Requiem for a Ballpark

On a sun drenched Saturday in 1989

I saw a bloodied, unbowed baseball shrine.

Portsmouth's Lawrence Stadium, monument to WPA

and the confluence of streets uniquely intersecting;

a park with the personality of an Ansel Adams character study.

Forgotten since '69's Tidewater Mets swansong,

the curved stands beckoned as an old friend

to determine where home plate used to be,

look at overgrown basepaths,

barely recognizable pitcher's mound,

and marvel at Piedmont League ghosts.

York's Brooks Robinson snags one in '55 over the third base bag

quickly shifts his feet,

guns out the batter,

making George Staller glad he suggested shifting Brooks to third.

A '48 Portsmouth batter looks fastball,

ludicrously strikes out,

strands runners;

Norfolk Tars' Whitey Ford sees the value of a full count curve.

Duke Snider lashes a bad ball into a cavernous left center gap,

a triple for Newport News in '44,

raising dust and applause.

Old Double X' manages here in '44

pitches 3 games,

pinch hits twice,

gets released because he has trouble controlling himself once.

In '37 Phil Rizzuto digs out a short hop,

tosses slowly enough to give the Norfolk pitcher palpitations;

barely nips the runner at first.

Finally time for my center field booth

to broadcast a football game between two high school teams

on undulating field with lines limed by a groundskeeper who must have

been dodging the vermin he saw during a terrible hangover.

With bat and rat colonies behind the baseball stands,

everything fit perfectly.

Dan Taylor 7/20/02

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