Portrait of the Artist as an Old Fan

Back when I was a kid, growing up in Washington, D.C., I occasionally delivered the Washington Post newspaper for a friend of mine when he went on his annual summer vacation. Back in those days, a paper route catapulted you into the big-time, you had money to burn, you had all of the "first-kid-on-your-block" toys, you ruled the streets in your new Chuck Taylor high-tops and you could blow wads of cash down on 9th Street at Corr's Hobby Store.

There were three substantial papers back then: The Washington Post, The Times-Herald and the Daily News, an afternoon tabloid format weekday-only rag with all the best comics and the best sports section in my humble opinion. Each and every day during baseball season, I would cut out the latest box score from the previous day's loss by the Washington Senators and glue it in a notebook. The Senators were, by far, the worst team in baseball when I was growing up. The old joke was, "Washington: First in War, First in Peace and Last in the American League." I would dutifully go to the games at the old Griffith Stadium, sit in the cheap upper-deck seats, wear my "W" hat proudly and root for the losers.

Now, they have a new team, the Nationals. I don't get to see many Nationals games out here in the west, the market dominated by the LA Dodgers, the SD Padres and the SF Giants with an occasional Angels or Diamondbacks game thrown in on local cable to add some spice to the strong California mix. Anyway, for my last birthday my brother, a Nationals fan, sent me a jersey for a present. A Bryce Harper jersey. For those of you that don't know of Mr. Harper, he's a local Henderson kid that first attracted my attention when he was only 15 years old and whacking 450-foot homers all over Southern Nevada. I remember sending my brother a video of him hitting a monster 500-foot shot in Tropicana Park when he was 16. Now Mr. Harper is the Nationals latest bonus baby, having signed a 9-plus million dollar contract to play for Washington. I donned the jersey and had the following picture made, and titled it, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Fan. My apologies to Joseph Heller.

Photo by Shirley A. Bova
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Ahhh, if I could only return to those golden days of yesteryear, those halcyon days of my youth. Such are the dreams that keep us alive, rememberances that propel us to look back on kinder, gentler days.