When a certain salacious alert popped up on my phone in early January, I had no idea what to make of it. Now that’s not exactly unexpected, as I struggle to process most info thrown at me by this ever-splintering society. Most days, I can barely make sense of my own immediate surroundings, nevermind trying to discern what news is real, what's satire, what's slanted gossip, and what's a complete fabrication. And that's the exact situation I found myself with this particular story. I just kept turning it over and over in my head, ogling the inscrutable notification with slack-jawed bemusement. Because, it didn’t strike me as real nor as an attempt at comedy, either. More like I was trapped in some bizarre dream. Naked, sitting next to Lee Harvey Oswald, failing a math test I hadn't studied for. Then, when I looked out the window, through the billowing dust I saw the left field fence at Camden Yards caving in on itself.
But that last detail was no dream. Because I scrolled through the suspiciously tight-lipped O's beat writers' soft-pedaling tweets. I read through the flurry of texts from friends and family. I saw the pictures–the bulky, grimey construction equipment so utterly out of place on the pristine outfield grass, I could've sworn it was a tasteless photoshop joke. Finally, I glanced at the half-assed renderings, the rudimentary tracings of what it’s expected to look like when this cockamamie plan reaches fruition. And pinching myself didn't change any of it. Somehow, it was real. It is real. It's happening. After a stalwart twenty-nine year run, Camden's acclaimed silhouette is no more.
Now, in its prior, unmolested form, Oriole Park at Camden Yards was almost impossible to oversell. And that was evident from the beginning. It was an unmistakable masterpiece as soon as the last brick was laid, and it permanently cemented itself as a Baltimore sports institution during team introductions on Opening Day 1992. From those first awe-inspiring moments through the last home games of 2021, O’s fans proudly proclaimed it to be a transcendent accomplishment. And even in those moments when we couldn't fully articulate exactly why it had implanted so forcefully in our hearts, we still understood it to be a marvel of modern design.
So, what was it that instilled such a sense of wonder in the fanbase exactly? Well, there were innumerable catalysts, really, but it all stemmed from the fact that HOK, the visionary architectural firm responsible for this gem, thoroughly grasped the pivotal role this sport plays in our nation. Fully realized that in the great American experiment, baseball was, is and will always remain one of the constants, a through line connecting our past, present and future. Because this insight regarding the sport's cultural standing is quite markedly reflected in Camden Yards’ underlying design concept–one that’s somehow incredibly both nostalgic and revolutionary, providing an overt and loving tribute to the game's past while remaining totally prescient about the sport’s trajectory at the same time. This retro-meets-modern ethos, in which the stadium manages to feel a century old yet cutting edge, was a quantum leap forward from all the soulless, concrete behemoths both built and stuck in the 70s and 80s. Instead, Camden Yards, with its inspired pairing of vintage design elements and modern flourishes, is unaffixed to any era. One moment, it elicits fantasies that Joe DiMaggio or Jackie Robinson might run onto the field, and the next, it showcases its promise to still be hosting games well into the 2100s. Just the perfect design to not just lose yourself in a baseball game but lose yourself in time.
And HOK, in a tribute to the game's working-class origins, had no desire to limit this mystifying experience to a select few premium seats. Whereas other designers might treat the rest of the venue as an afterthought, HOK was driven to create the perfect environment to watch a game from every vantage point. The seats, the standing areas, the walkways, they all sport fantastic views. And so years before HGTV bulldozed the phrase into our lexicon, HOK had already gifted Baltimore with the ultimate open-concept layout–which they accomplished through painstakingly prudent interior design decisions. That’s why, in a similar vein as pretentious jazz fans' listen-to-the-notes-they-aren’t-playing schtick, with OPACY it's the deft architectural editing that makes it unique. Unlike other monstrosities, adorned with their meaningless bells and whistles, it's a predominant lack of visual clutter which defines what we know to be so quintessentially Camden.
And the most celebrated manifestation of this less-is-more concept is the use of steel for the grandstands, as steel is directly responsible for the lack of obstructed view seating at the stadium. But this decision was the gift that kept on giving, as the strength of steel also made it possible to bring the upper deck seating significantly closer to the field of play. So for those watching from Camden’s nosebleeds, there’s not some huge disconnect, it's not like watching little dots move around on a big green surface as with other oversized stadiums. No, the game is still clear as day. In fact, when the breeze is just right and the sun is about to set, I’ll take the very top row of the left field upper deck over any other seat in the house. And so with this brilliantly unassuming layout, they wrote a love letter to the everyman seamhead. A bold declaration that regardless of ticket price, everyone deserves a great view and the best in-game experience possible.
