When the second time is better
Scribbled Notes on a Cocktail Napkin: Seriously, just do it. Do all the things and do them again and again and again
Scribbling from Tacoma, Washington
It’s June 1996. I’m driving across the country from San Diego to Watertown, NY for my first job out of college. When I stopped in Kansas City, my friend Chris says when I drive through St. Louis, I should stop and take the elevator to the top of the Gateway Arch. I think he’s lying. I’ve seen the Gateway Arch on TV. It looks thin. No chance there’s an elevator. The internet doesn’t exist to immediately answer these questions. I need to find out if he was serious. I reach St. Louis, see the Arch, find a parking space, and investigate.
Holy moly, the Gateway Arch is enormous … and it totally does has an elevator! I do a quick mental cost-benefit analysis if it’s a good value and if I should go to the top. It’s an overcast day. Visibility is minimal. Ultimately, I decide that I might never be in St. Louis again.
I do it.
I’ve been to St. Louis at least a dozen times since then. I’ve never gone back up.
It’s November 1996. I’m in Seattle with family for Thanksgiving. My uncle Dave is showing us around. Here is the market where they throw fish around. Here is Key Arena, where the SuperSonics play. Here is the famous Space Needle. I do a mental cost-benefit analysis if it’s a good value to go to the top. It’s night. It’s kinda misty. Visibility is minimal. Ultimately, I decide I might never be in Seattle again.
I do it.
I’ve been to Seattle two dozen times since then. I’ve never gone back up.
Until a few days ago.
If you’re new to this Newsletter, hi, I’m Josh. I’m a former newspaper reporter turned minor league baseball play-by-play announcer. I write about baseball (but rarely about baseball games), while mixing in stories about life, society and history. Subscriptions are free. Paid subscriptions are like buying me coffee. Coffee makes me write more often and better.
I was in Tacoma this past week with the Albuquerque Isotopes. My coworker Forest is on this trip and my high school friend James drove up from Yakima to hang out for a couple days. We did a tourist day. It was Forest’s first time in Seattle, so we left the decision up to him if we should go to the top of Space Needle.
Forest, perhaps thinking like me in 1996, that he’ll never be back there, decided we should do it.
Not gonna lie, I questioned his decision. The line was pretty long. I was getting hungry. It took a full hour before we even got onto the elevator. But then we arrived at the top. It was a clear day. It’s really special up there. I’m really grateful we did it.
An ex-girlfriend once told me, “you sure like a good view.” She’s right.
I like me a good view.
"Scribbled notes on a cocktail napkin" is my weekly Sunday feature that's a tribute to the sports columnists I grew up reading who penned Herb Caen-inspired three dot columns. It's an excuse to shamelessly plug my other side projects, post my favorite Immaculate Grid from the week with a story about one of the players, link to stories I found interesting, and string together loose topics on my mind.
How the Space Needle made Seattle a sports town
The Space Needle was the signature attraction of the 1962 World Fair. The original idea was — I’m not kidding here — scribbled on a cocktail napkin, making it a perfect story for my Sunday feature.
It was built in less than a year, at a cost of $4.5 million, and most notably, none of the construction workers were injured. At the time, it was the tallest building in the United States.
The World’s Fair and Space Needle put the city of Seattle on the map. As professional sports leagues expanded, or frustrated team owners looked to move their franchises to a more profitable city, the Emerald City became a destination.
The NBA arrived first, in 1967, when the Seattle SuperSonics were an expansion team.
Two years later, in 1969, the Seattle Pilots became an expansion team in Major League Baseball. The year was an unmitigated disaster. Some problems went beyond ownership’s control. They were supposed to begin in 1971, giving them two years to prepare. But the Governor of Missouri pressured MLB to move up the date to 1969 for when the expansion Kansas City Royals would join the American League. Both teams needed to debut at the same time.
The Pilots played in Sick’s Stadium, a minor league ballpark that was already rapidly deteriorating, and needed to be expanded to 30,000 seats. By Opening Day, only about 18,000 seats were available due to delays. Then-Commissioner Bowie Kuhn attended the opener and declared it, “a facility that was anything but major league.” Water pressure was nonexistent after the seventh inning when the crowds were above 8,000.
After one season, the Pilots were sold to a used car salesman named Bud Selig who moved them to Milwaukee and they became the Brewers.
The site of Sick’s Stadium is now a Lowe’s. Because I’m a baseball sicko, I forced James and Forest to stop there with me this week. There’s a sign in some bushes marking the location.
