Oracle Park

I didn't think we were going to make it on time after trying to navigate the San Francisco public transportation system. I couldn't even buy a ticket and there were no employees in the station! But we managed to figure it out and after another transfer made possible by a nice old gentleman, we were on our way! 

Now we were on a packed subway car mixed with Dodger and Giants fans. All stood side by side, donning their jerseys and caps. It was a display of pride and loyalty. 

Fans crammed inside a subway car.

We don't go to professional ballgames very often. We live too far away. Anytime we do it's a novelty and I relish every moment. Personally, I prefer baseball over other sports. There is a sense of national pride and tradition that makes it meaningful to me. 

We stepped off the train and instantly stood in the midst of the action. Long lines stood to buy tickets or enter the gates. Aroma from vendors grilling fat hotdogs floated through the air. Some people, including myself, admired the statue of Willie Mays, directly in front of the main entrance. There were other statues located around the ballpark, including greats such as Willie McCovey, Orlando Cepeda, Gaylord Perry and Juan Marchial. I would have loved to have walked around the park and looked at each one, but our fiasco with the train system delayed us so much that we didn't have time. 

The Willie Mays Gate at Oracle Park.

Vendors selling hot dogs outside the park.

Statue of Willie Mays.

We entered the Willie Mays Gate and walked up a series of long ramps, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others. We searched for our seats which were behind third base, but on the upper deck. Finally we found our entry, just as a booming Pavarotti voice sang the National Anthem. 

The view from our seats was amazing! From our perch we could see nearly the entire stadium and beyond. Behind right field was San Francisco Bay where we could see boats and all the way to Oakland. The right-field wall was distinct, made with bricks and arches to resemble the old Polo Grounds in New York. 

Oracle Park in San Francisco, California.

The family.

I remember watching ballgames on television as a kid, and especially those at Candlestick Park here in San Francisco. It was also located on the bay, close enough that small boats could wait beyond the fence for a home run to be hit. At that time I made it a goal to some day make it to Candlestick. Of course, that didn't happen and they tore it down. But its replacement, Oracle Park, felt just as spectacular. 

Oracle Park first saw action in 2000, and over the years has had several different names. It has a capacity of 41,915. The deepest part of the field is right-center, where it is a whopping 415 feet from home plate. This section is called “triples alley” due to the bad bounces that tend to happen here. 

Levi's Landing in right field resembles the brick wall at the Polo Grounds in New York.

The game started with a banger when Mookie Betts for the Dodgers had a lead-off home run. I haven't followed the sport very well for years, but Mookie Betts was one of the few names that sounded familiar. Although it came from the visiting side, the crowd lit up with excitement. Dodger fans seemed to be as well represented as those from the Giants. 

The starting pitcher for Los Angeles was Julio Urías, a Mexican-born player whom I had never heard of. Right away I could see that he was good. He was a lefty, so we watched from the backside as he wound up and lifted his right leg.  I was fascinated with how he twisted his torso, almost to face the batter. Then he would unwind, releasing his energy with a long stride toward home plate, and deliver a 95 mph fastball. He was very good and the Giants found it difficult to get on base. 

Julio Urias, a Mexican-born pitcher for the Dodgers.

Even if you're not a baseball fan, it is exciting to attend a Major League ballgame for the environment alone—especially with a large and enthusiastic crowd. This one didn't disappoint. I think that anytime a team from Los Angeles travels, they are hated and draw strong emotion. During this game, the chant “Beat L.A.” emerged multiple times. Of course, that didn't settle too well for the many Dodger fans in the stadium. The group behind us started their own parody of the chant: “East L.A., East L.A.!” I couldn't help but to lean back and smile. 

One goal of mine was to buy everyone in the family a ridiculously expensive snack from the concessions. For myself, I chose one of the big fat Polish hotdogs that I saw others eating. It was so big it barely fit in my mouth. They topped it with a plethora of diced peppers and onions. Even though it was a mess, it was worth every dollar. 

As I previously mentioned, I don't keep up with baseball well enough to be familiar with many of the players. But one name for sure struck me—Yastrzemski. Mike Yastrzemski is the grandson of Hall of Famer, Carl Yastrzemski. The younger plays right field for San Francisco. Although there was nothing spectacular about his play on this night (he was only 1 for 4), it was fascinating to watch him, knowing that greatness was in his blood. 

Mike Yastrzemski, grandson of Hall of Famer, Carl Yastrzemski.

By now the sun had set behind us into the depths of the Pacific Ocean, and stadium lights came on. The bay was completely black except for a few lights from the boats. A mist of rain swept through from time to time, but not enough to dampen anything. By this time the Giants were slipping further behind, needing a miracle if they were to have a chance. 

Then came the top of the seventh when Max Muncy (another guy I've never heard of) walloped a grand slam over the left field fence. This was the nail in the coffin. L.A. was now up 9 to 1. Some of the more sensible Giants fans began to file out to get a head start on the post-game rush. 

We, however, stayed until the end. I was going to relish every minute of it. We sat in open-air with the smell of the bay drifting in. There was still an excitement in the air, even though the home team was about to lose. The chants of “Beat L.A.” were nowhere to be heard. 

It was a madhouse after the final pitch. I didn't think we'd make it out without something happening to us. But somehow we made the train. Once again, Dodger and Giants fans, now beleaguered, stood side by side on a crowded subway car. ♠

 

A spectacular evening at Oracle Park in San Francisco.

 

 

Fremont Street

I've often wondered what my grandpa Lacy would think of Fremont Street if he were still alive. 

When I was younger, my brother and I spent some time with him and my grandma in Las Vegas. We occasionally ventured into Downtown. This was the older section of town, with a rougher, more stacked-together feeling than The Strip. I remember eating breakfast at Binion's Horseshoe, where our plate came with a ham steak that poured off the edges, a pile of hash browns, runny eggs, and toast over which my brother poured Tabasco sauce. 

