• Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium

    2020 Season Preview: With Fingers Crossed, We Arrive at an Opening Day Like No Other

    Editor’s Note: Braves Wire writer Bud L. Ellis has missed just two Atlanta Braves home openers in the past 40 years. To him, Opening Day and the start of baseball season is when “life begins again.” He shares a very personal, emotional take on the start of this unprecedented 2020 season, the night before the Braves begin their 60-game campaign against the Mets in an empty Citi Field.

    SOMEWHERE IN NORTH GEORGIA – I walked outside my house Wednesday evening, needing to clear my head. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the searing temperature lowered somewhat by the torrential rainstorm that had rolled through a half-hour earlier.

    I strolled toward the front of my subdivision, leaving behind four people in my house, the four people I love more than anything on this planet. Three of the four have tested positive for COVID-19 in the past week. My mother has experienced her two best days since her diagnosis last week after a rough stretch; my two teenage sons have been asymptomatic so far, thankfully.

    A beautiful rainbow, its vibrant colors arching from north to south, stretched across the sky. I took it as a sign that the guilt I’ve felt in recent days and weeks about being excited for the Braves season opener Friday was unnecessary, that in trying to steer myself and my family through a time I never could have imagined, a breather was acceptable. It’s alright to desire something fun, something … normal.

    That it’s OK to feel like I usually do when baseball season approaches.

    I sat down on the curb, and I cried.

    ***

    I’ve attended every Braves home opener the past four decades, save two: 2002 and 2006 (we lived on the Georgia coast at the time; my wife was pregnant in 2002 and had a doctor’s appointment the day of the home opener, and I covered a high school game in 2006). But truth be told, I don’t think I’ve worked a single Opening Day since leaving the newspaper business 13 years ago, even when the Braves start on the road.

    Baseball is in my blood, has been from the time my eyes first gazed the green grass of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium on Sept. 9, 1979, when I joined my grandfather and 2,780 of our closest friends for a 4-1 loss to the Padres, the 87th loss of a 66-94 campaign. The next spring I attended my first home opener in person, a 4-1 defeat to the Reds on April 17 that dropped the Braves to 0-7. Ever since, the start of baseball season has defined my school plans, work plans, social plans.

    When the Braves open on the road, I treat it as its own holiday, an extra date to count down toward through the chilly nights and cloudy days of winter. But as we’ve all learned, the cold of December and January pales in comparison to what we all have experienced in 2020. The coronavirus has killed well more than 100,000 of our fellow citizens and left millions of our neighbors without jobs. For some, the physical strain of surviving the virus and the mental toll of enduring these past five months will resonate for years. We’re also living through a transformative time in our nation, having difficult and long-overdue conversations about social injustice.

    Against that backdrop, it would seem something as frivolous as baseball shouldn’t even be a second thought. Why should we care who the fifth starter is when we have so many more important things to address? I get it, I really do. I quietly have wrestled with that in the past few weeks, and it’s been heavy.

    Then I think about my grandfather, that man who shocked his 6-year-old grandson on that second September Sunday nearly 41 years ago, taking me to my first Braves game. He’s been gone for 21 years, but “Pops” told me plenty of stories about life during World War II, including how important it was for baseball to continue while so many – from Ted Williams to Warren Spahn and both my grandfathers – battled in theaters across the globe.

    I always thought sports were an important part of helping us overcome adversity, but the days after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks in 2001 resonated with 28-year-old me like no pass-down story or history lesson ever could. Sports came back after a week away, and when Mike Piazza homered in the first major-league game held in New York City after 9/11, for the Mets against the Braves no less, I cheered. It’s the only moment the Braves have played in my 47 years on this planet when my team lost and I didn’t care.

    New York needed that moment.

    America needed that moment.

    We all needed that moment.

    ***

    As we continue dealing with the virus, as our world spins on what feels like a warped axis, baseball coming back reminds us of a fundamental testament. When things really get bad – and it’s been bad for quite some time in 2020 – we do what we’ve always done. We pause. We weep. We mourn. We bow our heads. We catch our breath.

    And then, we move forward.

    Baseball is like that comfortable pair of jeans (although, after most of us have worked from home for months, those jeans probably don’t fit). It fills eight months of our annual 12-month journey around the sun, from guys showing up early in Florida and Arizona proclaiming they are in “the best shape of their lives,” to the daily cadence of the regular season, to the high drama and heart-stopping moments of October, until somebody lifts the World Series trophy. We follow the offseason news and, before you know it, mid-February arrives again. Players report to camp, the weather warms up soon thereafter, and the countdown toward Opening Day dwindles with each sunrise.

    The season begins and we fall into that regular rhythm like clockwork, turning on the TV or radio or firing up the stream come game time. The broadcasters for our favorite team are the soundtrack of our weekday evenings and weekend afternoons, always present whether we are sitting at home or out at the lake or attending a family reunion, excusing yourself from a conversation with Aunt Alice because it’s second and third with two outs in the eighth and a knock ties the game. It’s always-evolving fodder for your favorite publications, blogs, podcasts and talk shows.

