I’ve never liked goodbyes. No matter how good the other end of the spectrum looks, I have a hard time letting go of the memories. Maybe it’s because I’m a sap. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for history. All I know I that when I walked out of RFK Stadium a week ago, I had a lump in my throat.
It caught me by surprise. Were my eyes really welling up because I’ll never see another baseball game at that concrete toilet bowl again?
Yeah, I guess they were.
RFK is no heaven, but believe it or not, there’s a lot to miss.
Like the gentleman whose sweet sax sounds used to greet me when I got off the Metro.
Like the sight of that behemoth as I rounded the corner.
Like the one place on the upper level that actually sold nachos.
Like the nachos and the lukewarm cheese.
Like the bathrooms where I would rush between innings.
Like the scoreboard you couldn’t always see.
Like the Redskins-colored seats.
Like the undulating shadows on a summer afternoon.
Like the crowd, both on those days when the house was full and on those when I could hear someone laugh across the park.
And there’s still so much that can’t be photographed. There’s the sweet and sour smell that permeates the corridors… the roar of the crowd when Teddy Roosevelt ambles out of the tunnel in right field and inevitably loses… the memories of spending weekends and weeknights with my parents, my friends, my co-workers, my dates, and even just myself. I’ve giggled in those stands and I’ve fought in those stands. I’ve thought about things in my life and I’ve escaped from those very same things.
Only a mile away from my house, RFK became like a second home and a haven for me over the past three years, and though the new Nationals Park will be a magnificent place, I think there will always be a little part of me that longs for the ugly beauty of RFK.
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