Afterward we crossed the street and Grandpa walked us through the Golden Nugget. He showed us a display case which housed a large, shiny yellow stone that supposedly was the largest chunk of gold in the world. It was, for sure, the largest chunk of gold on Fremont Street. 

Grandpa was more familiar with Vegas than we were. He went there frequently to play poker. Over the years he gradually stopped making the 9-hour trip to Nevada and eventually took his game elsewhere.

That was over thirty years ago and Fremont Street has changed a lot since then. 

The street gets its name from John C. Fremont, one of three explorers who share credit with discovering the area. The other two were Antonio Armijo and his scout, Rafael Rivera, who passed through during the winter of 1829-30. But it was Fremont who put it on the map. 

During his second expedition, John C. Fremont pushed through what is now Utah and into Oregon. They returned by dropping south into California and passing through Sutter's Mill. After passing through a God-forsaken desert and enduring adventures with local Indians, Fremont and his group finally passed through the area now known as Las Vegas. 

His entry for May 3, 1844 records: 

“After a day's journey of 18 miles, in a northeasterly direction, we encamped in the midst of another very large basin, at a camping ground called Las Vegas⸺a term which the Spaniards use to signify fertile or marshy plains, in contradistinction to llanos, which they apply to dry and sterile plains. Two narrow streams of clear water, four or five feet deep, gush suddenly with a quick current, from two singularly large springs; these, and other waters of the basin, pass out in a gap to the eastward. The taste of the water is good, but rather too warm to be agreeable; the temperature being 71 in the one and 73 in the other. They, however, afford a delightful bathing place.” 

Fremont's 1845 report of this trip included maps. 20,000 copies were made and every sensible person heading west had a copy. Thus, thousands of pioneers came west feeling more confident as a result of his observations. 

Nowadays most people don't make the connection with Fremont Street and John C. Fremont, but rather conjure up images of the mob and notorious people such as Benny Binion and Tony Spilotro. This area of Sin City was once known as Glitter Gulch for all the neon lights. But behind all the sparkle were high-stake poker games and organized crime that got a blind-eye from city officials. 

I talked to a guy recently who lived in Vegas during the 1970's. He loved it! And, ironically, he said, it was the mob who kept it safe. According to him, there was very little street crime because the mob would pick off the criminals. He said that now Vegas is a lot more dangerous than it used to be when the mob was in control. 

During the 1990's Fremont Street received a drastic facelift. Due to the increasing popularity of The Strip, the Downtown area lost business and something had to be done. Consequently, the road was torn out and replaced with a pedestrian walkway. A gigantic neon canopy that spanned several blocks was stretched overhead. It was now a walker-friendly avenue that became known as The Fremont Street Experience. 

I was unaware of all these changes and happened upon them in the early 2000's when I took my young family to show them one of my “childhood places.” I was shocked at the new Fremont Street and not sure if I liked it or not. At that time my grandpa was still alive, although a frail old man, and I returned home to give him the report. He listened with interest, never giving an opinion one way or another. Of course, the Fremont Street I saw that day was quite mild from that which I would witness in coming years. 

Occasionally we returned as a family. My kids loved to watch the lights on the canopy overhead and people whizzing by on a zip-line. Live bands played on the walkway while my daughters and wife would dance. This place has become nostalgic for me because I recall Brittany dancing and having a blast, and this would be just a short year or two before she passed away. 

Recently, now 2022, I returned to Fremont Street with my family. I admit that the more I go, the less I want to bring the kids. It's certainly not a family-friendly place anymore. Music blared from every corner and there was not a single space devoid of noise. We saw bands and also solo artists playing for coins. 

Of course, there were the smells. The one I hated the most were the fumes of marijuana that seemed to permeate everywhere. But there was also the aroma of grilled hot dogs, street tacos and barbeque. 

Probably the biggest draw of Fremont Street is the people-watching. From freaks to showgirls, this place has it all. There are artists spray-painting their works in front of a mesmerized crowd. Magicians dazzle the audience and pull objects from thin air. Beggars stand with nothing more than an overturned hat and sign, sometimes with brutal honesty admitting that all they want is enough money to buy some weed. 

On this evening I came with my wife and three older daughters. As the years go by, I am always more hesitant to bring my kids because of all the filth. It seems to get sketchier all the time. 

We were pressed for time so we didn't stop to see much. My wife and I have been on this street about a dozen times and nothing shocks us anymore. 

There was a lot of alcohol consumption in the outdoor bars along the walkway. Consequently, there were also a lot of drunk people doing dumb things. 

We walked up and down the street looking for a place to eat that wasn't too expensive. Although not as bad as The Strip, Fremont Street is starting to catch up with its high prices. It is certainly not the street of bargain deals like when my grandpa took us to Binion's Horseshoe.⸺Tonight we ended up eating the $8.99 prime rib dinner at the Fremont. 

Afterward we had a funny experience. As I walked down Fremont Street I tried to clandestinely capture images that I could use for this blog post; pictures that spoke to the character of the place. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. 

And what would encapsulate the essence of Fremont Street? Showgirls, of course! I walked past a couple of girls with their pink feathers, high-heeled boots and wearing almost nothing else. I casually raised my camera to sneak a picture. Not only did they see me, but they smiled, posed, and then waved for me to come over! 

The next thing I knew, here was a Mormon boy carrying on a conversation with two showgirls while my wife and daughters were twenty feet away laughing their heads off! The showgirls were very nice and explained that I could have another picture with them, but they work for tips and accept credit cards if I didn't have cash. Flustered and not sure what to do, I politely declined and walked away. I had already taken my picture and hoped these girls would forgive me for not tipping them. ♠