It was 20 years ago today...

In 1989, I was in my early 20s, single, had decent financial resources, and some free time. So did a few guys I knew from my college days. They planned out a baseball road trip and, with only the slightest of arm-twisting, got me to sign up for it. I was living in Massachusetts at the time, but when Friday night rolled around, I hit the road over to upstate New York, the Albany-Schenectady-Troy region, got together, and the next day we hit the road, a bunch of mostly-carefree 20somethings. I think Dennis did the scheduling and arranged the tickets, and I vaguely recall that we took Randy's car. We all shared the driving, pretty much picked out hotels on the fly (it was almost always a Red Roof Inn, except in Canada). The other traveler was Eric.

Our first stop, Saturday 24-June-1989, was in Cooperstown, NY, home of the National Baseball Hall Of Fame & Museum. It was my second (and so far, last) visit; we wandered around the exhibits for a few hours, drinking in the history of the game, and thinking ahead to our grand baseball adventure.

And then it was on to Rochester, home of Dennis' parents (free sleeping quarters!) Their bathroom was being redone, no shower curtain, so bathers had to be cautious not to spray the entire room. Rochester was also where Silver Stadium, home of the Rochester Red Wings, AAA-level affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles, was found. That night they were playing the Pawtucket Red Sox; prospect Eric Hetzel pitched for the PawSox, along the way he threw a four strikeout inning, Eric came up with a foul ball from a scrum (I was close; my hand was in the mix), and I recall the Sox were victorious.

Sunday 25-June, on to Pittsburgh early in the morning. Three Rivers Stadium, one of the "giant ashtray" designs from the early 1970s, was uninspiring, but it was a sunny hot day, and there were pretty girls in the stands. Final, Pirates 5 - Cardinals 3.

Monday 26-June found us in Cincinnati, Riverfront Stadium. Another giant ashtray. Pete Rose managing, less than two months before his permanent expulsion from baseball's good graces. 1988 World Series hero Kirk Gibson went deep for the visiting Dodgers, and the Reds got two from the home boys, Paul O'Neill and Bo Diaz, these last two saluted with fusillades of bottle rockets. Final, Reds 5 - Dodgers 3.

We drove on after the game that night, stopping near Indianapolis, and in the morning continued driving across Indiana. I was struck by the regional irony: corn grew on both sides of the highway, but at our breakfast stop, there was no cornbread on the menu.

Gary, Indiana, was the foulest-smelling town I have ever been through, at least on that day.

Chicago, the Windy City, and the prime motivation for the trip's schedule -- a rare convergence when both the Cubs and the White Sox were playing at home, for two days. Wrigley Field in the daylight, and Comiskey Park in the evening. My first and, so far, only visits to Chicago baseball. Wrigley is a gem to look at, though it was built in 1914 and so is primarily scaled for people sized to 1914 demographics. Comiskey was lovely, though clearly crumbling badly (it was replaced after the 1990 season). Despite Wrigley's reputation for being homer-friendly, we saw zero home runs over the four games, meaning we were also denied the Comiskey exploding scoreboard showing off its fullest effects. What's more, though the 1989 Cubs were a pretty good team and won their division, they had nothing working these two days, as the home teams went a collective 0-4, the Cubs dropping two to the Pirates, and the White Sox falling twice to the Rangers.

Tuesday 27-June finals: Pirates 5 - Cubs 4, Rangers 5 - White Sox 1.
Wednesday 28-June finals: Pirates 3 - Cubs 1, Rangers 10 - White Sox 5.

Though we witnessed three Pirates games, featuring Barry Bonds before he became The Barry Bonds and, later, BONDS!, I don't really remember his playing in particular. Looking back over these box scores, there's a lot of players who became even bigger names (and many more who faded quickly, but they are down in the record books forever). Sammy Sosa, with the Rangers. Harold Baines. Kevin Brown. Others. I don't remember many specifics from these games, but I'm glad I attended.

Thursday 29-June had a relatively short drive to Detroit, home of fabled Tiger Stadium. Much has been written about this park, how sorely it is missed, and even now, abandoned since after the 1999 season, it is undergoing final demolition. Well, great ballparks are always remembered fondly. Tiger Stadium indeed felt inviting to the fans, bundling us in close to the field. But being entirely enclosed, it did not to me feel like it invited in Detroit much, and the girders, no matter how much character they added, were wretched. From our ticketed seats, each of us, sitting four in a row, were screened from seeing one base each -- I said we were blocked for the cycle. We moved; the park wasn't crowded. The visiting Yankees got a home run I don't remember from Roberto Kelly and one I do recall from Steve Balboni, to left field, about three rows deep (not where we were sitting). A nice park, an exciting game, a well-spent evening. Final, Yankees 7 - Tigers 6.

Our shortest drive of the trip took us to Cleveland, home of cavernous Municipal Stadium, built in hopes of winning the 1932 Summer Olympics bid (Los Angeles won and hosted). The visiting team was the defending AL champion Oakland A's, who would go on to win the 1989 World Series, and who had re-acquired Rickey Henderson from the Yankees just days earlier. We and many other fans shouted to Rickey as he warmed up in left field (actually, he mostly just stood there, ignoring any batting practice balls that came his way). Eventually he bantered a bit. It was a Friday night, the powerful A's were in town, and the Indians drew only 27,000 fans; and in the yawning abyss of Municipal, it looked like nothing. It was dreary, saved only by virtue of the baseball game on the diamond before us.

