The most powerful day of my life…

I love to tell this story about a once-in-a-lifetime moment that fell into my hands and turned a mundane day into a memory I will never cease to cherish.

A one-line email came across my computer screen one morning in 2000 and briefly interrupted my productivity. Working on the 28th floor of a midtown Atlanta highrise along with 200 or so other architects on design projects that take years to complete creates a mental state of cruise-control just begging for something out of the ordinary to tempt away your focus, even if only for a minute. It was an internal message from another architect in our company working two floors below, Chris Curley, and went something like this:

“For sale – 2 tickets for tonight’s Braves game; directly behind home plate; Let me know.”

Now let me be first to say I was one of the newer bandwagon Braves fans. I’m sure we outnumbered the old fans by millions anyway. As a kid growing up in Georgia, the pre-90’s Braves’ record was lower than dirt and most people in my family were football fans: two words – Herschel Walker! I had not yet learned to appreciate the slow, tension-building, chess-playing strategy of the game, waiting to explode at any instant. There were a couple of highlights from that era – some humorous, like owner Ted Turner’s pre-game antics (live ostriches on the field?) to lure people to the games, and some momentous, like the April day in 1974 that Hammerin’ Hank Aaron hit number 715 over the fence and topped Babe Ruth’s home run record. But not once as a kid or teenager did I ever consider for a second that I was a Braves fan.

But for you to understand the desire I felt to claim those tickets from Mr. Curley, you would have to know the story of the team post-1990. From ’91 onwards they had dominated their division and in ’95 won the World Series. It was the years of Steve Avery, Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, John Smoltz, Chipper Jones, Andruw Jones, Terry Pendleton, Ryan Klesko, Fred McGriff, David Justice, Javy Lopez and the indomitable Bobby Cox, now ranked 4th in the all-time wins list of major league baseball managers. And you would also have to understand that in the Octobers of ’91, ’92 and ’93 I was an architecture student at the University of Tennessee staying up through all hours of the night working on design projects, but not getting much accomplished due to the roller coasting, tomahawk-chopping, nail-biting, jumping-up-and-down-waking-up-my-wife screaming frenzies those post seasons created in my living room. By the start of 2000 they had reached 8 consecutive National League Championship series and had played in 5 World Series. I had been there for most of that decade – watching from my television, yes, but I was there. And by that time I had learned to appreciate the intricacies of the game. It’s hard to explain, and until you’ve gone through years of observing and learning the game’s knife-edge strategy, you will never understand it. But once you get it, you are hooked.

After graduating from UT in ’94, Sandie and I had moved from Knoxville back to where I had grown up. We had been to a few games sitting in the cheap seats. But to be able to sit behind home plate? I never dreamed I’d have a chance to watch a game from those chairs. Even on this morning I had dialed Chris’ extension and asked him how much he wanted for his tickets. Come to find out, he and his brother had started buying season tickets on the first row behind home plate, years earlier. They were sitting in those seats, both at the old stadium and new, for many games, probably during some of those hair-raising post seasons and yes even the World Series. “Well, they’re pretty expensive, but it’s the day of the game and I’m trying to get rid of them. $80 each.” I was deflated and said, “Oh, okay. Wish I could take them, but doesn’t fit in the budget presently. Thanks!” I hung up and went back to drawing toilet rooms on the computer. I can be stupidly creative at times in convincing myself to waste cash or charge a credit card for absolutely unnecessary “gotta haves,” but  Sandie was at home with our young daughters, Rachel, age 3, and Amelia just a few months old. We could not afford to blow in a moment’s notice $160 on tickets for a silly baseball game.

Later near the end of that work day, I happened to run into Chris on my way to grab a cup of caffeine to get me through the last hour of work, but more importantly to keep me awake as I waded through the infamous Atlanta traffic for at least an hour to our house in the south suburbs. I was curious, so I poked him. “So who ended up getting those Braves tickets?” He looked at me sort of disappointed. “No one actually. I had several people call me about them, but no one wanted them.” Too bad, I thought. What a shame for those seats to be unoccupied, even if it was the middle of the season. But then he took on a genie-like state. “Tell you what – if you want them, you can have them.” “You mean, for free?” I asked, my mouth gaping in disbelief.  He continued, “Look, they’re going to waste and I’d rather someone be sitting there. So you just take them and enjoy the game.” He pulled them out of his shirt pocket, handed them to me and left me standing in the break room trying to catch my breath! I was so ecstatic. I certainly didn’t deserve this kindness, especially since he had annoyed me at times. Most of my colleagues do eventually – we’re trained to be know-it-alls. But here it was, in person – grace!

I had then excitedly called Sandie and asked if she could find a baby sitter within 2 hours so she could go to the game with me. But as a worn out newborn mother, she was not up for that.  Uh, uh. So she suggested that I take Rachel. It would give her some alone time with Amelia and give us some quality dad/daughter time in the car and at the game. I’m  sure Rachel was still getting used to the transition from being the only child to taking the back seat for awhile as we took care of her new sister. So what if it was a 2-hour game with not a lot to offer a 3-year old kid whose world revolved around stuffed animals, toy dinosaurs and Blue’s Clues – we could hang out together and I could explain the game to her and we would get popcorn and – THE SEATS WERE DIRECTLY BEHIND HOME PLATE!

