My Grandpa was a lover to those close to him and a fighter against the disease that eventually took him away from his loved ones. He was an avid baseball fan, a man of courage and faith and mostly, a caring, supportive and loving grandpa to me.
Baseball always has and always will be one of my main loves. I learned that from him. Ever since I can remember, baseball was the common center between us.
Now probably nearing the triple-digit marker in number of games I’ve been to, he was the one who took me to my very first game. I don’t remember a single thing about the game–to be honest, I don’t even remember going–but I know that we went to my first game together, a Rockies game at the old Mile High Stadium.
Each summer he’d come out to Colorado to visit. He’d generally spend a week or so in town. During that time, he’d sit and watch me play a handful of times. He’d take me to a collector’s store in Denver called Bill’s. It had the best selection of baseball cards known to man. He’d always buy me whichever ones I wanted and we’d always get a big box full of an assortment of cards.
We’d generally go to three games at Coors Field while he was here, also. On the car ride down, I’d go through each card in the box, many of them old-timers I was unfamiliar with, and he’d tell me something about each player. He knew so much.
He’d graciously allow me to get to the games early and we’d stay well past the last pitch. One time we sat through a game that featured a rain delay, 13 innings of baseball and the Cardinals’ third baseman becoming a pitcher because St. Louis ran out of actual pitchers.
The game lasted until the wee hours of the morning. Grandpa taught me how to keep score on the score card, but I ran out of room because of how many pitchers each team used. Did the rain or extra innings make Grandpa budge, though? Nope, we were staying at the game until it finished.
He taught me much of what I know about baseball–about bunting and sacrifice flies; why the cleanup hitter hits in the No. 4 spot in the lineup and that striking out swinging is always more respectable than going down looking. He taught me that if you aren’t confident that you can get a hit, it’s better to purposely strike out with a runner on first base than to weakly dribble one into the dirt and ground into an inning-ending double play.
He used to tell me how when he was younger, the starting pitchers would pitch complete games and that the National League is a joke because, “Do you realize they actually make their pitchers bat?”
My Grandpa was the first person I ever saw listening to a radio while sitting at a baseball game. I think it’s a neat idea and I, too, will probably do it someday. Now I see people with portable TVs at games, but I think my Grandpa would stick with the radio. He liked the radio announcers better, anyway.
Each April our conversations were about the upcoming season. I would talk about how the Rockies were built to contend and that “this year is our year.” He would tell me how George Steinbrenner had lots of money and that the Yankees will win . . . again. During the summers we’d talk about the season and come October, we’d engage in playoff talk.
Only once did I get to brag to him about how the Rockies were in the World Series while his Yankees were stuck at home watching. In every conversation he’d always reference his famous line, “How ’bout them Yankees?”
One of my favorite most recent memories with him was this past October when I was attending a Rockies playoff game. He called me during the middle of the game after a controversial safe-out call at first base. I told him that despite the umpire’s call, Dexter Fowler was safe. Grandpa was my video review, confirming with me that the way I saw the play was indeed correct.
I think it’s fitting that the last season that my Grandpa got to witness was 2009, when the Yankees won the World Series (As if the 17 other World Series rings he witnessed weren’t enough). Last summer I traveled to New York and got to experience a game at historic Yankee Stadium. I was surprised to learn that my Grandpa, such a Yankee fanatic, had never been.
While the experience was amazing, it didn’t quite win me over as a diehard Yankees fan. This past October, however, we promised each other that we would both root for the Rockies to win the National League pennant and the Yankees to clinch the American League title. If both teams made it to the World Series, then it was all fair game.
He joked that he thought he still had his Rockies hat somewhere in his closet; he would just have to blow off the dust that had collected on it for the past decade-plus since he last wore it.
He was always a good sport, though. He would tell me how he would cheer for Colorado State, my college, every time they played UNLV, his hometown, and how all of his friends in Las Vegas would give him a hard time because, most of the time, UNLV got the best of CSU. He stuck with the Rams, though and in the World Series last year, I stuck with the Yankees.
He always had a good heart and good sense of humor and I’ll miss him deeply. While driving together he would randomly wave to passersby. Confused, I would ask if he knew them. He would respond, “Nah, but don’t worry, they don’t know me either.” Last March I got to take my one and only visit to Las Vegas while he lived there. He picked me up from the airport and drove me around the Strip.
