I don’t remember ever seeing the Baltimore Orioles play at Camden Yards, the place whose very name evokes feelings of an Arcadia or Camelot—some legend, myth, or fogged history. But apparently I did visit the cathedralesque ballpark with its once newly minted cast-iron gates, ochre-bricked arches, and sprawled, luxuriant lawns. Judging by the date printed on one bruised, lavender-hued ticket stub from when the Orioles played the Milwaukee Brewers on September 13, 1992, the inaugural season for Camden Yards, I was twelve years old at the time and thus likely accompanied by my dad. (According to Baseball-Reference, we were but two among 44,242 spectators in attendance.) A true Yankees fan born in Yonkers, though unfortunately raised in New Jersey, my dad must have suffered through the tedium of that daytime game between two relative non-contenders scrapping it out—and he all the while humoring, even accommodating a traitorous son’s burgeoning love for the Orioles. Or perhaps he suffered more my fanaticism for exorbitantly priced stadium hotdogs and souvenir bric-a-brac and my comparative inattention for the actual game. Whatever the case, the O’s eventually conceded in a 1-3 defeat with good ole Ben McDonald the losing pitcher of the afternoon. Sure it wasn’t a great game, or even a very important one for that matter. But it was my game. And although the memory has sadly faded from my always aging mind, thankfully the ticket stub still serves its truest, most admirable purpose: as memorabilia, nay memento. Now the game becomes meaningful—and I a new meaning make. Because even if I don’t remember, well, at least I can imagine.
Pulp Ephemera 