The plan was set. I raced home, quickly ate dinner and strapped “Rachey” in the car seat. You have to realize at that age, her blonde hair was naturally and beautifully curly. We deduced that she inherited it from my Grandpa Charlie, because we hadn’t been able to locate any other childhood photos from members of her family tree with that much twang in their hair. We then headed north on I-75 toward Turner Field. I was so excited, but secretly hoping I could make the evening interesting enough for a three year old.

She was at least impressed of its gigantic size when we parked on the east side of the stadium and started our trek into the park. Only four summers prior, it had held the 1996 Olympics, in a slightly larger configuration.  After the Games it had been modified and converted to a worthy container for the Braves and it was still state-of-the-art, clean, bright and thrilling to walk into with its old-time ballpark architecture.  We then made our hike up to the main gallery that circles the structure between the lower field seats and the upper deck seats, following my nose to the direction of where I assumed our seats would be. As we got close, an attendant pointed us down a steep incline of stairs, straight for home plate. We hiked down what seemed an eternity and finally arrived. As we sat down, I was wowed by the view. What seemed like only 50 feet in front of me was the diamond and the stands were up all around us like canyons. The turf was perfectly exact, not a blade too high.  And the chalk base lines were geometrically aligned as if God Himself had drawn them. The only people lower than those of us on this row, were the bat boys, the umpires and the teams.

And we were nearly eye-level view with them. As the opposing players were warming up (I don’t even remember which team was visiting), I nearly felt as if I could reach out and touch their brightly colored uniforms had it not been for the fence that protected us spectators from a fly ball spinning off the bat at 100 miles an hour and clocking us for dead. Then the Braves came out to warm up before taking the field. Again, I had been to games before, but never had I seen the gleam in the eyes of Andruw Jones, Chipper Jones, Andres Galarraga or Rafael Furcal as they stretched and threw only yards in front of me. And the speed of the pitches! I remember thinking, “How on God’s green earth could anyone ever actually hit one of those with a bat?” I had never experienced in such close proximity the immeasurable split second that evaporated between the time the ball left a major league pitcher’s throwing hand and landed with a SMACK in the catcher’s mitt. Also, just to the left of my seat was one of the jumbo-tron cameramen, working a giant, sea-foam green cannon-shaped camera mounted to a pedestal and aiming it toward the field and around the stands. He wore a headset with earphones and talk-back microphone. And on whatever his camera eye focused would be immediately shown on the stories-high and city-blocks-wide screen above the center field dollar seats. This reminded me to call Sandie on my mobile phone, and ask her to keep an eye out for us on television. I was pinching myself.

Now as the game got started, Rachel began to get bored with it all and I tried my best to convey the excitement to her. She would listen intently as I pointed and spoke of how the game was played, but then a second later she was up off her seat and looking at people behind us, or playing with the stuffed animal she had brought with her. We bought a red, foam tomahawk from one of the roving vendors so we could do “the chop”, but that kept her interest for about a minute.  At another point we bought popcorn and that kept her occupied for another twenty minutes.  Even the game was not exciting. I called Sandie to see if she had seen us on TV, but apparently we were positioned slightly to the left of home plate, and the pitching camera is usually placed behind the pitcher’s right shoulder aimed over the batter, which meant we were completely out of view for the television audience, unless a batter happened to take a short trot over toward the visitor’s dugout.

I had high hopes of transferring my appreciation of the game to my daughter’s tiny brain, but it was a useless effort. For goodness sakes, she was only THREE YEARS OLD!  What was I thinking? It is a common mistake to make as a parent. You’ve experienced something tremendous and you want your children to get it too, but it is not going to happen ultimately.  They will experience things on their own, in their time, in their frame of reference.  Powerful moments occur by accident or catch you by surprise. They are not planned or executed.  They spring upon you like a ninth-inning, two-outs, bases-loaded, come-from-behind home run that wins the game.

Which brings me to what happened next. I don’t remember what inning it was or who was on first, but out of the corner of my eye I saw that green cannon camera aimed directly in our direction and the man behind it smiling broadly. I instantly looked up to the jumbo-tron and there for all the tens of thousands of fans in Turner Field to see was what seemed like a 200 foot tall image of my curly headed daughter, swinging her feet under her seat, gazing out toward the field. I was so shocked I could barely move, but an Everest amount of pride instantly filled my chest. I elbowed Rachel who had yet to notice this change of scenery. “Hey Babe, LOOK! That’s YOU up there!!!”

And her three year old response? In her shock, she put her hands over her eyes, as if to say, “If I can’t see me, then hopefully all you strangers can’t either.” I then audibly heard the fans give up a huge “Awwww” and a massive stadium-sized chuckle. I was so proud I was in tears. My little kiddo, was on the jumbo-tron, and who cares if it was only for 10 seconds, she had wooed that stadium with her Grandpa Charlie curls and her innocence.

After that, I didn’t care that the Braves were losing the game. I was floating on a cloud. And after a few more yawns from Rachel, I decided nothing could top what I had just experienced and so we headed out early. I think she fell asleep on the way home, her little curly head resting against the side of the car seat and the red foam tomahawk lying across her lap. I’m sure she doesn’t even remember that day. But me? I will never, ever forget it. I think Dad’s are just made that way.