TWO STADIUMS, MILES APART, ARE THE SAME

Connie Mack Stadium used to stand on the corner of 26th Street and Lehigh Avenue in downtown Philadelphia. Torn down in 1969, Connie Mack Stadium was a victim of modernization.

Heaton Stadium is the home of the Augusta Pirates, a Class A affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Also located in Augusta, Ga., is The Augusta National Golf Club, home of The Masters. In fact, with the use of some vivid imagination, one might picture John Daly teeing it up at home plate at Heaton Stadium and sendin~g one of his massive drives over to the National. Heck, it's only about three miles distance, and a typical Daly drive almost travels that far without one's vivid imagination!

Believe it or not, after some 30 years have passed, I now see an almost eerie similarity between old Connie Mack Stadium and Heaton Stadium. This connection can be found personified by a father and son. Juel H. Mosley Sr. is the father and yours truly is his son.

In the mid '60s, Dad worked for Meade Oil Company in Philadelphia. A brilliant man as well as being an equally brilliant father, Juel Sr. climbed the corporate ladder and eventually was one of 12 senior vice-presidents of Amerada Hess Gasoline. However, while the petroleum business might have been his calling in the workplace, the game of baseball was his true passion in life. One of the fringe benefits Dad received from Meade Oil was season tickets to the Phils' games. From 1963 to 1965 we attended a minimum of 25 games a year at Connie Mack Stadium. The sights and sounds of those games are still with me today. As an 8 year old youngster I saw Pete Rose as a rookie; I saw Phillie third baseman Richie Allen launch moonshots over the roof in left field; I saw Tom Seaver pitch a one-hitter against the Phillies before people knew who Tom Seaver was. Other precious moments included watching Roberto Clemente in right field for the Pittsburgh Pirates, Hank Aaron of the Braves, Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale of the Dodgers, and of course, my favorite player as a kid, Phillies second baseman, Cookie Rojas.

It was an absolute must that Dad and I got to the stadium two hours before game time. We both loved watching batting practice, but I like something far more catching foul balls during batting practice and placing them in my bedroom as a sort of baseball shrine. I usually got anywhere from one to three baseballs per game and perhaps one or two more during the entire season during the game itself. I can still see class guys like Vada Pinson, Ron Santo and Tony Gonzalez purposely kick balls over to the railing so some skinny kid could get a souvenir.

Unfortunately, we moved from Philadelphia to Reading, Pa., in the late '60s and my days of collecting baseballs came to an end. When you're eight or nine years old, sometimes you don't think about love or what people do to demonstrate their love for you. Did I ever once stop to think that my father, after working up to 10 hours a day, might be too tired to take me to a ballgame? Did I ever stop to think Dad would rather have gotten to the game 15 minutes before the first pitch instead of two hours? Of course not I had to get those baseballs and it never occurred to me that Dad might not enjoy sitting in the stands for two hours before game time as his son canvassed the left and right field lines for his coveted baseballs.

Years passed and the thought of going to the ballpark to shag foul balls seemed gone forever. We went to an occasional game ~

at the Vet, but time changes all things and I simply enjoyed watching my beloved Phillies play baseball and forgot about how much fun it used to be scrambling for those baseballs.

After graduating from college, I'd still get phone calls from my parents after Mike Schmidt or Greg Luzinski hit a home run. But it was not the same. I was (and still am) a teacher and believe me, after seven hours with the ~"Youth of America" for 180 days of the year, you seem to forget about your own youth and how much fun it was.

However, something wonderful happened three years ago. My wife, Donna and I moved to Aiken, S.C., for a variety of reasons. As fate would have it (and after much prompting from Donna and me) Mom and Dad also moved to Aiken. I wanted a chance to take care of them as they had always taken care of me. We make sure they have a healthy diet, make regular visits, and just enjoy talking to them daily on the telephone.

Mom made her adjustment to retired life with style and grace. A Lifemaster in Duplicate Bridge, she plays three times a week in Augusta which is only 13 miles from both of our homes. Dad, however, was used to leaving the house at 7:30 a.m. and getting home about 6:30 p.m., a pattern developed after 35 years in the petroleum business. I knew I had to find something for him to do, but at the same time, I never wanted him to know how concerned I was about his handling his own retirement. The answer: Turn back the clock 30 years! Baseball, of course.

In 1990, I took a job as the public address announcer for the Augusta Pirates. In addition to teaching, this is something I've been involved with since graduating from college. I asked Dad if he would be interested in working for the Pirates so we once again could spend more quality time together. He signed on as a ticket taker that same year. For the past three seasons we've made that trip to and from Augusta 70 times each year. Once we get to Heaton Stadium I go up to the press box to work on starting lineups, lucky numbers and upcoming promotions.

This year, I noticed a radical change in my father's behavior. He started insisting that we get to the games two hours early because he needed more time counting, sorting, and arranging tickets. During April and May I was still teaching school and could have used an extra hour or so to rest or go out for a run after work. Dad kept insisting and we always make the trips together, so I agreed. One day, while sitting in the press box, I noticed him walking up and down the left and right field lines. Well into two months of this current season, it finally hit me Dad was collecting foul balls during batting practice before his ticket booth opened! In addition to his pregame ritual, once his ticket window shuts down after the fourth inning, he now stands out in the parking lot catching foul balls that leave the stadium. Halfway through the 1993 season, Juel H. Mosley Sr. has collected 178 baseballs! My father gives new meaning to the nickname "Charlie Hustle~." On our drives home, I get an update of where, when and how he got each baseball. Sound familiar? Talk about role reversal! He's now that eight year old skinny kid at old Connie Mack Stadium. There is one big difference though he always has an El Producto cigar hanging out of his mouth, and I'm sure he would not have permitted me to indulge in such a habit in 1963!

You often hear the phrase, "life is a circle~." We all shake our heads in agreement, but to many this saying is yet another mundane cliche that means nothing at all. Four years ago, I honestly would have held that phrase with little or no regard. Life is simply saturated with overused parentheticals. Now, however, these four words have special meaning for me and quite honestly, have brought tears to me eyes.

You see, my father and I have been reunited by this ~circle~. There are just some things that fathers and sons have trouble saying to one another. It's a shame but it's a fact. Our lives have come full circle. Heaton Stadium is now Connie Mack Stadium. My father chases down foul balls and keeps them in a special place. I am now the one getting to the ballpark well before I have to be there. The baseballs he has collected and I collected years ago are symbols for those difficult words fathers and sons sometimes never get a chance to say to one another - words such as, "I love you," "I'm proud to be your son," and "I admire and applaud all the sacrifices you've made for me over the years." God Bless You Dad!

J.H. Mosley Jr. is the grandson of Juel Mosley, who was a one-time editor of the Southeast Missourian. He is also the great nephew of Jean Bell Mosley, a columnist for the Southeast Missourian.