Magic in the Munson moonlight: 'Baseball stadium, baseball stadium, baseball stadium'

I have been off on a labor of love, seeking many people to tell stories about the history of and renovations to Thurman Munson Memorial Stadium.

May I share a personal note?

When I lived south of town for many years, I made countless drives past the Canton skyline around the Interstate 77 bend to the Cleveland Avenue exit.

The magical lights came on in 1989, when Cleveland's Double-A affiliate moved into the new stadium named after Thurman Munson.

From the highway bend one caught the ballpark lights twinkling like the eyes of angels. My son Jim, who turned 2 shortly before opening day, learned the word "baseball" from a car seat, on the nights we rounded that I-77 bend, and spotted that glow from the highway.

By the summer of '89, with the Munson lights aglimmer, one word became two.

"Baseball stadium."

As the enchantment grew, it became a rhythmic chant that can come only from the mouths of little ones.

"Baseball stadium ... baseball stadium ... baseball stadium."

It never stopped. Every time we rode within view, Jim lit up. "Baseball stadium ... baseball stadium ... baseball stadium."

New siblings arrived and joined in as if learning language by the stadium lights. "Baseball stadium," went the choir.

On occasions when we made our way to the stadium, there was magic inside.

The building was homely on the outside but a masterpiece within when painted with thousands of neighbors itching for a gap shot.

All of the little children, and many of the larger ones, soon discovered that collectively stomping the floorboards of the aluminum grandstand generated an F5 roar audible in New Philadelphia.

The first batter in Munson Stadium, the centerfielder for a Yankees' farm team, was Deion Sanders, moonlighting from his football career. The first local fan favorites were Joey Belle and Beau Allred.

The first batter to have had his surname broken into 13 parts by the stadium announcer was Mark La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-Lewis.

The San Diego Chicken, virtuoso comedian in a bird suit, was brought in midway through that first season. What a fine night it was. Joey Belle hammered a home run halfway to the highway. The Chicken was in rare form, horsing around with players, umpires, anyone in his path.

I had brought little Jim to the ballpark. A perfect night promised to get better when the Chicken headed into the stands. He appeared in our section. I stood to let Jim brush the bird's feathers. Then Jim let out the loudest noise heard in Munson Stadium that year.

To him, the Chicken was an absolute monster. The Chicken quickly bobbed away. Jim remained quite upset after the act went back to the field. There was no choice but to leave with innings left.

Jim didn't hold it against the baseball stadium. We came back rather often. There was all kinds of company.

Munson Stadium crowds often were large. The atmosphere was always bright, and not because a steady stream famous players came through Canton. They weren't famous yet. Aside from Neon Deion, they weren't as well known as Steve Bozeka, the Cantonian who held court nightly in the press box.

And while some of the allure was the parent team, from Cleveland, it wasn't as if the parent team was any good.

When the Double-A affiliate arrived in Munson Stadium, Cleveland had lost 100 games in two recent years and was in a decades-long stretch outside the postseason.

Who knew Charles Nagy (13 wins for Canton in 1990) would, in 1995, be the starting pitcher in the first World Series victory in Cleveland in 47 years?

After Jim Thome hit just five home runs in 84 games with Canton in 1991, who imagined him blasting four in six ALCS games in 1998?

Manny Ramirez and Bartolo Colon, among many other future Cleveland players, joined the parade through Munson Stadium. Jeff Bagwell, Vladimir Guerrero, Bernie Williams and Andy Pettite popped up in the sea of visiting players.

They were all just part of the scenery.

It really was about a new baseball stadium, our stadium, where the community gathered day after day and shared nice moments.

Jim was too young to care about the economics, politics and cut-throatery that ended with the Double-A team bolting to Akron in 1997. The Canton Crocodiles and Canton Coyotes came to Munson and didn't last long.

The ballpark kept its meaning.

At his desk in Amos McDannel grade school, two miles from Munson, Jim would make his daydreams by drawing baseball stadiums. One amused teacher, Dave Conrad, suggested something more might come of this. It was a prescient observation.

Jim turned out to be an architect who, if there is a next national wave of stadium building, imagines jumping in.

By the time Jim was in high school, professional baseball was long gone from Canton. Yet, he had become part of the stuff that kept Munson Stadium breathing. Local teams played there, including school teams.

Jim's team, Canton South, appeared one cold April day in 2004. Crossing the white line into the batter's box was like stepping out of a mystic cornfield.

In came a fastball. Jim hit a hard shot up the middle. It struck the pitcher and trickled to a stop near the mound. It was the 60-foot single he will remember if he lives to be 100.

The whole family was there, fully appreciative of the moment and the location.

"Baseball stadium, baseball stadium, baseball stadium ..."

Reach Steve at steve.doerschuk@cantonrep.com

On Twitter: @sdoerschuk

This article originally appeared on The Repository: Thurman Munson Memorial Stadium more than former minor league home