Yesterday the Washington Nationals opened their second season in their stadium overlooking the Anacostia River. The confines seem friendly enough, and are easily reached by Metro. Orioles Park at Camden Yards remains the finest in the new era of ballpark architecture, when teams wisely gave up on the doughnut design. Pittsburgh offers the most spectacular setting, and, coupled with paltry turnout, the comforts of solitude. Nationals Park is generic. Attendance there and at RFK has not lived up to boasts.
We like the Nats, and cheer for them except when they play the Dodgers or the Cards. They appear to be in no danger of winning the pennant. Fans resigned to futility appreciate the game's subtleties, or pretend to. Beer at $8 a cup hastens the descent into philosophy. We anticipate catching some innings soon.
The stadium is intended to spur development in an anonymous zone of the nation's capital. Although the shoppes and the residences, the eateries and the offices were not going to rise overnight, the field had the misfortune of opening on the eve of a recession. The environs look desolate. Economic development seems to be the justification for everything from playing fields to opera houses to petting zoos. Yet the presence of Yankee Stadium -- home of the mightiest franchise in U.S. sports -- did not prevent the decline of the Bronx. While the house that Steinbrenner built might improve blocks in the vicinity of 161st and River, the neighborhood never is going to resemble Tribeca. The new stadium for the Mets occupies space that served as a parking lot for Shea; Shea's site presumably will serve as a parking lot for a park named for a bank bailed out by the taxpayers.
Maybe there are lessons here for Richmond; maybe there are not. The game itself should be enough, yet seldom is. Dammit, we loved Koufax and Gibson, Jackie Robinson and Stan the Man! Pssst, the Miracle Mets stole our hearts, too.
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