No. 277 – I Disappear

Performer: Metallica

Songwriters: James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich

Original Release: Mission: Impossible II Soundtrack

Year: 2000

Definitive Version: None.

I suppose Lars Ulrich might disagree, but I don’t steal music. Sure, I’ve had people make me bootleg tapes and CDs, and I’ve made a few of my own, for myself and others. I’ve even made my own bootleg recordings, but I never went on Napster or any other peer-to-peer site. (I had other people do it for me.)

There’s one exception to that … this here song. After I found out about Ulrich’s scorched-earth campaign against Napster—and his own fans—triggered specifically by I Disappear, I made it a point to specifically “illegally” download this song. If Lars wants the 10 cents he feels I cheated him out of ($1.29 on iTunes, minus Apple’s take, the record company’s take, Uncle Sam’s take and divided four ways by the band) by “stealing” the song, he can come and get it.

Speaking of blowing things up, when Scott asked whether I wanted to watch Riverfront Stadium be demolished in 2002, I said yes with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I knew Riverfront Stadium was going to be demolished—part of it already was knocked down to build the new stadium. On the other hand, Riverfront Stadium was … baseball.

Oh sure, it was a hopelessly outdated ashtray, lacking in the charm (and the high prices) of the new parks that seemed to be popping up in cities across the country. But this ashtray held so much history for me.

I mean, Riverfront Stadium was the site of my first Major League ballgame—a glorious afternoon affair in 1972 except for the fact that the Pittsburgh Pirates whipped my beloved Reds, 8-5. I saw the following Hall of Famers play in my first Major League game: Willie Stargell (two titanic homers that day), Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Tony Perez and, oh yeah, some guy by the name of Roberto Clemente.

After the game, Dad drove up I-75, so he could take me by the old park—Crosley Field—so I could see it before IT was torn down. I’ll always remember the cars parked in the field—it ended its life as a tow lot—that day.

Riverfront Stadium also was the site of my first date with Debbie (story to come); my first foul ball (good ol’ No. 402) and the birthplace of BaseballTruth.com (No. 854). In 2002, Scott and I took Dad to a game around Father’s Day, just as he had taken me 30 years before, which I thought closed the circle nicely.

Scott and I also went to the final game at season’s end, which was a lackluster—and sparsely attended—affair given how Pete Rose wasn’t invited. (Of course this was months before we learned that he had lied to everyone and really had bet on baseball.)

Well, the demolition was inevitable, so I wanted to be there to bear witness. I HAD to be there.

Riverfront Stadium was slated to go down a couple days after Christmas, which was spent at Scott and Shani’s new home. Jin flew in from California and decided she wanted to attend the Riverfront festivities, too. The demolition was set for 8 in the morning. To get anything like a decent view, we figured we had to be at the river by 6, so up by 5:30.

Scott staked out a great spot, on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River close to the John A. Roebling Suspension Bridge. So Jin, Scott and I had a clear view of Riverfront, which would implode via timed explosives.

Before long, a crowd started to build, but we held our ground. We were on top of a walkway wall next to a parking garage, so we were out of the way and above everyone else setting up on the grass below us. It was perfect … until with about 3 minutes to go (I kid you not), when a cruise ship about three stories tall pulled up to dock in front of us.

Well, I should say it pulled up in front but not entirely. I still could see the ballpark even if most of the people on the hill below us couldn’t—and complained loudly, incessantly and profanely—until the boat at least backed up a foot or two, which ended up being just enough for us to capture everything on camera. (Jin brought her camcorder.)

There was a countdown, and at zero sparkles of small explosives chased around the top of the stadium, followed by larger ones below. The explosives, in perfect textbook fashion, made the stadium collapse like a house of cards. Thirty years of glorious baseball memories went up in a literal cloud of dust. It was a bittersweet moment.