    Baseball is the ultimate people sport. It’s a daily occurrence – 162 games in 187 days leads to a lot of conversations, be it on social media or through message boards or sitting together in the upper deck on a steamy July night. Some of those conversations lead to lifelong relationships; I know several married couples brought together not by blind dates or happenstance encounters or Tinder, but by baseball.

    ***

    It’s going to be different this season, but our world is a different place than it was just a few short months ago. I’ve attended around 80 Braves games the past two seasons, including three games at Wrigley Field, and five postseason games. I’ve lost track of the number of people I’ve met at games, ended up hanging out with, with whom I’ve developed relationships. I’m thankful for each one of you and I miss seeing you in Lot 29, in The Battery, on the concourses and in the stands. Through baseball, I’ve met some of my closest friends in the world. After everything we’ve been through and will have to go through moving forward, I love and cherish every single one of you more than ever.

    In the perfect illustration of how different this season will be, while writing the initial draft of this post – a mere three hours after seeing the rainbow that brought tears to my eyes – my phone buzzed. My photo submission for a cardboard cutout to be placed at Truist Park this season was accepted, and my credit card was charged.

    I couldn’t help but laugh. In a crazy way, it made me feel just a little bit better about starting this season. In the past couple of days, I’ve realized it’s OK to feel heavy about playing a baseball season in a pandemic. It’s OK to question if we should be doing this. It’s OK to worry we won’t make it to the end of the season before something happens that shuts down baseball again.

    And now, after a mentally draining 10 days or so, I realize it’s OK to embrace this. It’s OK to get invested, to take those three hours a night to unplug from the real world and get lost in something that means so much to so many of us. Get upset with a blown lead in the eighth. Jump off your couch when a game-winning hit happens. Respectfully debate bullpen management and lineup construction on social media.

    To do what we always have done: ride the ebb and flow of a baseball season, regardless if it’s 60 games or 162.

    There will be plenty of moments when we will have to embrace the weird because, heck, what else are we going to do? While baseball is timeliness, each season is its own interesting microcosm. Some years, your team wins 72 when it should have won 81. Some years, your team wins 91 when it should have won 82. That’s baseball.

    And it’s back.

    When the 2018 Braves stunningly roared to the NL East title, the team’s marketing folks rolled out a social media hashtag for the NLDS against the Dodgers: #ForEachOther. It fits now more than ever. We wondered if we would get to this point, but here we are: live, regular season Major League Baseball is on my TV, and the Braves play a meaningful game in less than 24 hours.

    I’m ready for life to begin again. It’s Opening Day. After all we’ve been through, there’s just one thing left to say:

    Play ball.

    —30—

    Bud L. Ellis is a lifelong Braves fan who worked as a sports writer for daily newspapers throughout Georgia earlier in his writing career, with duties including covering the Atlanta Braves, the World Series and MLB’s All-Star Game. Ellis currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs and contributes his thoughts on Braves baseball and MLB for a variety of outlets. Reach him on Twitter at @bud006.

    When it Comes to Chopping, Less Indeed is More

    By Bud L. Ellis

    BravesWire.com

    SOMEWHERE IN NORTH GEORGIA – At the risk of dating myself (and revealing this scribe is old enough to be your father, or that crazy uncle who sneaks you beer and lets you stay up till 3 a.m.), let me take you back nearly three decades to one of the greatest years of my life: 1991.

    I graduated high school that June. I started college that September. I began my second year of covering high school football for my hometown newspaper. There are a variety of other personal reasons I could share that since have lost significance with the passage of time. But there were things I couldn’t dare dream that happened that year.

    They were all tied to my favorite baseball team and my hometown. I’ll never forget any of it. One example (of many):

    I sat in my 1979 Silverado on a two-lane road in northern Douglas County (about 25 miles west of Atlanta) one mid-October afternoon, in front of a subdivision, waiting for the kids who lived there to exit the school bus. There were several parents waiting at the neighborhood’s entrance, as they did every day. It was an unremarkable moment, just another day, until the kids on the back of the bus took notice of the view out the rear windows.

    First one of them, then two, then several, pushed against the glass, waving their right arms up and down. The kids getting off the bus noticed, and started doing that same chopping motion. I looked, and there were the parents, chopping and cheering. The bus driver extended her arm out the window and started waving it in the same manner.

    A lone foam tomahawk, sitting on the front dashboard of my old truck, firing up a fanbase that had no reason to believe until this year, my 18th on the planet, the single-greatest baseball season I’ve ever experienced.