He took me to Freemont Street and we got a burger at a local diner and just talked. He came and watched me work at the Mountain West Conference tournament and on our last day we went to the Hoover Dam.
Our last baseball game together was two years ago during his final visit to Colorado. The Rockies won and then-closer Brian Fuentes set a Rockies record for most career saves.
In his 67 years, he battled prostate, melanoma and bone cancer, diabetes, kidney failure and triple bypass heart surgery. During the last few years of his life, he came back to his faith and in his final week, he told my mom that he was ready to leave his “temporary visit on this planet.”
“I’ve lived on this earth twice as long as Jesus did,” he said. “I’m ready to meet Jesus.”
The Yankees organization might be losing their biggest fan in my Grandpa, but they have gained another in me. One thing that can’t be replaced, however, was what my Grandpa meant to me.
I love you, Grandpa.
Aug. 21, 1942-Feb. 12, 2010
** This article is also featured on Bleacher Report. **
July 23. It’s a simple date, but today marks the 13-year anniversary of my first trip to Coors Field.
Who knew it would transform my life and who knew the game would be so historical?
To be honest, I don’t remember much about the game.
I know the Rockies played the New York Mets.
I also recall my grandma, who took me to the game, teaching me that the home team wore white while the visitors were in gray.
Besides that, the last thing I remember about the game is joining the crowd with boos after the Rockies let up a home run. My grandma told me booing players was not polite.
Looking back at the game, it turns out we were booing a six-run sixth inning for the Mets, who tied the game that inning after the Rockies once led 7-0.
Upon looking back at the box scores, it turns out my first game at Coors Field was one heck of a game. It’s a shame I can’t remember anything from it, but that game was the first of an endless amount to come. Who couldn’t be turned on to the sport of baseball seeing 21 runs, 31 hits and a game-winning, walk-off hit in the bottom of the ninth?
I saw Dante Bichette and Vinny Castilla hit home runs while Andres Gallaraga hit a pair. Did I mention they were back to back to back home runs in front of a home crowd of 48,000-plus?
Eric Young, my all-time favorite Rockie, had a ninth inning infield single with the bases loaded, scoring Jayhawk Owens for the win.
The reason I remember the date of this event was my grandma later bought a personalized brick.
Back in Coors Field’s first few seasons of existence, the Rockies organization allowed fans to purchase bricks that could be engraved with a message, and then cemented into the ground leading up to the stadium near left field.
In quadrant 11, row three, seven bricks from the left,
“Nicholas A. Hallisey
Game 07 23 1996″
During my last visit to “the greatest place on Earth,” I took a stroll down Wynkoop Walk, the area containing the few thousand bricks.
Some people wrote personal messages, some were to loved ones. Others had famous quotes or were signed from the Rockies No. 1 fans.
“Baseball is life,” “Another Rockies fan born,” “Kiss it goodbye,” and “Thanks for the future memories” are just a few.
It’s a neat part of the stadium that not many people know about.
On the certificate that was given to me with my brick, it states that my brick will be forever etched in stone at Coors Field.
Thanks to that July game 13 years ago, my love for baseball has also been etched in stone.
This article is also featured on Bleacher Report.
I do not like Manny Ramirez.
I think he’s lazy. I don’t like his persona while playing the game. He’s greedy in my opinion. And now, he’s a cheater.
Two weeks ago, Manny and the Dodgers came to Coors Field to take on the Rockies. I had the privilege of sitting in the left field bleachers, directly behind Manny’s defensive position. I enjoyed nine innings of heckling the slugger and cheered thoroughly after each of his three strikeouts.
Ramirez is a great hitter. He is the quintessential slugger, but he is far from what a baseball player should be.
Despite my dissatisfaction with Ramirez, I was not one of the hundreds, probably thousands of gleeful anti-Manny baseball fans Thursday morning.
In February, during the wake of the A-Roid incident, I wrote a piece in which I hoped for baseball innocence. I said it’s the only way for baseball to get over the infamous “steroid era.”
I’m getting pretty tired of the “I didn’t know what I was putting in my body” excuses. We know you’re stupid, Manny, but are you really that naïve?
Although I don’t believe Manny, nor any other suspected users (Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, etc.), is innocent, it’s sad that all of the top players are ruining the great game of baseball–our nation’s pastime.
