It’s been six years since baseball returned to Washington, and with its roots now firmly planted deep into the the city’s personality, it’s time to once and for all declare that Baltimore is for the birds.
As a young man growing up in Washington, Baltimore seemed strictly “second-city.” Our airport was “National” and theirs was “Friendship.” We had Captain Tugg to watch after school on television while they had Captain Chesapeake, a guy with a peanut shell taped to his nose. We had the United States Capitol building and they had all those little white marble stoops the dotted pretty much every street in the inner city.
Our city was named after the man who won the Revolutionary War. Their city was named after a British Lord. We were winners and they were losers.
Baltimore seemed to exist so that Washingtonians could just feel better about themselves.
My first trip into Baltimore was back in 1964. I vividly remember the Baltimore City clock tower. It had black block letters across its face, and as I stared through the windshield of my father’s Buick Wildcat, the words slowly became recognizable.
“Bromo Seltzer.”
Bromo Seltzer? “Dad,” I asked, “Why did Baltimore put ‘Bromo Seltzer’ on their city clock?” “Because,” my Dad said, with that rich, reassuring voice that all fathers had in the early ’60s, “It is a reminder to take the medicine because living in Baltimore makes you sick.”
I was just a kid, mind you, but I was pretty sure all those Senators and Congressman didn’t go home at night and drink Bromo Seltzer.
Now, that’s not why I disliked Baltimore, you understand. It was the Orioles! You see, the Senators invited them to leave St. Louis and play in our back yard, and they repaid Washington’s kindness by beating the snot out of us every time we played.
Every time.
The Orioles would trade for Frank Robinson and the Senators would trade for Greg Goosen. The Orioles would have four 20-game winners in their rotation and the Senators had four pitchers who would combine to win 20 games. In 1969, the Senators won 86 games and were competitive the entire year. The Orioles won twenty games more and went to the World Series.
That’s what made the World Series smack-down against the Mets so enjoyable, by the way. I never loved a man before, but Ron Swaboda’s catch out in right made me want to give him a man-hug.
In baseball, Washington was the weak sister. When Bob Short did to Washington what he did to Minneapolis a dozen years earlier, I was crushed. Remember, he was the Lakers’ owner who moved the team to Los Angeles, hence the name “Lakers” as in ten-thousand Minnesota lakes.
But even Bob Short’s Texas two-step couldn’t make me an Oriole fan. For five years, I rooted for the Redskins and the Bullets always and the Capitals sometimes, and spent my summers at Ocean City. But things changed in 1976.
Her name was Sharon. Having dated many girls, Sharon was the first “woman” I had gone out with. I had known her throughout high school and we had been good friends, but I was never considered to be in her league.
Sharon and I were a lot like the Senators and Orioles. My girl, and Baltimore’s team, were in a league all their own. Neither of us really tood a chance.
She was an avid Oriole fan, and wanted to see a game in Baltimore. Hmmmm. My hatred of the Orioles vs. a curvaceousness and vivacious redhead. Actually, the decision was closer than you’d think. But in the end Sharon won out and just a few days before our country’s Bicentennial she and I zipped down the parkway towards Baltimore in her yellow Volkswagen convertible. I was having a great time until we pulled into the Memorial Stadium parking lot. I got kind of clammy. My stomach began to hurt.
There before me was Memorial Stadium. It was nothing my like RFK.
RFK Stadium was at the time sleek and modern, and Memorial Stadium looked out of date, with its brick façade and 1930’s brushed aluminum lettering. I kept muttering to myself, “vivacious redhead…vivacious redhead” as we walked into the stadium.
I still don’t get it these many years later. There, in the middle of a large urban city, sitting among 35,000 people,were loudspeakers blaringJohn Denver’s “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” after each inning. I Didn’t see a single country boy in the stands. And people from Baltimore must like the sun, because there was no roof to cover the stadium and I boiled my crabcakes off.
Oh, and the game stunk. Reggie Jackson hit two home runs and Doug DeCinces made a couple of good defensive plays, but the Orioles lost something like14-6 to the Angels. But I couldn’t watch the game. I just couldn’t.
All around me were these giant Oriole bird faces shouting in colors of orange and black, with huge grins, staring right at me! They were laughing at me because Baltimore had a baseball team and we didn’t. When we got home, the redhead wasn’t feeling very vivacious because her team had lost, and she asked me to leave so she could rest. Sigh. The Orioles were even destroying my love life!
I had to get away from that stupid bird. I moved to Pocatello, Idaho 20 years ago, where I don’t have to see that beaky bird mocking my misfortune. Alas, the wrongs of the world have been righted with baseball again being part of my life.
This time, however, the Orioles are just as bad as the Nationals. Just as Sir Peter feared, the Orioles will be but a postscript in Washington history. Way back there, in the deep recesses of Washington’s memory junk pile, next to the A, B & W Bus company, People’s Drug Stores and Glen Echo Amusement Park, will be the faint odor of the decaying memory of the Baltimore Orioles.
Thirty years from now, a young boy will dig up an old picture of his dad wearing an Oriole’s cap and, with tears in his eyes, ask “Why?” “Son,” the dad will begin, using lyrics from a song that rocked D.C. the summer of the Senators greatest year, ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.'”
Baltimore, we were lonely. We’re not lonely anymore.
Deal with it.
P.S.: Hey Baltimore, this is satire. Don’t get grumpy.
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