And, really, the stadium is only half the story, since HOK knew that nine innings were just one aspect of gameday. That’s why a crucial part of the park's mythos has nothing to do with 333 W Camden St itself, but with how HOK flawlessly blended it into the Camden Industrial Area and adjoining neighborhoods. Surely, when they initially appraised the surrounding area, they could’ve taken the easy route and turned their nose up at its dilapidated condition. But, they didn’t. Instead, when they saw a neighborhood in the grips of industrial decline, they took it head on, devising practical new functions for what was already there in order to reverse the decline and reinvigorate the neighborhood. Take their inspired repurposing of Eutaw St and the warehouse, for instance. By working within the existing structural confines instead of completely razing them as other builders might, they were able to create something new and vibrant that still felt traditional and familiar. And it’s why even something as prodigious as Camden Yards doesn’t overpower its surroundings, but assimilates into them. Becomes a natural extension of them. In fact, Camden lives in such harmony with the surrounding cityscape it's almost as if the 1800’s city planners always expected a transcendent ballpark to exist there one day. Like it was all part of some omniscient, baseball-loving deity's cosmic plan.
But focusing solely on its throwback aura, or its ingenious open-concept layout or its integration within the cityscape overshadows one crucial aspect of the park: it’s simply stunning. Had it been built in the middle of the Chesapeake, had it never hosted a single spectator, had baseball never been invented, it would still be inarguably arresting. From its tasteful use of brick, to its majestic arches, to its understated signage, OPACY is so teeming with breathtaking elements that every fan can have their own singular opinion about what makes it so captivating. Personally, I've always loved how it plays opposites off each other. There’s the bowl of the stadium contrasted against the towering warehouse–like an amphitheater and obelisk sitting side by side. There's the connections between negative (transitional) spaces and positive (gathering) spaces, effortlessly propelling people through negative spaces like Eutaw St and into positive spaces like the right field deck. And, there’s the eye-catching bright greens, whites and browns of the field amplified by the muted background, the hunter greens of the walls and seats and the sandy red brick throughout. The entire structure–composition, color scheme, even the dimensions of the field of play–is either intentionally diametrical or playfully incongruous. And that's why, inside and out, every direction provides a glimpse of something distinct. But somehow, like all great works, when observed together, it screams uniformity. That it’s all the part of one organic, cohesive whole. And the result of that cohesion is a charm and beauty that's simply hard to put into words. But something which was innately obvious to every O's fan the first time they laid eyes on Camden Yards.
So that's why we may have, at times, appeared tongue-tied when asked to describe what made our ballpark so special. It's not just that we lacked the proper architectural or city planning terminology, it's that taken together all of OPACY's endearing idiosyncrasies can overwhelm and bewilder the average fan. In wanting to simultaneously highlight all of its great qualities, we instead might trip over our own words–helplessly muttering construction-adjacent phrases in the direction of the asker. But, given a few moments to collect our thoughts and a few sips to steady our nerves, we’ll almost always find our center.
And then, once composed, we might start by mentioning the layout or the warehouse or the neighborhood. Or how it's beautiful from every angle. Or how it was so trailblazing that 'ballpark' needed to be reintroduced into the lexicon just to describe it properly. How it left other clubs so enamored, so wanting a Camden of their own, it effectively spawned a retro park diaspora–the Oracles and PNCs of the world owing their existence to Camden. Then, if we're really in our cups, we might get a little sappier and talk about the first time we made the walk to the new stadium. How we caught only hints of the catwalk through the gaps in between the Ridgely Delight rowhomes, the rest of the stadium effectively hidden from view. Then, as we stepped into the clearing, the enchanting structure suddenly revealed itself like a secret fortress in a fantasy novel. We might say we were awestruck walking through the gates initially but that it already felt like a second home by the time we found our seats. That every game we were lucky enough to attend at Camden Yards, these feelings only intensified. That it was everything the fanbase could ask for in a baseball stadium in 1992 and has only somehow become more so in the thirty years since.
