There used to be a ballpark: Hinchliffe Stadium

Bordering Maple Street, Paterson

Here, the ghosts of past indiscretions -- others' indiscretions -- still play. Tucked into a corner of Paterson, New Jersey, stands a massive stadium now overgrown with more than just grass and weeds. Trees sprout from the bleachers, shrubs grow on the benches. It should be hard to miss, such a huge multipurpose arena that stretches two blocks in one direction. But it's nestled into a hill, never appearing more than a story high, tucked behind a four-story school that looms over it like a fortress.

Not far from another corner lies one of New Jersey's great natural and industrial landmarks, the Great Falls of the Passaic, a spot of historical significance in the life of Alexander Hamilton and in the industrial history of America. But from the falls, Hinchliffe Stadium looks like another abandoned industrial relic, a dilapidated warehouse complex or a facade fronting a high school football field.

At one time, that's what Hinchliffe was, home to Paterson Eastside High School teams. It's where Larry Doby played before the Newark Eagles signed him, setting the stage for his Hall of Fame career that began with the Cleveland Indians.

Grafitti and turnstiles

Now, the stadium lies in crumbling decay. A walk down Maple St. allows for a peak into vandalized restrooms and gated entryways, the white of the stadium walls nearly blinding in the sun, yet splashed with the color of graffiti on nearly every open space within arm's reach. Curiously, the spray-painting Picassos seemed to have left the outside facade as pristine as the day the stadium opened, 75 years ago this September, when a coordinated effort under the cover of night could clearly have allowed an adept artist the opportunity to leave his mark there as well. Perhaps they did, only to have their efforts plastered over, but it is inside where their work remains, giving Hinchliffe the appearance of a plausibly functional structure upon first glance, saving its true identity and sad state of decay only for those who take the time to venture closer.

Hinchliffe Stadium ticket windows

The ornate tiles marking the ticket windows and the bronze reliefs of track and field athletes of various pursuits preserve time and tag the stadium as a great multi-use facility, one that regularly and easily hosted baseball, football, soccer, track and field, boxing, concerts and any number of other forms of entertainment and recreation. It's not hard to imagine passing by the gates on a hot summer night 50 or 60 years ago and hearing the roar of the crowd flow over the walls into the streets of Paterson.

I walked the length of Maple St. along the outer wall of the stadium. At the parking area at the bottom, I took the path that led to the overlook at the falls, the stadium blending into its surroundings more with each step I took. Looking back from the falls, the stadium was a simple white wall running up the block, a grove of trees stretching to meet it at the lowest corner. As I returned to my car, I followed a path at this point and found the lower end of the stadium closed off by merely a chain-link fence. Here my view was uninterrupted, save for the metal strands of the fence and the piles of brush and the growing weeds and saplings along the boundary. I stood at the far turn of the track, a light dusting of snow covering the Astroturf field, a blue shipping container somewhere near midfield, perhaps abandoned after a cleanup attempt or maybe the last remnant of what could have been the stadium's last, most recent purpose: storage, or a parking lot of sorts.

There used to be a ballpark

There is a movement backed by New Jersey's representatives in Congress to have the Great Falls Historic District established as a National Park, Hinchliffe Stadium included. Perhaps someday, the stadium can be cleaned up, renovated to an extent, re-opened for tours or maybe even games once again. Any refurbishment would serve as an adequate reminder, a fitting tribute to those who performed there, from Doby and Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige to Duke Ellington and Lou Costello and the high school students who played on that field for decades.

Today, if you go there and look out on the overgrown field and dilapidated bleachers, you can imagine the ghostly figures rounding the bases, the fans leaping to their feet to cheer, the sun sinking behind the school on the hill to the west. Hinchliffe Stadium feels old. It feels important and poignant, yet it also feels dirty and disgusting, the acrid smell of decay and neglect -- of disrespect -- having seeped into the cracks in the concrete and overwhelming what remains of the structure. What could be a venerated landmark in the history of New Jersey, the progress of America, instead remains just another boarded-up relic, another glaring example of disrespect and neglect.

