The legacy of a ballpark (Part 1 of 2)

Before San Diego's Petco Park hosts its first official Major League Baseball game on April 8, I'd like to take a moment not just to celebrate what will be, but also to remember what was, and to talk about the bonds that are created not just by sports, but by the places in which they come to life.

I'll talk about the future later. Right now, I want to take a look back and write what I suppose is part-eulogy, part-love letter to my favorite place on Earth, my second home, my sanctuary: Qualcomm Stadium.

When I think about moments that change my life forever, three of them immediately spring to mind, and all of them involve San Diego Padres baseball. All of them involve that stadium.

I've been going to the ballpark so long that no one in my family remembers when my first baseball game was. I just know I thank my father every day for taking me to the Q, back when it was known as Jack Murphy Stadium, and making me a part of the magic in Mission Valley.

I owe my life to being a Padres fan, in some sense. I was born with cerebral palsy, and in my younger years I didn't know quite what that meant. I didn't know what I was or wasn't capable of. I could have surrendered to the stereotypes of reality, if there hadn't been somebody there to open my eyes.

The heart, spirit and ability that I saw coming out of Tony Gwynn, Chris Gomez, Wally Joyner and their compatriots, passing through them and into the fans, inspired me, challenged me to fight on, and has stayed with me to this day. I'm not just talking about home runs and leaping catches, though through them I was able to live vicariously, if only for a little while. I'm talking about intelligence, determination, and compassion. I grew up with this team and these fans as my extended family. When I was with them, anything was possible, and everything was all right.

Qualcomm Stadium thus became my sanctuary. I would show up with a sense of reverence, knowing another small piece of history was going to be mine. I would come there at my lowest point and emerge feeling strong and feeling like I meant something to the world. I once went to a game with a horrible head cold I'd been battling for two weeks and by the third or fourth inning, felt like I'd come alive again.

No other place on Earth could ever be for me the kind of safe, enchanting home that Qualcomm was. I know that PETCO will have its own history, its own legends, because the spirit is in the people who will come to it as we came to Qualcomm, but it will never be exactly the same. The walls of Qualcomm have too much history, and they were where it all began. You always remember your first.

The second life-changing moment that comes to mind is the summer of 1998. I was twelve at the time, just starting high school, and I don't think I'd really lived until that year, when my Padres rose to grace and I came of age with them. This was what I'd wanted all my life, and it wasn't just before me, I was a part of it.

September 12 of that year will be burned into my mind until the day I die and probably long into the hereafter. I didn't even know until my dad told me as we were getting ready to go that the Padres could clinch the National League West with a win that night. I didn't let the idea that I could be part of something awesome go to my head. In fact, when the Padres were down 7-0, I had pretty much given up all for lost.

Then that ballpark came alive. I sat in my chair, Republica's "Ready To Go" playing in my head, praying for a miracle - and I got one. The Padres rallied to take the lead, 8-7, as the pitching of our archnemeses the Los Angeles Dodgers collapsed like a cheap card table. The fans were on fire. We were chanting "Beat L.A." , we were on our feet and our hearts were pounding, and it was like nothing I've ever seen before or after.

When Trevor Hoffman shut the door in the ninth, Qualcomm erupted into a well-deserved celebration. I cheered till I couldn't speak anymore. I was crying to the point where I kept having to wipe water out of my eyes to see. My hands were shaking. This was all I'd ever wanted, and not only had I just gotten it, I'd been a part of it. That's the best moment of my entire life to this day, better than the Governor's Medallion or my high school graduation. The best night of my life was when the men who have always been my heroes got to shine and I was standing in their light.

Little did I know, or even hope, that it was going to keep being like that all the way to October. There's an infamous story about me ditching my freshman homecoming dance because I realized ten minutes later that Game 1 of the World Series was on. I had to get home. I had to be with my team. I had to be with my extended family. This was our time and nothing was going to keep me away from the once in a lifetime I knew I was experiencing.

When Proposition C, the proposal for a baseball-only ballpark, was subsequently passed after the postseason, I was one of the people celebrating. I knew in the back of my mind that it meant leaving home. I didn't want to think about that until it stared me in the face on what is the third life-changing moment that comes to mind.

September 28, 2003 was the last Padres game at Qualcomm. I'd pleaded with my dad to get tickets. To me, it wasn't just a game. It was a spiritual pilgrimage. It was an obligation. I had to be there with my Padres, had to help them say goodbye, not just for them but also for me and my sense of closure. I needed to know I'd been there right to the end.

As expected, I cheered my heart out through the game and the closing ceremonies. I watched with a somber fondness as they removed home plate, officially killing my first-ever dream of pitching for the Padres at the stadium. And then, as team members past and present walked off the field, I cried like a baby until my eyes burned, the searing, gaping hole cutting right through me.

I'd expected no less than total evisceration. After all, this was the place where I'd laughed, cried, loved, screamed, lived and died. Here was where I'd seen Tony Gwynn's induction into the Padres Hall of Fame and watched him play 14 great seasons. Here was where I'd seen Brian Lawrence hit a homer, Adam Eaton throw a shutout, Kevin Walker make his major league debut. Here was where the floor shook when they played AC/DC's "Hell's Bells", where I'd been for the Tony Gwynn 3,000 Hits Rally, and where I always knew, no matter what else happened in the world, that there was faith to be had.

I was in shock for a day before I could even articulate any thoughts on the loss I'd experienced.

In the end, though, my thoughts came to this: sports isn't just this stat or that box score. It's something in which people come together to make their lives brighter.

And if, as I like to think, baseball is what life would be if life were perfect, then the stadium in which that perfection is contained deserves to last just as long in the memory of its fans as the sport itself.

In Part 2, I'll talk about Petco Park and the promise of the future in the destiny of downtown San Diego. But for right now, it's enough hope and simple, undemanding fondness for me to just think of the magic in Mission Valley.