I had recently read the delightful (if now sorely dated) Dodger Dogs To Fenway Franks, a first person account of the author's tour of all 26 (at that time) major league ballparks in 1985. In it, he mentioned the Cleveland Indians drum man, John Adams. I made it a point to wander out to left field and speak with him for a minute; mostly I just wanted to say Hi. So I did, just to let him know his fame was spreading. He still drums at Indians home games today.

Final, Friday 30-June, Athletics 5 - Indians 0. This was no surprise.

After the game, we were hungry, and managed to find a very late night jazz club. Dennis, Eric, and I went in and had whatever they could find in the kitchen; Randy napped in the car. We had a long drive ahead of us.

I don't recall who had the wheel, but we lit out for Toronto, about 300 miles, and all the more urgent that we had a day game following our Cleveland night game. We pressed on. I remember I was awake as we passed through Buffalo, and caught a glimpse of darkened Pilot Field, home of the AAA Buffalo Bisons, and a cornerstone of the promotion of Buffalo as a Major League Baseball expansion city, as it was designed to be expandable to major league seating capacity. (The bid ultimately failed, as Denver and Miami were awarded the 1991 expansion franchises.) Buffalo was our tentative first stop on the trip, but we bailed out in favor of Rochester (closer, and Dennis' family). I've never been back, and so never have attended a game at Pilot.

We reached the bridge into Canada, but New York State sheriffs had set up a roadblock, probably to check for drunk drivers. He asked why we were going to Canada; we replied "baseball!" He shook his head, no doubt questioning our sanity, but finding no reason to detain us, waved us through. At the other end we reached the Canadian border; remember that these were more relaxed times in terms of international relations and traveling abroad. We all had to be awake and alert -- it was around 4 a.m., as I recall -- so the customs agent could know that everyone was entering Canada of their own volition. He asked from where we were coming? "Cleveland." He asked where we were going? "Toronto and Montreal." Why Toronto and Montreal?

In unison, almost in harmony, all four of us proclaimed, "BASEBALL!"

"Baseball, huh?" Similar to the NY sheriff, he shook his head, and waved us past. "Welcome to Canada."

Saturday, 01-July -- Canada Day. We arrived in Toronto as the sun was rising, backlighting the CN Tower and SkyDome beautifully. We found a hotel and crashed. I woke first (typical), showered, and went out to find a paper. Traffic was very light early on. I waited at a crosswalk for the one car approaching -- and was stunned when the driver, despite having the green light, stopped and waved me across. But that's the Canadian way -- pedestrians first. I withdrew some cash at an ATM; I've always appreciated how Canada doesn't print all its bills the same, generic color scheme.

We roused and wended our way to SkyDome, which had opened less than a month earlier. With its retractable roof (which had been closed when we drove past at dawn, but was now open, on a sparkling Saturday afternoon), it was an engineering marvel, the first of its kind (there are now four other retractable roof parks used by Major League Baseball teams). The Blue Jays were a hot ticket, due to the new park and being a good team at the time -- they won the AL East division in 1989. So our seats were waaaay up in the top deck, behind the first base line. The players were mere insects on the green field far below. Happily for me, the Red Sox were in town, and making his major league debut was starting pitcher Eric Hetzel, whom we had watched pitch in Rochester a week earlier. He wasn't sharp, but he was more than enough for the Blue Jays, and picked up the win, supported by a Mike Greenwell home run. I had a high-power lens, and took a picture of Hetzel's first pitch and sent him a blowup print of it. I hope he got it, as I never heard back from him (not that I expected to). (It was film, not digital, and I don't know today where it is, so I cannot post a copy.)

In celebration of Canada Day, every fan received a small Canadian Flag, and a plastic Blue Jays coffee mug, the kind with a base that can be mounted on a dashboard. I have no idea where mine are, but they're probably still in a storage box somewhere.

Final, Red Sox 3 - Blue Jays 1.

Sunday, 02-July. On the road again, to our last game, the Houston Astros at the Montreal Expos. Another day game, but in dismal conditions. Stade Olympique, built for the 1976 Olympics, was retrofitted with a removable tent-style roof, which never worked correctly, and so was kept closed most of the time. As a result, the ballpark was dark, dingy, not really well-configured for baseball, and with the Astroturf field, felt like playing ball in a dungeon. There was just nothing to recommend it. Were it not for the actual baseball game and the extremely attractive usher in our section, I wouldn't remember it at all. The game was a laugher, as the Expos quickly jumped out to a 10-0 lead, and we finally had a real slugfest to watch.

Final, Expos 13 - Astros 2.

The sun still had several hours left when the game ended. We headed south toward Albany, got through American customs quickly, and I took the wheel as we drove down the Northway, I-87. We reached Troy before sundown, got to our drop-off point (I recall it was the house Randy was living in), sorted out the stuff, and went our separate ways. I found a couch for the night. There was time to consider taking in a local AA game, which as I remember was the Bristol Red Sox at the Albany-Colonie Yankees, but we had all had enough, and passed. The next day, I headed home to Massachusetts. The trip, the Great Northeastern Baseball Trip (as our bedsheet banner proclaimed; we displayed it at most parks), was over. A great memory from a younger, less burdened time.

If you can, take your own baseball trip. If you love the game, you'll have a blast.

A driving map.

(Ah, if only we'd had Google back then.)