And so when something reaches this kind of pinnacle, when it's an instant classic, both modern and timeless, when it's undeniably beautiful, when it’s invariably beloved, adored and revered for decades, drastic changes aren't really even expected, much less blindly tolerated. Since HOK had gifted us with a remarkable venue more than capable of standing the test of time, we all assumed it would be left mostly undisturbed to take that test. So that's why even minor changes have tended to get under our skin, making us feel like an overprotective older sibling.
Like when they moved the plate back, and the entire stadium looked lopsided, like it was struggling to lose some extra holiday weight. Same goes for extended netting. While it was obviously necessary, it wasn't integrated at all successfully, with all that extra mesh and those loose wires flailing about in every direction. It’s not only shoddy and unkempt, but it kneecaps the steel-aided open concept brilliance. For entire sections, the most eye-pleasing aspects of HOK's elegant design are obscured by this tacked-on material, like someone threw a tablecloth over Sofia Vergara.
Even the Hilton, only tangentially related to the park itself, tends to rankle the fanbase, as the sizable hotel blots out the rest of the neighborhood. Before it was there, the almost-too-perfect skyline backdrop made the prospect of scoring seats behind home plate even more enticing, because the scenery reminded attendees they weren’t stranded in some nondescript suburbia, but watching a game in the heart of a great American city. The Hilton, though, undercuts that feeling by closing the stadium off and making it feel more removed from downtown than it did pre-Hilton.
Really, for the fanbase to totally embrace a change, it must adhere to HOK's principal concepts, which nothing mentioned previously even comes close to doing. Off the top of my head, there’s only two successful examples I can think of. The first is the statue garden, which properly utilized some of the rare underutilized space in the ballpark, while simultaneously paying tribute to the best years of Orioles baseball. It's totally inline with the past/future vibe of the stadium, as well as the negative/positive space balance. Before it was built, I even remember thinking that leaving that area barren was a missed opportunity, as the nothingness went against HOK’s quest to optimize the limited space made available to them. But, thankfully, the organization acted to right a rare and minor oversight on the part of the designers.
But, far and away the best addition is the centerfield bar, as it's one hundred percent in accordance with everything the original architects were going for. It's an ingenious use of limited space and provides some of the best views in the stadium–even glimpses of the Hilton-obscured skyline. Like Aubrey Hepburn's tiara in that classic photo, just the perfect accessory to place atop an already impeccable base. And the best compliment I could ever pay the person responsible is that most days I forget it wasn't always there–it feels so authentic and so in balance with everything else, I could swear it was part of the original design.
Those are the two exceptions, and anything that isn’t going to blend into or enhance the park’s essence as seamlessly as those were able to will be regarded as an unwanted eyesore. Not to mention those two exceptions are both significantly removed from the field of play. Any change that's going to affect a live game–like, say, mucking with the outfield fence–is going to be subject to an even higher level of scrutiny. At that point, simply not violating HOK's design principles is no longer the only bar to clear. No, it must also exist in complete harmony with Camden Yards' natural state. Meaning it must not announce itself as a separate, unaffiliated section of an otherwise completely in sync whole. Must not serve to ceaselessly remind us that something untoward and unwelcomed has transpired, that a once perfect entity has been sullied.
But any objections we may have, our concerns over whether this change adheres to HOK’s vision or the fanbase's expectations are meaningless. Because the front office took a detailed overview of one of the greatest ballparks ever built and couldn’t get over its supposed deficiencies. Couldn't help themselves. Couldn't leave well enough alone. And so, under the cover of darkness, they've set out to implement their fly-by-night remedy, suckerpunching their own fans in the process.
Now this was always going to be a terrible pill to swallow, but I just can't get past the horribly inept messaging. First, they never gauged the fans’ thoughts on the matter. Orioles.com has sought my opinion on the staleness of the chicken fingers and the absurd prices at the team store, but couldn't be bothered to send out a feeler before they dismembered America’s ballpark. Don't they think that a fanbase that’s put up with so much awful baseball over the years should at least get to weigh in on something this important?
And if they weren't going to ask for our thoughts, how about some sort of head's up? It would’ve been nice to brace myself for this a little, rather than have it take me off guard to such an extent that I was questioning my own grip on reality. But there was absolutely no warning. It was radio silence until they just splashed it across our smartphones one morning. “Here you go, shitheads. This is your new reality. Try not to let it ruin your day. Shrug emoji.” As should surprise no one, when it comes to sports fans in Baltimore, we generally don't like major announcements sprung on us out of nowhere. There's still some lingering PTSD around such maneuvers. And while I'm not claiming this is near as bad as losing a football team in the middle of the night, I'm guessing fans of a certain age experienced a chilling bit of deja Vu–half-expecting to see ‘Mayflower’ emblazoned on the side of the heavy machinery.
