Dickson: Childhood memories still fresh at Rosenblatt

It's the end of an era at Rosenblatt Stadium. Since I've spent most of the past two decades living on the West Coast, I haven't been inside the 'Blatt in ages. On Sunday I rectified that.

The stadium has special meaning because my father worked at Rosenblatt as a ticket-taker when I was a small fry. They called it moonlighting, an extra job after he left work as a young insurance guy. Regularly I'd accompany him and was occasionally allowed to roam the park.

I know what you're thinking. A kid wandering a baseball stadium alone? Better that child be doing something safer, like operating power tools while blindfolded. But it was a simpler time. As long as a kid didn't cross his eyes or dangle his arm out of a moving car, the world was presumed safe.

I learned a lot those summer nights at Rosenblatt. I learned about independence. I learned about responsibility. And I learned sometimes mosquitoes grow to the size of small dogs.

I recall making my career choice at Rosenblatt. In the middle of a game a star-struck lad chose a profession that would surely lead to riches and notoriety — peanut vendor. Nobody in the ballpark was more sought out.

My father introduced me to the No. 1 “nutter,” who I'll call Ted. The way he held an entire section of the stadium in the palm of his salty hand was incredible. He was smooth-talking and charming.

We ran into Ted years later after my dad stopped working at Rosenblatt. I was about 16 and Ted was still a gregarious guy. But he also seemed addled. I asked my dad if he was like that when I knew him years before. The answer was yes.

I still looked up to Ted. I marveled at his bright outlook and ability to earn a living.

The perceptions we have as kids are never the same as the way we see things when we're older. As a young kid I viewed my stadium jaunts through rose-colored sun visors. Flash forward to the present day. I've lived through wars, natural disasters, a near economic depression and the 2010 Big 12 conference spring meetings. I don't view the world the same way.

What that means is I may be setting myself up for a letdown.

Still, I went back to Rosenblatt for the Royals-Iowa Cubs game on Sunday. And although the capacity is greater, sure enough, it seems 10 times smaller.

I was glad to see the Royals were having one of their better promotions — Family FUNday. My trip down memory lane might have been tainted if it was “Mime Appreciation and Monkeypox Awareness Day.” Or if the first 1,000 fans received a free lint brush.

Despite the family in front of me being unaware of the subtle nuances of the game — I'm basing this on the fact three of the five family members were facing the wrong direction — it's good to be back.

I figure I was lucky to feel a connection. Down the road will anyone feel tied to the Sarpy County stadium or TD Ameritrade Park? And what of the rumors fans must remove their shoes before entering TD Ameritrade? Or that Family FUNday will be supplanted by Hostile Corporate Takeover Day?

My mind wandered to my earlier jaunts here. And I let it. Because after Rosenblatt is gone I won't be able to do this again.

I was 11 or 12 when last here. Then I lost interest. The game wasn't fast enough. That was one of six million things I was wrong about.

Vague childhood memories resurfaced. The roaring crowds; playing on the stairs; and I pictured my dad, who passed away in 2005, standing over there, taking tickets and giving me money for root beer.

I'm jolted out of my nostalgia when the guy next to me asks me to pass something down the aisle. It's a bag of peanuts.

Brad Dickson writes the Upon Further Review column on Page 2 of the sports section each Sunday.

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