Opening Day at Candlestick Park was always the best day of the year, a time of new hope, fresh grass, hot dogs, long rides on buses, towering fly balls, hot sun and cold, cold wind.
I would walk past the turnstiles, grab my complimentary San Francisco Giants calendar, buy a program then run straight ahead until I could see the green turf of the playing field. For so many years, Candlestick Park used artificial turf, but I managed to convince myself that it was real grass that smelled of dirt and morning dew. It looked of baseball, and the players were on the field tossing balls to each other or taking their swings at bat.
Baseball, with its Opening Day bunting, crisp uniforms and brand new rookies, was back for another season.
During the latter part of Horace Stoneham’s reign as the owner of the San Francisco Giants, the team was never really good. Opening Day, Fan Appreciation Day and visits by the Los Angeles Dodgers were the only times when the attendance would eclipse 20,000, sometimes drawing as much as 35,000. At least on Opening Day, the San Francisco Giants still had a chance at first place, were not yet 26 games behind in the National League West and every position player had the potential to have an all-star season.
We would make our way to the first rows of the lower levels, bending our tiny bodies over the railing as we screamed at the nearest players while clutching our pen and program. We were desperate for autographs, and most players were generous with their time. The rookies were the kindest, while the veterans were better at dismissing our pleas. Somewhere in our young baseball life, we had each memorized their behavior. Gary Thomasson would glare and walk past, as if taunting us with his refusal to give out an autograph. We knew to gravitate towards the Dave Raders, Chris Arnolds, Pete Falcones and Gary Matthews of the world who always signed our programs and baseballs without fail.
Once all the kids were hustled away from the front seats, all of us would usually head towards the food stand. Back in the day, Carnation chocolate malteds, pink popcorn, peanuts and pretzels were the most exotic menu items at the snack bar. On Opening Day, however, every baseball fan wanted their year’s first taste of that genuine hot dog, bursting with flavors that mixed with condiments and complimentary onions. With food in hand, we would hustle to our seats where we would eat our food, throwing discarded wrappers on the stadium floor as we watched and chattered while the organ music played in the background.
We cheered our favorite names that would stand along the basepath during the Opening Day ceremony.. There was Willie Mays, Bobby Bonds, Willie McCovey, Chris Speier, Gaylord Perry, Orlando Cepeda, Juan Marichal and a whole host of other famous names that would deserve a rousing cheer from the hometown crowd. We would also hear the unfamiliar for the first time, always with the hope that the newest players would fall in love with the City, even if they could not fall in love with playing for a bad team. The Ron Bryants, Darrell Evans, John Montefuscos, Bobby Mercers, Gary Lavelles and Gary Maddoxs would stand and tip their caps at the fans, perhaps understanding that they were the talented players on whom our hopes were so furiously pinned.
it was always during Opening Day when Candlestick seemed to be on its best behavior until the sixth inning, when we would start remembering the real perils of the ballpark. As the wind would begin its sweep of the field, gathering every food wrapper and plastic bag in its fold, a tiny tornado of garbage would form along the outfield fences. Sometimes between plays, an outfielder would scoop up flying garbage with his mitt, returning the contents to a ballboy. The sun would begin shifting quickly until the third base line stands would become cloaked in deep shade. Fans would put on their sweaters and jackets, and clumps of casual fans who wanted the Opening Day experience would start making their way towards the exit, seat cushions clutched under their arms while their faces were pink with burn. Like every young fan, however, we would sit through every inning of Opening Day because it was the start of baseball season, and the San Francisco Giants were our team.
They were not the perennial favorites, and once the great players of the 60s began to slow with age, the newer generation of SF Giants spun through a revolving door. Despite this, we all remained loyal to the ball club. Our elders, fierce with civic pride and armed with the hatred of Los Angeles Dodgers, handed down a piece of history that we listened to and cherished, even if the ballclub was losing.
For me, it was the Mrs. Kusano and Mrs. Mitsuda who brought us to games, quietly hiding their skepticism while we remained buoyantly enthusiastic. Sometimes they became tongue-tied on the names, referring to the new centerfielder Von Joshua as “Von Char Siu Bao” or simply using the term “ano hito” (that person) to refer to a player. They kept their radios on to listen to the game, unveiling a new understanding of English during ball games. They remembered plays and statistics, and would rattle them off with the expertise of a sports announcer. No matter how bad things got for the team, they never became overwrought. They agreed that we should just “…wait until next year..,” and that was why we loved Opening Day.
Meanwhile, we donned our ball caps and waved our orange pennants, hustled down to Roos Atkins to get some player autographs and faithfully listened to Lon Simmons into the late innings while our parents demanded that we go to sleep. We got our free bats that were pounded like haunting drum beats onto the cement ground of the stadium, creating an echo to frighten the visiting team. Our schools were given tickets, and many of us leaned forward in our seats as we ate our bag lunches, entranced by McCovey’s graceful swing during the slowest of summer days, waiting for the ball to sail over the fence. During the down times, we stared at the back of baseball cards, finding in-depth ways to discuss how John D’Acquisto walked home three batters or to marvel at Gary Lavelle’s low ERA. We knew that the season was coming to an end when Jim Barr would unleash his usual September rant, and we went to Fan Appreciation day to clap for players that might never wear the orange and black again.
As a young girl, I believed in the magic of baseball, that magnificent and hypnotic pull of the game that made sitting through nine innings of pop flies, strike outs and errors so wonderful. During Opening Day, the magic was at its maximum. The players were smiling, and we clutched our pencils, ready to jot down the history of every pitch during this new ball game.
I still believe in it.
Play ball!
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Terrific.
Wonderful recollections!