by Adam Hughes
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Opening Day
The Opening Day parade was a blur of Cincinnati dignitaries, many of whom neither Dan nor David recognized, and baseball-themed “floats” that were mostly little more than cars with poster boards taped to them.
Neither Hodges man had ever witnessed the spectacle in person before, and it was exciting to see, but both were more than ready to head to Riverfront Stadium and get the season underway by Noon. They parked in a surface lot near a dingy factory that didn’t look so bad in the daylight but which Dan knew would be downright scary at night. They pushed their way through the throngs of fans milling about near their cars and the steady stream of ticket hawkers lining up outside the turnstiles on the west side of the stadium. By 12:30, Dan and David were standing in line for hot dogs and Cokes on the inner concourse and, from there, they stopped for souvenirs — a program and a yearbook — and made their way to their seats down the left-field line.
Dan and David had attended dozens of games in Cincinnati during Dan’s childhood, but the experience never lost its appeal for either man. Every time they caught a glimpse of the surreal green turf peaking out from the beneath the stadium overhang, Dan’s pulsed ticked up a beat, and every first crack of the bat made him want to bolt for the field and shag some fly balls. There was nowhere on earth as exhilarating and at the same time comforting as a Big League stadium.
And, while left field was usually the territory reserved for the worst player on the team, that was not always the case in the Majors. When it came to the Cincinnati Reds, a perch in left field was a plum position to be in as far as Dan was concerned. Not only would they be within shouting distance of Pete Rose, but they would have a clear line of view for everything Dan Driessen did at third base. And when the Atlanta Braves took the field? Patrolling left field would be none other than the legend himself, Hank Aaron.
By the time Dan and David were settled into their seats, players were starting to dribble out of the dugouts and onto the field, and, a few minutes later, the Braves began their batting practice routine. Dusty Baker and Darrell Evans both took a series of mighty hacks, lofting several balls into the stands, with some landing not far from where the Hodges sat. Then a procession of lesser lights such as Marty Perez, Vic Correll, and Paul Casanova took their cuts, but the Cincinnati crowd, already large, was starting to get antsy.
There was only one man anyone wanted to see that afternoon: the 40-year-old Aaron, who stood on the brink of baseball history. Finally, when it seemed Hank might not take the field at all, Number 44 climbed the dugout steps and stood in the on-deck circle, taking a couple of warm-up swings. As the Cincinnati stands broke into cheers and applause, Aaron strode to the plate and stared out at the cage which protected pitching coach Herm Starrette.
Dan thought Aaron looked rusty as he squibbed a couple of weak grounders through the unmanned infield, but he got under a pitch and lifted it into shallow left field, which seemed to be the turning point of his “at-bat”. On the next pitch, Aaron’s famous wrists flicked a liner into right, and he drove the ball beyond the outfield fence in dead center. Aaron watched the ball from the moment it left his bat until it disappeared out of sight, then nodded and turned to the dugout. Good enough, he seemed to be saying. Ready to go.
The Cincy crowd treated Aaron to a mixture of cheers and boos as he left the field — they were thrilled to have witnessed his pre-game warm-up, but they wanted more of the man who might take down Babe Ruth within a few hours. Aaron tipped his cap as he climbed down the dugout stairs and faded into the shadows of the Braves’ clubhouse. For his part, Dan sat in awe, contemplating the importance of the moment and of the man.
“Hey, you better close that up before a bug flies in there,” David said to his son, smiling and pointing at the young man’s mouth, which hung open.
Dan’s eyes swiveled toward his father and, after a beat, he registered the older man’s joke. He closed his mouth and smiled ruefully. “Ha, ha. Pretty funny, Dad,” he said.
“That was groovy, huh?” David asked.
Dan cringed. “Dad, you can’t say, ‘groovy’!” he exclaimed. “Besides, ‘groovy’ is out of style.” Dan stopped to think, realizing he had no idea what WAS in style after spending nine months unconscious. Finally, he softened and smiled. “But, yeah, that was pretty groovy.”
The Reds were up next, and Cincinnati paraded out its usual lineup of All-Stars: Rose, Bench, Morgan, Perez. They all looked more or less like Dan had remembered them, but he was especially interested to see what Dan Driessen could do since David had such high praise for the young third baseman. After a couple of low line drives, Driessen stroked several flies deep into the outfield, and two of them landed in the stands.
“Seems pretty powerful,” Dan said as Driessen headed for the dugout.
“Yeah, it’s like I told you: Driessen is the third baseman this season. It’s going to be good.”
Dan nodded, but he was still thinking about Hank Aaron. Would he hit a home run that afternoon? Or maybe two? It wasn’t often Dan rooted against the Reds in any fashion, but he was entering that Opening Day game as a bona fide Henry Aaron fan.