There is also a wooden cutout of a batter next to a home plate just outside the Lowe’s exit. Home plate is barely visible, but it’s just in front of my feet in the below photo.
We looked at old photos of Sick’s Stadium from my phone and tried to determine the ballpark layout. It took us awhile, but we finally found the three layered apartment buildings in the below photo. Because of how Lowe’s is situated now, you can’t really duplicate the below photo, but I’m fairly convinced home plate remains in almost the exact same location.
If you enjoy looking at demolished MLB stadiums and what is now at the location, you’ll enjoy this YouTube video.
Seattle gets its second chance at MLB
After the first attempt at Major League Baseball failed, Seattle built the Kingdome for football and baseball and any other event they could get. It opened in 1976, the third domed stadium in the United States after the Astrodome in Houston and Superdome in New Orleans.
In 1976, the Seattle Seahawks joined the NFL. In 1977, Seattle got its second chance at MLB with the expansion Seattle Mariners.
It’s easy to forget the Pilots ever existed. They only lasted one year. The ballpark wasn’t anything close to major league standards. They had no stars on the team. They finished in last place, a record of 64-98, 33 games out of first place. They averaged just 8,268 fans per game, which was actually only the fifth-worst in the majors that year.
The best thing to come from the Seattle Pilots is the ground-breaking, tell-all book written by Jim Bouton titled “Ball Four.” Most of the history of that season is from Bouton’s book.
I was thinking about second chances during Thursday’s game and how not all MLB debuts are created equally.
The starting pitcher for the Tacoma Rainiers was left-hander Rob Kaminsky. He reached the majors, in 2020, the Covid year, when fans were not allowed in the ballparks. Kaminsky made five appearances and posted a 1.93 ERA.
But he wasn’t able to look up in the stands and see his parents, his friends, the coaches that helped him get there. His loved ones were not able to experience the joy together in person. Kaminsky hasn’t returned to the majors since then. He was hurt in 2021 and he’s pitched mostly at Triple-A the last three seasons.
Kaminsky is one of about dozen players whose only MLB experience was during the Covid year without fans inside ballparks.
I hope Kaminsky eventually gets a second shot at the majors, when his family can be there to take all the photos and shed all the happiest of tears, the same way Seattle got a second chance at the major leagues.
This Week’s Not-So Random Immaculate Grid: Randy Johnson
Hall of Fame pitcher Randy Johnson’s nickname was the Big Unit. He became a star in Seattle. It’s logical to deduce Johnson’s nickname is based on his height (6’10) and the Space Needle.
That’s actually not the case.
In truth, the Big Unit nickname was given to him when he played for the Montreal Expos.
"I was given [my nickname] when I first got called up to the big leagues in 1988 by a former teammate of mine, Tim Raines," The Big Unit told mlb.com in 2005. "He was about 5-foot-9. He bumped into me, looked up and said, 'You're a big unit.'"
The nickname stuck the rest of his career.
Here’s a bonus story from the above Immaculate Grid that my friend James told me this week.
When Felix Hernandez threw his perfect game on August 15, 2012 at Seattle’s new ballpark, Safeco Field, James was sitting in the front row with his father and his son. I asked how he got such great seats.
James went to the ticket office on the day of the game and asked for the best three seats available. The woman in the ticket office smiled and said if he waited about 20 minutes she’d be able to sell him some special tickets. You see, each team is required to save six seats for the Commissioner. At a certain point before the game, if the Commissioner does not attend the game, the seats can be sold.
Three generations watched King Felix’s perfect game together. James struck up a conversation with Tampa Bay Rays first-base coach George Hendrick that continued between innings and he got a ball that day. They were in the background during Hernandez’s postgame TV interview.
James’ father passed away three years later.
But he can always look at that baseball and remember the perfect day he shared with his father, his son, and Felix Hernandez.
It’s January 2001. I’m in Hawaii. I see advertisements for a helicopter ride to see remote waterfalls that you can’t otherwise view. It looks amazing. The cost seems high. I do a quick mental cost-benefit analysis if it’s a good value and if I should do it.
I figure I’ll be back another time with more money. I don’t do it.
I’ve been back to Hawaii three more times. Each time, the price is more and more expensive. I still haven’t done it.
Next time I got to Hawaii, I’m definitely taking the helicopter ride.
I do like me a good view.
If you enjoyed today’s Newsletter, you’ll likely to enjoy these stories from my archives.
Nice shirt your buddy is sporting- Go Navy!