A few years ago, I wrote this short vision of what a new baseball stadium in Washington might look like for Nats News, the quarterly newsletter the Washington Baseball Historical Society (WBHS) publishes. A lot of this has come to pass, more awaits in the future. The statues of Walter Johnson, Josh Gibson and Frank Howard will be in place next season.

I hope, when you read this post, you feel the affection for Washington baseball that I — and thousands of others — feel. Many disparage Washington as a town of soulless transients, with loyalty to nothing but political parties and self-preservation. If it was ever true, it is a dated notion that changed long ago. Now, multiple generations of people have lived and worked — and stayed in the area. They root for their home teams as passionately as any other  town. Until 2005, Washington simply lacked one of two necessary conditions to fall in love with baseball. They had no home team. They still wait for the second, a winning team that, at least, makes the playoffs or a serious, down-to-the-wire run.

No town embraces baseball until that happens. Not even Cubs’ fans. True, they haven’t won a World Series in 99 years, but they’ve made the play-offs many times since 1984. Red Sox’ fans had turned away in droves — until the Impossible Dream of 1967. When the  WBHS held a reunion for the 1969 Senators, the event’s capstone, breakfast with the players, quickly sold out — this from a town devoid of baseball since 1971. In the coming months, I will set about debunking myths about Washington as a baseball — and sports — town. Here’s the article excerpt:

 

The memories and stirred senses of the joy of baseball in Washington bring more than nostalgia. Pure reminiscing is hopeless, a simple reverie of a time long ago, never to return. It cannot be only, merely that. My memories give me a vision — of a future, quite near, where I experience the feelings and sensory pleasures of baseball again, right here in Washington, D.C. This time, as a parent, with my three sons.

In my vision, we stroll, no, trot toward a new stadium. It’s unquestionably modern, with a classic look and feel that complements the surrounding architecture. Centerfield has a 90 degree bend, a la Griffith Stadium, and there’s a big, black clock with long white hands and Roman numerals, like RFK’s signature Longine’s timepiece.

 
The stadium is open, with a view that takes in the Capitol and the gorgeous D.C. skyline on a clear night. A large American flag flies over center field, boldly symbolizing that this park is where defenders of freedom live and work.

 
Metro stops here, with thousands riding up its (working) escalators, pictures of great Washington baseball players from Walter Johnson to Josh Gibson to Frank Howard lining either side. A carnival atmosphere prevails, with vendors selling shirts, hats, souvenirs and all kinds of food and drink.

 
The grounds outside the stadium are well kept, with clean, green space for picnicking and leisurely talking baseball – or politics. The laughter and anticipation brings the nearby streets and bars alive. The crowd has many colors, languages, and cultures – its diversity reflecting a city full of variety and vitality — and, the make-up of the Washington baseball organization itself.


My boys sprint down the steps, past a distracted usher and down the steps to the right field foul line to crowd in for an autograph from a Washington ballplayer. I sit down in my seat, open my score book, and sigh contentedly. Baseball has returned to Washington, where it belonged all along.