The Ballpark in Arlington opened in 1994 when I was 7 years old and just entering the golden years of my love affair with America's pastime. On July 28th of that year, I sat 19 rows behind the first base dugout with my friend Sam Turner and watched Rusty Greer superman himself over that immaculate green expanse to preserve the only perfect game in Rangers history. For the next five to seven years, baseball was pretty much all I thought about (as my 7-year-old journal will attest). I spent most summer nights either sitting in the chain-link dugout of some dusty North Dallas diamond or lying on the living room floor after dinner with my dad watching the Rangers on Channel 39 (until they switched it to cable and we were too cheap to follow). I pored over box scores and stats every morning with SportsDay laid out on the breakfast table. My wardrobe consisted almost entirely of promotional giveaway t-shirts with Albertson's logos on the front and my heroes names on the back. Gonzalez. Greer. Rodriguez. Clark. Of course the most glorious event that could possibly occur was any night when we got to make that 45-minute westward pilgrimage on I-30 to the most beautiful building I'd ever seen. If our dads were nice enough to cut out of work a little early, we’d arrive around 5:30pm and run through those soaring red brick archways just in time to catch the end of batting practice or politely shout for an autograph before settling into the long-gone centerfield bleachers to watch the our superheroes battle it out on the dirt. After lemon chills, the Cotton-Eyed Joe, and spirited discussions about whether it was humanly possible to “Hit It Here and Win a Free Suit,” we’d end every trip with our heads against backseat Suburban windows drifting off to the comforting sound of Eric Nadel recapping the game on the postgame show.
Now, as a 32-year-old freelance photographer, I’ve had the opportunity to photograph several games a summer from field level. Though it's still exciting to be so close and get paid to document the game I love, it's also a job, and with most of the players now born at least five years after I was, some of the magic has definitely worn off. I’ve often wished my 9-year-old self could be in my 32-year-old body as I frame Elvis Andrus diving into second. My intention with this photo essay was to recapture some of the magic I experienced as a child as a tribute to the game and to the stadium I grew up in before the Rangers move across the street to their fancy new air-conditioned digs. As someone who only experienced old Arlington Stadium from my father’s lap, I know I haven’t really earned “old school” status yet, but I sure do look forward to explaining to my kids what it was like to peel your sweaty thighs off a plastic green seat or plead with your dad to wait just 20 more minutes during this weird thing called a “rain delay.”