But, clearly, in retrospect, not soliciting our opinion on the matter was intentional. It’s not so much that they didn’t care about fans’ input, they just already knew what the feedback would say. They knew they’d catch hell. They knew they’d have no support. Same goes with not informing us until the renovations were already underway. They were probably afraid irate fans would form a human chain on the warning track (I know I’d be tempted to assist such an effort). But, luckily for them, they never had to go to the trouble of ignoring their fans, because they never even pretended to care what we wanted in the first place.
And so naturally, fans, feeling blindsided and dumbstruck, found someone to pin this on. Now, logically, we know it's not solely on one person's shoulders. Employees didn't show up to work one day to find a rogue executive, crowbar in one hand, sledgehammer in the other, prying up rows of seats and busting through cement. No, surely this was fuckup-by-committee. But, starting with his hire in Nov 2018, fans have laid every front office decision, rightly or wrongly, at the feet of Mike Elias. He’s the prominent face, he has the fascination of local media and he’s who the fanbase can't help but obsess over. But according to Steve Melewski’s article, he actually was the primary force pushing for the new wall, so the fact that he has to wear this is both expected and fair. Apparently he spearheaded the effort for years, so he should take on the lion's share of the associated reproval–which, interestingly enough, doesn’t seem to faze Mike Elias in the least. Rather, he seems entirely at peace with people chastising him while he brazenly skirts convention. This decision, though, may test his level of comfort with such notoriety, as it’s far and away his most controversial call to date.
Full disclosure: I'm not a Mike Elias hater, so this isn't some drummed-up excuse to rag on someone I already dislike. To the contrary, I've been a full-throated supporter of his tenure–even the harder to defend aspects. I trust his claims about his lack of involvement in the Astros cheating scandal. Why else would MLB not punish him? Due to the ongoing MASN dispute, his new employer just happens to be an organization they openly loathe, so they could've easily pretended to take a hardline on the sign stealing while smearing us in the process. There’d be no more convenient scapegoats than Mike Elias and the O’s, yet they handed down no discipline. A curious decision if he’s as dirty as his detractors claim.
Then there's the yearly hammering he takes for his supposed underslotting in drafts. Now, I'll back Birdland to the end, but most of you have lost your goddamn minds about the draft. These knee jerk reactions to a process that takes five years to accurately assess need to stop. As does the bellyaching when he passes on your preferred player. He's a world class talent evaluator, you read a couple mock drafts and watched some shady online highlight videos. Suffice it to say, I’ll defer to his judgment on the topic. And, as for the underslotting, there’s not even resounding evidence it’s happening. It’s possible he simply liked Kjerstad and Cowser more than the consensus picks. But, 1000x more important, if he is in fact going underslot, it’s not like he’s pocketing the money. He's using it to keep younger, higher-ceiling players from going to college. This exact practice is why Coby Mayo is in our farm system and not on a college campus right now. Hardly a terrible byproduct, even if you’re not a fan of the strategy.
Then there’s the tanking, which, prior to January 2022, was his most vexing gambit. Of course, this is much easier to say now that we’re in the sunsetting phase, but it was always the best strategy, and unquestionably so. When he inherited this franchise, it was lousy with dry rot. He had to tear it down to the studs to build it back up. It was a long, unsexy and hard-to-watch process, so it’s no wonder only 10k people showed up per game to watch such uninspired, shotty baseball. But, looking back, would anyone trade our top-rated farm system to have won twenty or thirty more games spread out over three seasons? Elias didn't promise a torrent of wins out of the gate. He promised to build an elite pipeline of talent, and he did exactly that. And I respect that he never capitulated to his critics and never wavered from his mission.
Then there were all the piddling issues I've mostly lost track of at this point. Not resigning Villar, leaving Jahmai Jones in AAA too long, firing the MASN broadcasters so abruptly, canceling O's fest and a litany of others. Don’t get me wrong, I hated all of those, too, but I tried to remain mindful of the less publicized good that came along with all the click-baity bad. So I happily swallow all these unpleasantries and more, knowing they were planning to make a big splash in the international market again–which is tenfold more important than any of those alsoran concerns. So as it pertains to Elias, I was content to play the wait-and-see game, to acknowledge that all his negatives were counterbalanced with much more important, long-term-focused positives.