Why I love this game

For Valentine's Day yesterday, there was a story on Mets.com in which various players and other baseball people explained why they loved the game so much. I know I'm a day late, but the snow and the warmth of home made me lazy yesterday, so here is how I would answer the question, "Why do I love this game?" This is just what I could come up with off the top of my head at the moment. I'm sure if I saved it for a few days, adding to the file periodically as something else came to me, I could drag it out much, much longer.

I love that there's history, nostalgia -- that people care so much about what the game was in the 1920s, 50s, 70s.

I love that it's the summer game, it's part of what you do during those lazy, hazy days.

I love that people make a point to visit as many ballparks as they can, that they keep blogs and write books about their travels. Who brags about how many different bland NBA arenas they've seen or how many football stadiums they've entered? After Lambeau and Soldier Fields, is there a pull to a place because of where it is, not who it is?

I love the cool breeze in the concourse on a hot, humid summer day.

I love the minor leagues, the small-town ballparks -- new as they are -- with outfield berms, tiki bars, dizzy bat races and seats so close you can smell the pine tar from the on-deck batter.

I love those smells: pine tar, grass, hot dogs, peanuts.

As annoying and cliche as they may get, I love stadium traditions, like "Sweet Caroline" in Brooklyn and "Lazy Mary" at Shea Stadium.

I love balls hit into the gaps with runners on base and the anticipation that builds -- will the runner score? Will the batter make it to second? Can he stretch it into a triple?

I love arriving when the gates open, of rushing into a nearly empty ballpark, of hearing the low music echoing off of the empty seats while the home team takes batting practice, their voices and laughter audible amid the crack of the bat and the pounding of gloves.

I love the uniforms and how the players wear those of their teams for the All-Star Game, rather than generic ones like those of hockey, basketball and football players.

I love that whenever I go on vacation between April and September, I check the schedule of the local team and plan an extra day to get to the park.

I love that I have friends who are always up for a game.

I love that I went to my first game in 1983, and I still feel the same excitement at least once a year on the way to the ballpark.

Step right up and get your mud

The pitcher steps off the mound and holds the ball in his pitching hand, lifting it above his head and flicking his wrist toward home plate. He doesn't toss it, though. Instead, he holds onto it, signaling to his catcher and the umpire that he wants a new baseball. This one just doesn't feel right.

Once the umpire obliges him, they make the exchange -- sometimes with a simultaneous soft toss, two horsehide orbs on similar high arcs from pitcher to catcher, from umpire to pitcher. The hurler gets his new baseball, then tucks his glove under his arm, freeing the hand inside to join the other wrapped around the baseball. He gives the ball a few rubs and twists in his palms and he's ready to go.

In Little League, that new baseball would be pristine, as perfectly white as a sheet of paper. It'd be slick to the touch, making it all the more important to have a firm grip on the laces when making throws from the field or the mound. But in professional baseball, that "new" ball has already been soiled. It's been taken from its box and rubbed in mud, usually by the umpires before the game.

The most fascinating bit of this little-known aspect of the game is that not only are the baseballs themselves licensed and approved by Major League Baseball, but so is the mud.

And that mud comes from one place: New Jersey.

At the other end of the state from Hoboken, where the first professional game was played, somewhere on the banks of the Delaware River, Lena Blackburne stumbled upon some mud while fishing. He took it back across the river to Philadelphia, where he was a coach for the A's, and dirtied up some baseballs.

Now his name adornes the tubs of official mud in every major league equipment room: Lena Blackburne Baseball Rubbing Mud. It sounds like something concocted by a barnstorming con man in the 1800s. "STEP RIGHT UP, FOLKS, AND GET THE SALVE THAT WILL RELIEVE ALL YOUR PAIN!! LENA BLACKBURNE'S RUBBING MUD!!"

New Jersey may not have any major league ballparks in the state, but every team has a bit of New Jersey in its ballpark.