Oriole Magic At Home

SO THEY'VE replaced Baltimore's not-so-beautiful Memorial Stadium with gorgeous Oriole Park at Camden Yards. So the seats are wider and the aisles are larger. The upper deck looks a lot like Wrigley's, with open-air fences in the back. The B&O Warehouse behind right field brings a smile to every slugger's lips; you can reach it with a 460-foot bomb. 'Nuff said. Walk in and you'll be intoxicated.

"Welcome Home" read the digital score-board at Camden last Saturday. It's the 1992 Orioles' theme, meant to return fans to a time when baseball stadiums were homes, not houses. Homes with ivy walls. Asymmetrical layouts. Natural turf. And really good hot dogs.

Watching the Orioles take Batting Practice (BP), I felt a lot like any other spectator, though. How could this arena proclaim itself my "home?" Home was Memorial Stadium, the Orioles' ex-field. How could this imposter greet me with a sardonic "Welcome Home?"

I looked for clues. Saw Orioles' centerfielder Mike Devereaux. Waved. He said, "Hi."

And I was home.

BASEBALL ISN'T a sport that's highly regarded by the tense and frustrated. No, baseball requires years of easy-going, slow-paced discipline. This isn't the kind of stuff that plays very well at Harvard. Students are more devoted to their studies than a trip to the ball park.

Want to know the average Varsity baseball attendance? It hovers somewhere near 20--the 18 parents of the starters and two guys named Jim who like to stop by on the way back from a lacrosse game. Football games require tickets. Hockey games sometimes require reservations. All Harvard baseball requires is a pulse.

And dismal attendance numbers here cannot be explained by the fact that the Crimson doesn't play in the majors. Many of my friends left Fenway's 1992 Opening Day in order to write papers. They led an exodus in the seventh inning. Harvard students work hard; they don't have time to sit in the bleachers and watch a silly game of baseball.

When I chose a college, I figured that Harvard's proximity to Fenway Park was a huge plus; I'd soon be loving the Red Sox almost as dearly as I prize my Orioles. But I can't wax poetic about Fenway the way I could about Memorial Stadium, because it's just not my home. Roger Clemens charges money for an autograph. Repeat: he charges for a signature. At each game, I hear a new complaint: "Jody Reed sucks!" "Mike Greenwell's an overpaid bum!" "Find me a relief pitcher!"

Fenway Park was supposed to be (yes, I'll take the bait) a field of dreams. I don't care where you come from; if you're a baseball fan you've seen more pictures of that Green Monster than of any other ball park feature, save Wrigley's ivied walls.

All right, I admit, at first, I loved it--the bleachers, the Monster, the Fenway Franks. I loved that my first game at Fenway was an Orioles victory, 9-2.

But fans here are tense. No, they're obviously not all displaced Harvard students. Yet everybody at Fenway seems to have this obsession-driven attachment to the game. They are angry after a loss and full of complaints after a win. Okay, I understand it. But this is not home.

I go to ball games to relax and pass the time, not to worry about how I'm wasting it. Ever since I arrived, I've felt lost at Fenway. Maybe a little lost at Harvard as well. It'd be nice if I could go to an afternoon baseball game and just have a good time in the sun. However, since (a) no one here seems to have the time to accompany me and (b) a BoSox game isn't all that relaxing, I've decided not to go.

The summer before my first year at Harvard, I went to around 15 or 20 Orioles games at Memorial--that old round concrete building the O's had used since 1954. It contained nearly 4,500 obstructed view seats. Row 33 in the upper deck was high enough to give one of my friends a nosebleed. Don't get me wrong. I loved the place. It was pure Balti-more--rough but noble, sturdy and dependable, a family park.

For years it held the honor of employing the "nicest ushers in baseball." When a fan makes a clean catch, the announcer calls out "Give that fan a contract!" and the ushers actually race over with a "contract" from the team. There were never fights at Memorial, beer-induced or otherwise. Cal Ripken, Jr. still drinks milk, for God's sake! You'll also never catch an Oriole charging money for his autograph. Far from it! Orioles players are required to name a favorite charity upon signing a contract in order to cement each player's relationship with the city. Bleacher seats are $4.00, so that anyone can buy a ticket. In Boston, the price has stabilized at $7.00.

Ball parks do not determine who falls in love with the O's. The fiber of a Baltimore fan is distinct from the fiber of either of Harvard student or a Bostonian. And although I can't pen myself as either a Baltimore resident (I'm from Virginia) or as a typical baseball fan (I'm female), I'm nonetheless drawn to "Oriole Magic."

IN MOST CITIES, people go to baseball games to see power, not precision. It wasn't exciting to watch shortstop Cal Ripken, Jr. earn a record .996 fielding percentage with only three errors in 1990. Nope. Not exciting. But watching Ripken and the Orioles play all season can be downright poetic. Scoff, cite statistics about "better" teams until you're blue in the face. You're probably right. Baltimore's record in recent years has been dismal.

It doesn't matter. Take Cal's brother, second baseman Bill. Fans might not believe he's a great player, but they like him. He's one of the guys. And we're proud of the entire team. Last year, the Orioles broke their attendance record while racing to sixth-place in the AL East.

Spend a day with the Orioles and you'll understand why Baltimore is a better place for baseball than Boston. Baltimore is a maritime city that wears a scruffy beard. But it's got pride.

At Saturday's game, I was greeted with the words, "Welcome to your new home. Please be very careful. Balls and bats may come your way so be alert at all times. Thank you." I was alert. Bill Ripken sang along with the P.A. before the game and I smirked. Home.

During the school year, I guess I'll have to follow my team through box scores and the Sporting News. I'll live as fully, as completely, in as concentrated a manner as anyone else at Harvard. Cambridge may be "home" for the next three years, but I'm probably not going to this city's baseball park any time soon. And after finals, I'm headed for "Oriole Magic" at the Yards.