That is, until this.
This is different. Vastly, wildly and fundamentally different. This isn’t a roster decision or some other behind-the-scenes, bureaucratic nonsense. It can't be swiftly remedied by a smart hire or savvy trade. This is Oriole Park at Camden Yards. If anything of this franchise belongs to the fans, to the city, it’s Camden. He should've been informed it was off limits on day one and then shouted down in the room if he ever broached the subject again. And if it somehow got out of the boardroom, the next step should've been to run it by the fanbase. We would’ve clearly and unequivocally stated that it's a landmark, an icon–our landmark, our icon–not some lab rat for him to run experiments on. But we never got that chance, because he shut his eyes, plugged his ears and forged ahead into uncharted territory. In the image of conquistadors burning their ships, Elias knocked down our wall. Whether we like it or not (we don’t), there’s now only one way forward, and we’re all stuck on that path together.
Now, it’d be nice if the person responsible for our predicament displayed a little empathy, a little contrition about this dismal situation entirely of his making. But, when pressed for the reasoning behind his startling and unorthodox approach, Elias, from what I saw–admittedly, I was so punch-drunk I avoided most of the surrounding commentary–didn’t appear too troubled over what he’d taken from us. Instead, he offered nothing but blasé responses, droning on about measurements and home run rates. Responses so offbase as to what our actual concerns are that he’s either playing dumb or deliberately antagonizing us. Either way, it screams that he doesn't fully grasp the magnitude of the situation. That he doesn’t totally comprehend what he did to his own fanbase. That he doesn't get that it’s way more than just some building where he works, where his poorly assembled baseball team loses games on purpose.
Some refer to it as Baltimore baseball fans’ cathedral, but I’ve never found that to be a totally accurate analogy. ‘Cathedral’ does convey the stadium’s gravitas, does denote that it’s our place to gather and celebrate. But it misses how integral OPACY is to the fanbase. Because for most of its existence, it wasn't where we worshiped, it was what we worshiped. It was the only thing worth worshiping. It was literally all Baltimore baseball fans had.
Because more often than not, our team was near as abysmal as the current team. But unlike 2022, there was never a bright future on the horizon, as our farm system was rarely anything to get excited over. Really, the only intriguing subplot for any season was how long it would take to get eliminated from the playoffs. If we made it to August, that was a success. Honestly, it seemed like this franchise would never be relevant again–it was that bleak.
So outside of our adulation for the long vanished glory days of O’s baseball, we had nothing, and I mean nothing, in the present. Our tangible fandom, what we could hold onto when we went to games, started and ended with Camden Yards. We could almost never defend the product on the field, but we could look anyone in the eye and with a straight face say we had the best stadium in baseball. It was everything to us.
For the outlier stretches, the '96-'97 teams and then the Buck Showalter era, it was a glorious coupling of two star-crossed counterparts we thought might never come together–competent baseball and the perfectly designed venue to watch it. The success we thought gone forever reborn inside the one constantly good thing associated with the Orioles. It was a sublime pairing. And when that majestic stadium, starved for exhilarating, meaningful baseball for so long, got to experience the Delmon double, it was all the more poignant. It’s how it was always meant to be.
Of course, those relatively brief eras came to an end, our flirtation with watchable baseball shriveling on the vine along with them. And when they did, it was back to business as terrible. But no matter how bad it got during those gloomy periods–and it got really goddamn bad–we still had Camden. It never abandoned us and would never abandon us. And though we never said it out loud, I think we all silently promised to do it the same courtesy.
Because, for a sizable slice of Birdland, Camden Yards matters more than almost anything. More often than not for thirty years, it was the only thing we could channel our passion for O's baseball through, engendering in us a sense of pride we couldn’t get from anywhere else with this franchise. So for most fans, it's reached a level beyond veneration. I have at different times and varying drunk levels said that I wanted to get married there, that it’s my favorite place in the world, and that I want my ashes mixed in with the infield dirt. And I know I’m not alone. It's that important to baseball fans in Baltimore. It's fucking sacred.
