By: TJ Hartnett
TheSouthernSportsEdition.com news services
With a 1-0 victory over the Detroit Tigers on October 2nd, Turner Field closed its gates on an Atlanta Braves’ season for the final time.
The Ted, as it is affectionately known, opened up with a 1-run win for Atlanta as well, coming against the Cubs in 1997. It hasn’t seen much in the way of postseason success in between, and in fact most of the teams celebrating clinching wins there have been visitors.
Why would any Braves fan even care about leaving that place behind? With such a measly success rate, how can any amount of time spent there even be considered worthwhile?
Last week my colleague Drayton Hogarth wrote a wonderful piece on Turner Field’s history and what it meant to the Braves. I would like, if you’ll allow me, to write about my personal experiences at the Ted.
My college roommate and I spent countless nights at Turner; after all, we lived at Kennesaw State University, which is right off of the interstate so it was a quick drive to get to the blue lot.
We always parked in the blue lot. It is the easiest to get to and the easiest to escape from if you’re trying to get back to 75. We liked to get there by at least 4:00 for a 7:00 game.
That’s not wholly uncommon, but while most of our fellow early arrivals were grilling out and drinking, we went straight in to watch batting practice. Sometimes we’d catch home runs, sometimes we could get the players shagging balls to toss one to us (it helped if we brought girls).
Then we would go up to section 413 and get situated for the game. My idea of heaven is sitting in the front row of section 413, watching the grounds grew put down the chalk. The most at peace I can be is sitting there, watching them get the field ready, waiting for the game to start.
In that moment, before the first pitch, anything could happen during the game.
And I have seen all manner of games at Turner Field. I’ve left that stadium on the highest of highs and the lowest depths of devastation.
That same college roommate and I were at the ballpark on May 13, 2006 when Jeff Francoeur launched a walk-off grand slam against the Nationals. It was the first walk off I’d ever seen live, and I can still feel the electricity when I think about that moment.
I also remember that we took a different route home that night and got lost for three hours. We ended up in Gwinett somehow. That’s what you get when you don’t park in the blue lot.
We didn’t care though, we had just experienced something amazing, something we would remember long after that night. That roommate, by the way, was a groomsman at my wedding nine years later.
I was at the wild card game in 2012 too. Chipper Jones, my favorite player of all time, was playing in what turned out to be his last game. I remember being there with three of my friends, having absolutely no clue what was happening when that infield fly rule was called. We couldn’t hear the announcers explain – though eventually word trickled throughout the stadium, and that hardly helped the confusion.
I remember feeling so many different feelings as the trash came flying in droves out of the seats and onto the field. I was initially proud, having just recently written a story for SSE about how terrible the fans in Atlanta are, because good god this was an angry crowd at that call.
Then I remember feeling nervousness as the PA announcer relayed that the umpires were threatening to call the game if people didn’t stop throwing trash. I looked to the three friends I was with and without reservation told them that if the game was called, we needed to get out of that stadium immediately. There would have been a riot. Even though we lost that game, and I left heartbroken, boy did I have an experience. Those three friends, by the way, are still three my closest friends.
I was in the stadium when Eric Hinske hit a two run home run in game 3 of the 2010 NLDS, giving the Braves the lead with the series tied 1-1. To date, it is the most amazing moment I have ever experienced watching live baseball. But I also was there in the 9th inning of that same game, when Brooks Conrad, who had provided me with so many amazing memories that year, committed his third error of the game, and we lost. The friend I was with that night lives in San Diego now, but we still talk baseball nearly every week.
I was there the next night too, when Derek Lowe convinced Bobby Cox to keep him in the game, and when Brooks pinch hit and the crowd cheered for him anyway, and when the Giants stood and applauded Bobby after the game, even though they were the ones who had just won the series.
I was heartbroken, but my girlfriend was with me, and she sat next to me and waited for me as the stadium emptied, waiting for me to be ready to leave Bobby Cox and the 2010 Braves, by far my favorite baseball team ever.
This was the first baseball season she’d experienced with me, the first time she saw me after a season-ending loss, and she knew what I needed was time to sit there and take it in. I remember feeling like she accepted and understood that this was a part of me. That was an important moment for me and the woman who is now my wife.
See it’s not about the games. I remember the people I was with, the experiences we shared, and the stories we get to tell again and again. Turner Field was the backdrop of those stories. It gave me moments to treasure.
But it also gave me baseball.
May 10, 2003 wasn’t the first time I had been to a baseball game, or to Turner Field for that matter. It wasn’t a special game, and honestly nothing monumental happened during it. I was just going because a friend had invited me. See, I didn’t care about baseball when I was 15.
I had been to games, I knew the Braves were in the midst of winning a lot or something – I stayed up and cheered in 1995 too – but I didn’t follow the sport; but for some reason, that game mesmerized me.
Chipper hit a home run, Javy hit a home run, Horacio Ramirez held Barry Bonds and the Giants to 2 two runs through 6.2 innings, and then it happened: the ninth inning was about to start, and the opening lick to AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck’ blared through the sound system.
I had no idea what was happening, but I felt chills up my spine; and then John Smoltz slowly walked out of the bullpen and the entire stadium exploded. I was so caught up, so invested with every beat of my heart. I had just fallen in love with baseball.
The record books show that Smoltz gave up a run but got the save and the Braves won 6-3. I guess that’s true. I’ve always remembered him striking out three batters on nine pitches.
But part of the joy of baseball is the legends, the mythmaking. This game was life-changing, and I have the right to remember it however I please. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what the box score says.
My feelings for Turner Field isn’t about the box scores. Hell, it’s not even about wins and losses. It’s about what each game meant to me. I was 15 when I fell in love with baseball 13 years ago.
I grew up going to games there. I spent time with loved ones there. My team didn’t have a lot of important success playing at Turner Field, but I will always remember it fondly, because it’s where I fell in love with the game of baseball. And I think that makes it worthwhile.
