Kinston Indians: 60 Years of Family Nights

I grew up at Grainger Stadium. And on Saturday night I returned to see a minor league baseball game with my hometown Kinston Indians. It was the night that they dedicated the press box to Delmont Miller, the Indians' former scoreboard operator and occasional microphone personality, only recently passed at age 42.

I have enough experience at Grainger Stadium to remember an owner named Kuhlman, a batboy named Tex, successive generations of Eagles, Bluejays, and now Indians, and I have Tony Fernandez's autograph somewhere.

And yes, I knew Delmont Miller. My buddy Robert Dixon introduced me to him when we were all teens.

My wife, though, has been to precious few baseball games in her life, and I am not exactly sure that she can distinguish (well) between baseball and golf. I have had to explain such advanced concepts as "bunt" and "double play" to her in the past.

Nevertheless, on April 11, 2009, we went out to Grainger Stadium with my now-retired mom and caught the game between the Kinston Indians and the Winston-Salem Dash. Oddly enough, just last year my wife and I had caught one of Winston-Salem's last games as the Warthogs. In my humble opinion, Warthogs was a better mascot name than is Dash. I don't exactly get all of this new age sports team abracadabra, though I have a vague hunch that it is all done in an attempt to "expand the sports market" to women. I have had enough of the abstract team names like Magic, Heat, Fire, and Dash. Whatever happened to Bulldogs? Lions? Warthogs? I presume that it won't be long before some team will rename itself the Rash. If it keeps up, I will someday buy a sports franchise and name it the Rage. But that is another story.

So we arrived relatively early and, true to form, having found our seats quickly found the concession stand. Now, I don't want to get into a rant here (partially because there is nothing to rant about - I was actually offered EXTRA jalepenos by one of the young girls working the concessions), but if they are gonna sell all that food, shouldn't some community spirit-mindedness also mandate that they offer not a seventh-inning stretch, but a seventh-inning gym membership? One heaping serving of nachos, one helping of fries, and one "Tribe Dog" (don't fall for it - a "Tribe dog" sounds like it ought to be as big as a hatchet or have a scalp on it or somehow be massively "all the way," but it only has onions and chili on it) furnishing the set-up for a bag of peanuts, and I was jazzed for the game.

The thing about minor league ball is that you truly never do know what is going to happen on a given night. When the Red Sox play the Brewers, we pretty well know how things are going to work out 90% of the time. But when the Kinston Indians play the Winston-Salem Rash (Flash? Mash? see the problem with these abstractions...?), the team that won the game 5-2 only the night before could very well find itself trailing by six runs in the bottom of the eighth inning.

Which sounds like a snoozer of a game. But as I sat there wondering if Kinston High School had showed up to play rather than an "Advanced A" minor league team, my eyes began to take in the sights from the stadium. And along the baselines, in the outfield, in the shadows of the stadium I saw memories....

I remember Grainger Stadium before they spent $1.2 million on stadium upgrades. I remember when the scoreboard had some guy hanging numbers on it. I remember when behind the foul lines on both sides there was a single set of bleachers, and lots of empty space, so that players used to come out of the dugout and play catch. Now, there is a huge animated scoreboard with flashing lights and coordinated sounds. Now, the area behind the foul lines is filled with bleachers.

Delmont and Tex, alas, are gone. Grady Little is gone. Tony Fernandez and Marty Pulley are gone. But I remember seeing Darryl Strawberry play in Grainger Stadium. And perhaps more importantly, I remember sitting there with a dozen dates, numerous family members, and my dear departed granddad.

And as I sat there through what seemed would likely be an excruciating game, I shared these memories with my wife. At least she knew who Darryl Strawberry was. Apparently her own granddad had something against drug-addled outfielders.

I boasted that I could predict when a foul ball would occur (and I can - a trick I picked up from listening to Harry Carey). Now she owes me some Dipping Dots.

And I told her stories about playing catch with my granddad when I became a member of Bethel Academy's baseball team. She smiled, but my mother got a tear in her eye.

We talked. We talked about family. We talked about hometown - and hometown legends. We talked about change. And I discovered that Grainger Stadium is a useful metaphor for how much change can take place, and yet everything still remain oddly... stable.

And in the bottom of the ninth, Kinston scored five runs and almost pulled it out.

Despite the loss, it wasn't a wasted night at all. It's not just that Indians baseball offers a "family friendly" atmosphere (though I have no complaints - even after one of the most lamebrained exercises in umpiring that I have ever personally witnessed, there was no cursing from the stands, though an encouraging round of "You're an idiot!" was enjoyed by all), but we had a great family night out. There is something bout the ebb and flow of minor league baseball - perhaps with an emphasis on the ebb, that lends itself to reflection, bonding, and enough moments of rest to really contemplate what is important. It's an added plus when you can enjoy it all while holding your wife's hand and listening to Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" several times in a night.

The Kinston Eagles/Bluejays/Indians have been on the "cutting edge" (yes, that was an intentional malapropism) of family fun night for 60 years now. I know, because I first came to know Grainger Stadium and the Kinston team about 1978.

And for all of the changes, it is an odd comfort to be there and to remember that this is the place where I met Delmont, hung out with Robert, and first saw both Tony Fernandez and Darryl Strawberry.

And it was a joy to be able to share that time with my wife and mom.

So we lost 10-9. You can't win them all. And there is a dignity in not winning, but scratching back from awful umpiring and stranded baserunners to make a game out of it in the ninth inning, when a quarter of the crowd had already abandoned you in the seventh inning.

For 60 years, Kinston baseball has been offering not only family entertainment, but the occasional object lesson in life to those who take the time to indulge and reflect upon the real significance of what is, and isn't, going on around those bases.

And for the first time in nearly 20 years, it was good to be home.