And so when someone in the comment section of Steve Melewski’s article described this change as a ‘desecration,' it wasn't the typical pathos-soaked hyperbole usually found in comment sections. No, that's exactly what it felt like. Like someone I put my trust in was, without warning and seemingly without remorse, actively and willfully desecrating something I loved, while I sat idly by, powerless to do anything about it.
So, in regards to Elias' comments, outlining the potential benefits or the effectiveness or even the aesthetics of the change, telling us to see the big picture, misses the point entirely. We’re not quibbling over the fact that deeper fences will lead to fewer homers–that’s self-evident. But it's not some minor aspect of the change we take issue with, it’s the change itself that's the problem. It's noticeably and undeniably different. Unlike the CF bar, no one is ever going to forget the wall wasn't always like that, so it's honestly hard to imagine that on a visceral level it's still going to feel like the old Camden Yards. Because Cal didn't hang a right just past the bullpen when he ran his lap, and no one got pied by Adam Jones twenty feet up in the air in 2014. Excluding the pisspoor messaging, our collective concerns begin and end with that, so you'll have to excuse those of us who can't exactly focus on the slightly increased probability of signing a top-tier free agent pitcher two years from now. And if Elias can’t understand that, maybe the haters have been right all along. Maybe he is the wrong man for the job.
But as much as I want to pound on his office door and screech in his face until he reckons with all this, it'd be pointless. Not because he's dumb or inconsiderate or unmoved by childish emotional outbursts. But because he's an outsider, plain and simple. And I don't mean that pejoratively, either. It's a fact–water's wet, fire's hot and Mike Elias wasn't an Orioles fan for the last two decades. And someone who wasn't saddled with this lovably inept franchise day in and day out will never understand that this isn't about new dimensions or home run rates or signing pitchers. We can wax poetically or scream til we're hoarse, but an outsider will never truly get it.
Melewski's article noted that it took Elias years to persuade ownership, which doesn't surprise me in the least. Though I don’t regularly unload on them to the degree others might, I, like any O’s fan, have had my issues with the Angelos family along the way. But even their loudest critics have to grant them one concession. Whatever else you want to call them, you can't say they aren't Baltimoreans. That they aren't O's fans. They probably were dragging their feet. They probably did try to talk him out of it. For all their willful ignorance, they know Camden Yards isn’t something to be taken lightly.
Now if they were indeed that resolute, how did he ultimately sway them? With consistently applied brutal honesty, most likely. Because they know, like deep down I think we all do, that something had to budge. As much as I hate the aesthetics of the extra netting, it had to be done to protect people. And if we're ever going to be competitive in the AL East for an extended period of time again, something significant had to change in terms of how OPACY plays. Because, as any true O's fan can attest, we all reflexively cringe when the other team hits the ball in the gap. If it’s in the air and headed in that direction–it's out. And we know that, whether or not it results in elite pitchers signing with us, it'd be hard to field a consistently competitive staff with that power alley driving up pitch counts and earned run averages game after game, season after season.
But that doesn’t mean this plan was the only option. For years, I had wanted them to put a 20 ft high plexiglass wall (think the Hunter Hearst Helmsley Metronome) from the foul pole all the way across the bullpens. Now this might appear to go against every argument I’ve made prior. True, it doesn't adhere to any of HOKs principles. It's the opposite of elegant. It would be horrendously ugly. It would draw the eye even more than the proposed wall move. But, critically, it would be more accessory than structural change. More ugly haircut than botched face lift. It would be easier to forgive, or even ignore, because its temporary status would be obvious–no one would ever mistake it as "part" of Camden Yards. And should it not bring about the desired result, it could be dismantled in an afternoon, restoring our perfect ballpark to its natural integrity.
While that's my best, I have hatched other harebrained schemes over the years to address this concern. The O’s, in a reality where MLB cares even a little about the Orioles success, could've petitioned to use a dehumidifier like in Denver. Or MLB could approve three types of balls–super, regular and dead–and let the home team pick which is used at their park. Or they could get really batshit and just have umps call a knees-to-letters strike zone. I know these all sound absurd (especially that last one) but maybe if they pushed exceedingly hard for one of them, we wouldn't currently be witnessing Camden’s prolonged mutilation.