These players are tarnishing the game and hurting the reputation of all other players. When players perform well, they will no longer be innocent until proven guilty, but instead guilty until proven innocent.
Despite my stance against Manny, I was not excited to hear the breaking news Thursday morning.
Indeed, today is a sad day for baseball.
This article is also featured on Bleacher Report.
April 5, 2009.
One-hundred and fifty-eight days of withdrawal between Brad Lidge’s strikeout to win it all at Citizen’s Bank Ballpark on Oct. 29 and the opening pitch in the very same stadium.
It starts tonight at 8 PM ET where the reigning champs play host to the Braves.
It begins in Philadelphia, but where will it end?
Magic begins. Miracles happen.
The sound of the wood bat striking a 98 mile per hour fastball. The feel of your hand inside a freshly-oiled glove.
The days start getting a little longer. The weather a little warmer. Springtime is here.
25 men, nine coaches, a front office and an entire stadium full of fans all pulling together.
Baseball is America’s sport. America’s pastime.
There’s a feeling of optimism within each of the 30 teams today.
A fresh start. A new chance.
An opportunity to prove that their transactions over the winter have put them in position to be the best team in baseball. This could be the year.
The pennant will be raised in Philly. The Rays will try to prove last year wasn’t just a fluke. The Yankees are in a new home, and will try to make a comeback after not being invited to the playoffs for the first time since 1993.
Will money prove to win championships? Or can Kerry Wood’s new home take the Indians to the top? Will Francisco Rodriguez be the answer to the Mets’ late season chokes?
The dirt has been watered. The lines are chalked. The smell of the freshly cut grass lingers in the air. Pine tar is spread up the first 17 inches of the bats.
Tell Fenway Park to strike up “Sweet Caroline” after the sixth inning again and “Tessie” after a win. Wrigley fans can join in the infamous “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” singing during the seventh-inning stretch.
Maybe year 101 will be the lucky year for the Cubs to finally break their curse.
Each jersey is pressed. Each light and each seat in the stands has been checked as the scoreboard lights up for the first time.
Contracts are finalized. Lineups are penciled in. But the road to the postseason is anything but certain.
Summer nights will soon settle in where there is no better place to be than at the ballpark. Fans of all ages will soon fall asleep to the voices of Peter Gammons, Harold Reynolds, and Kurt Ravech on Baseball Tonight.
The boys of summer.
Inside the stadium, concession lines will form as hot dogs are cooked. Ketchup, mustard, and all of the condiments of your choice.
Sunflower seeds, peanuts, and crackerjacks.
Fans willing to shell out $11 for a hot dog and soda, and not ashamed to do so–just for a chance to witness something great. The chance to see someone great. The chance to witness history.
A towering 450-foot home run. Hustling around first base and sliding into second for a double down the line. Taking one step too many and getting caught in a pickle which turns to be a 1-3-6-1-4-3 out to end the inning.
Stains on the jersey from a diving catch deep in the outfield. Collisions at the plate.
Infuriated managers. Ejections.
Catchers giving pitchers signs. Pitchers shaking off the catcher’s sign.
A suicide bunt to score the tying run. A grand slam. Hitting for the cycle.
Extra innings. Game-winning walk-off hits. Fireworks. Excitement. Celebrations.
Grown men dog piling on top of each other.
Baseball brings euphoric emotions to each of its fans.
Dreams begin for children today. Dreams for their team. Dreams of playing someday.
Dreams for adults. This game allows them to become kids. Fathers and sons enjoying their first glimpse of the new season while playing hooky from work and school.
We witnessed extraordinary events in 2008: two no-hitters, Manny Ramirez’s 500th career home run, Ken Griffey Jr. hitting his 600th, a phenomenal showing by Josh Hamilton in the Home Run Derby, the longest All-Star Game, and two historic stadiums hosting their final games.
What will be in store for 2009?
Gary Sheffield’s 500th career home run? Randy Johnson’s 300th career win?
An unassisted triple play? The game’s 18th perfect game?
So button up your jersey. Tighten your newly-polished cleats. Adjust your cap and get ready. The boys are back in town, ready for a 162-game dogfight for the chance to be crowned the world’s greatest.
Baseball is back.
This article is also featured on Bleacher Report.