For those of us who make a habit of reporting to ballparks and stadiums four hours before first pitch, the day started like any other workday. There is nothing quite like a 40,000-seat baseball yard at rest: before the vendors start hawking beers and brats; before the public-address announcer booms his voice toward distant bleachers.
Before the fans replace silence with buzz.
This was April 29, 2015, a glorious spring afternoon in Baltimore, a bright sun filling an impossibly blue sky, and even as it was celebrating its silver anniversary there was still no better place on earth to spend a day than Oriole Park at Camden Yards, the civic jewel by the Inner Harbor, next door to where Babe Ruth’s old man once tended bar.
Only on this day, that wasn’t an option for anyone other than “essential personnel” — baseball players for the Orioles and Chicago White Sox, in other words, and some groundskeepers — plus a handful of media allowed in to record that this game would, indeed, be played to specification and to conclusion.
Baltimore was in the midst of a turbulent week of unrest. Freddie Gray, 25 years old, had died after being injured while in police custody. The city percolated and stewed for a few days. Its public schools were closed. The first two games of the Orioles-White Sox series were preemptively postponed. As tensions eased, the decision was made to play on getaway day, with one provision:
And as the hours and minutes ticked toward first pitch that day, that reality took hold. The quiet of pregame became the quiet of warm-ups. The national anthem echoed in the empty park. The PA system seemed to reverberate starting deep in your breastplate.
Some players opted for humor. Adam Eaton, then with the Sox, had laughed with a group of reporters during batting practice: “Our goal is to take the crowd out of this game early on. Wish us well.”
But most of the day was conducted in striking, surreal, spooky silence. You could hear the bullpen phone ring from the press box. Orioles first baseman Chris Davis hit a home run, and the Orioles’ terrific TV broadcaster Gary Thorne’s trademarked “GOOD-BYE!” could be heard out on Camden Street, maybe 150 feet behind the left-field wall, where a handful of fans had gathered with chaise lounges and captain’s chairs.
The Orioles won 8-2. The concession stands remained padlocked all day with no one to buy Natty Bo beer, or Oreo-flavored churros, or Chipper-loaded kettle chips. In the seventh inning came the official attendance — zero. That’s a record that will stand forever.
And now, soon, suddenly, everywhere, be tied.
The Nets will play the Warriors on Thursday night at San Francisco’s Chase Center in front of zero fans, thanks to that city’s ban on large crowd gatherings in the face of COVID-19 concerns. The NCAA made official late Wednesday afternoon what we all suspected was coming: its upcoming tournament will be played, exclusively, in front of TV lenses, fans excluded from its arenas and domes (potentially including Madison Square Garden, where the East Regional is scheduled to be held in two weeks).
With New York City canceling the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, it feels like only a matter of time before the rest of our teams begin to ponder what’s next. Right now, it feels like the scorched-earth policy of the Ivy League (which followed Tuesday’s decision to cancel its basketball tournament with Wednesday’s announcement that it was canceling all spring sports) is a last-ditch option; the next step will be arenas and stadiums around the country channeling Camden Yards from April 29, 2015.
Plenty of good seats available.
And no way to sit in them.
Thirty-one years ago, the North-Atlantic Conference held its basketball tournament at the Hartford Civic Center and no fans were allowed in because of a measles outbreak on the campus of Siena — which, ironically, won the tournament. Afterward, Siena coach Mike Deane said, “Well, that was something — something I hope none of us ever has to experience ever again.”
Now, everyone will, right up until they play the song on the last Monday night of the season. One Silent Moment.