So, to be completely fair to Elias, outside of those admittedly farfetched scenarios, he didn't have a ton of options. And just as he can't understand our dejected wailing from an outsider's perspective, we'll never fully understand his job. The pressure he's under. His dogged commitment to seeing out his vision. Because he'd be derelict of duty to not consider every possibility, to not reconceptualize every minute detail in the pursuit of building a contender. And we can't in good conscience demand dramatically different results on the field and then refuse to stomach any significant changes on our end. Let's not be a fanbase of braindead barstool GMs, refusing to acknowledge the positive aspects of decisions we disagree with just because it feels better to bitch about them. And let's also acknowledge that the bullheadedness that demanded the wall be moved is the same bullheadedness that resulted in our top ranked farm system, even though most people decried his tactics there, also. So, believe it or not, I'm still rooting for him. And I’m rooting for this change, as much as I loathe it, to work out. Fortune, after all, does favor the bold.
But if this doesn't work, if, after all this, the Orioles still can’t put a quality product on the field with any regularity, Elias might become one of the most reviled Baltimore sports figures of all time. The guy whose fool-hearted scheme tainted the best stadium in sports. Ruined the one thing O’s fans could always depend on. He'll be run out of town, for sure. And, though he’ll never reach Irsay level, he'll ultimately be added to the pantheon of Baltimore sports villains–probably landing somewhere between Jeffrey Maier and John Elway. But, I pray none of that ever comes to be. I truly hope it doesn't. And, because what's done is done, I'm forcing myself to look for silver linings.
If it had to change, at least the renderings don't look that terrible. Just because it'll never look right, that doesn't mean it can't look good. And, I gotta think the view from the new front row in left field will be pretty incredible. Then there’s all the crazy new angles, which not only take Camden’s commitment to asymmetry to the next stratosphere but should also add to Camden Yards' already robust quirkiness.
Plus, if they wanted to change course and pretend to give a fuck about the fans’ viewpoint, there are some layups at their disposal. A couple tips of the cap to the past–a la the statue garden–which could make this a little more palatable. First, they could break up that excessive solid-green landscape by mimicking the signage from Camden's early years, like a Home Team Sports sign or MD Lotto's 'Hit it Here.' Or, even better, the new outline might be the perfect shape to recreate Memorial Stadium's signature left field fence. As much as I hate everything about this change, they'd have me pretty weak in the knees if they could successfully pull that off.
Or they could get really wild and rethink the space entirely. A recent Sun article outlined the MSA's desire to get more gathering spaces at field level. If it can be safely excavated and easily accessed, there's no better place for a bar than under the new left field bleachers. They could replicate the façade from where the ground crew sits but about twice as high, and slope the floor slightly down towards the field to make sure the view isn't limited to those standing directly against the wall. As someone who’s sat through their fair share of blistering 90° day games, this would be a godsend for those trying to escape the sun but still watch the game. And since they already carelessly fucked with our ballpark, the least they could do is give us a cool new place to drink away the pain.
But of course, signage, re-creations and watering holes, as nice as they might be, pale in comparison to the greatest silver lining of all: It's reversible. Concrete and seats removed, concrete and seats replaced. It'd be like the whole twisted ordeal never happened.
But, even if that titillating possibility is written in the stars, it won’t come about for a long time. So in the short term, somehow, we have to get past this wretched situation and get back to riding the new wind that's blowing, the surge of optimism for the future. Because even though it wasn't there for Cal and Jonsie, the Baby Birds will now have an opportunity to leave their mark on Camden Yards. And maybe the new outline will inspire something novel, like Adley's Alley or Cedric's Corner. That won't replace what we had, not even close, but it could be a nice consolation prize. And, as sad as the realization may be, consolation prizes are all we really got right now.
But that should change when the prospects start getting called up. And, hopefully, their promotion means the end of 100-loss seasons. Followed by .500, and then fringe playoff / spoiler potential, and then, ultimately, sustained contender status. And if we do reach this plateau we’ve for years been promised, our caterwauling will, obviously, take a backseat to the only thing that matters–winning. Winning’s an amazing salve and will ease a lot of this simmering tension. And if someday Hays snags the last out of a playoff game on what used to be the sixth row of the bleachers, our collective carping will surely die down to a whisper.
Until that time, we crestfallen traditionalists, we overly sensitive fusspots will bellyache and sulk. Bemoan this heartless change that feels like a personal attack. We'll pout. We'll mourn. We'll wonder if there was anything we could’ve done to prevent it. And if you're sitting next to us at a game and catch us gazing absentmindedly towards left field, just leave us be for a few moments while we say goodbye to an old friend and to squandered perfection.
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