SAN ANTONIO – It was 1974. Stepping into the elevator at Arlington Stadium, I turned around to face the closing doors. Overcome by my lucky timing, I wanted to squeal like the 15-year-old girl I was. Standing behind me were Jeff Burroughs and Toby Harrah, rock stars of Texas Rangers baseball.
As the Rangers prepare for their second shot at a World Series title, that memory seems like yesterday, not the 37 years it's been. Thirty-seven years.
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For those of us who've endured the decades of loserdom, this is downright exciting. No Yankees. No Braves. No Red Soxs. The Texas Rangers.
I became a fan way back.
I recall the hot day (and what wasn't, in the broiler pit that Arlington Stadium was?), that my family and I took our scorching bleacher seat in right field to watch the debut of 18-year-old pitching phenom David Clyde.
The following year, I got my first real job, the kind that comes with a machine-printed paycheck. I made $1.59 and a half an hour as an usherette at the stadium. While most of my friends were getting their minimum wage loading rides or soda cups at Six Flags, I chose baseball.
I wore my uniform with a sort of geeky pride: poly-blend jeans with a wide white leather belt, a starched button-down red,white and blue shirt and straw cowboy hat.
The job was filled with responsbility. I helped lost fans find their seat. I'd flag down a nacho vendor for a guest. And, each half inning, I would walk down the steps to the front of my section to answer questions like, "How many light bulbs are in the stadium?" I don't remember how many, but it was enough to impress the 8-year-old boys.
Working the first baseline was the best. The folks behind home plate weren't so enamored with my usherette duties. Except one time.
After a brief but heavy rain, the seats were left spotted with raindrops. I escorted a gentleman to his row, took out my towel and wiped the seat dry. He tipped me. And not $1.59 and a half. It was $100, more money than I'd saved in a year of babysitting. Feeling grateful, but like I'd robbed the man, I promptly told my supervisor. She said to keep it. She also told me that man was one of the Hunt brothers.
The job had other perks. Labor laws prohibited 15-year-old employees from working past 9 p.m. So when the clock struck 9, usually after the 7th inning stretch, I took a seat and enjoyed the rest of the game. (At least that's how I remember it.)
The players have changed since then. No Ferguson Jenkins or Jim Sundberg. There's no Billy Martin. But in some way they paved the way for Ron Washington, Michael Young and Josh Hamilton.
After 37 years, batter up.