

I do recall just about everything else from that day, however. I still have that bat handle and I still love baseball.

Most of all, even though my brother has passed away, I will always cherish that day and all the days we spent together growing up in Pittsburgh.

JOHN AND TONY did what brothers do—went to ballgames, ate peanuts and occasionally disagreed on the finer points of a story. At right, Three Rivers.