    You see, being a baseball fan in Atlanta was not for the faint of heart in the 1970s and 80s, not until the first great rebuild in our city’s baseball history bore fruit that exceeded our wildest fantasies in 1991. And along the way, the chop was born: started as a tip of the cap to Falcons cornerback and Florida State product Deion Sanders, who became just one of a zillion “can you believe this?” storylines during the Braves historic worst-to-first surge from the bottom of the National League West to extra innings in the seventh game of the World Series in six dizzying months.

    I’ve lived just about every single moment of Braves baseball since the 1980s dawned. I remember Chief Noc-A-Homa delivering the game ball to home plate, breathing fire with a hand-held torch on the pitcher’s mound, then retreating to his teepee in the left-field bleachers of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. I remember the outcry when owner Ted Turner removed the teepee during the 1982 NL West race to sell more tickets (at about the same time Atlanta embarked on a 2-19 swoon that nearly cost it the division title).

    Of the million things that make me smile when I think about 1991, the tomahawk chop is near the top of the list. I worked part-time for a cardboard and packaging manufacturer that made a variety of materials, including foam cutouts designed to secure parts for shipping items for federal government clients. The summer before, those orders spiked with the onset of the Crisis in the Persian Gulf and subsequent U.S. military buildup.

    By late summer 1991, there were tomahawks being cranked out of that Cherokee County warehouse like crazy.

    See, the tomahawk chop engulfed the city. I hate to be the “you had to be here” dude, but truly, you had to be here that summer. It never was (and still isn’t) about making fun of any one group. It’s not mocking the heritage or history of an important part of our nation’s history. It merely was an innocent, organic expression of fandom that exploded in a fashion not quantifiable by any metric.

    It didn’t matter where you lived in Atlanta, be it the projects off Hightower or the mansions in Buckhead, be it out in the sticks of Douglasville or the progressive northside. It didn’t matter if you worked in a warehouse on Fulton Industrial Boulevard or a high rise off Peachtree Street downtown or drove a tractor in South Georgia. The Braves were winning. They had captured the heart of the city, the state, the region, and we all were united behind that one simple arm motion.

    Its beauty lied in the chop’s organic nature. Sometimes, it took just a few keys from the stadium organist. Often, even that wasn’t necessary. By the time the eyes of the sports world cast its gaze upon Atlanta for the NL Championship Series and the World Series that followed, the fans simply seized the moment to begin chopping and chanting with no prompting. There were no manufactured moments from stadium ops or the gameday staff. There certainly weren’t any flashing lights or scoreboard messages nudging fans to get ready.

    We simply chopped. We chanted. We cheered.

    Things change as the years go by. The chop is no different. It long ago became worn out, overplayed, sterile, manufactured, contrived, devoid of the emotion that fueled its inception. It’s sad, but it’s understandable. Something as organic and grassroots as the chop was in its early years never is sustainable. Truth be told, this lifelong Braves fan is surprised it’s lasted this long.

    I’ll never legislate how any person or group feels, no more than I would want them to legislate feelings I possess. Yes, there were protests outside Atlanta Stadium during the ’91 postseason. Being the cynical teenager I was at the time, I dismissed them with a simple, “where were they last season, when we sucked?” But the passage of time changes perspectives. I guess I’ve changed mine now, to a certain extent.

    I don’t blame Cardinals reliever Ryan Helsley for stating what he did about the chop during last season’s NL Division Series. He was asked a question and he provided an answer. I do have a problem with the Braves organization – which have placed foam tomahawks in every seat for every home playoff game for as long as I can remember (including Games 1 and 2 of last October’s series) – deciding in a knee-jerk reaction to not do so for Game 5.

    The Braves said in October they wanted to open dialogue with Native American groups to discuss ways to hear concerns. If that hasn’t happened, as per published reports (subscription required), then that’s disappointing. It goes back to a simple tenant: you do as you say you will do. As a fan and partial season-ticket holder, that’s not a good look, if true.

    But that’s not my point here. As someone who was a Braves fan before 1991, when a pennant winner and the accompanying chop descended upon us like something from outer space, and as someone who will be a Braves fan long after my time here is done, I now know it’s time.

    Let the chop live on, but only in its original, organic state. No more screaming over the loudspeakers for fans to get on their feet and chop for introduction of the first three hitters in the bottom of the first inning. No more forced drumbeats when Atlanta gets a runner on second base in the third inning of a game the second Wednesday night in June.

    If fans want to do it at those moments, that’s fine. If it’s a big moment late in a game, and the fans want to stand up and start chopping and chanting, I see no problem with that. If it’s a big game down the stretch, and a sellout crowd at Truist Park feels the need to rise and start the chop, there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t see how that should spark outrage – again, I have no problem with it.

    The Braves are not going to, nor should they, change their name. Nor should they remove the tomahawk from their logo. But when it comes to trying to manufacture chopping and chanting 10 times a game, 81 times a year, that shouldn’t happen.

    Let it be organic. Let the fans do it as they see fit, when they see fit, in the moments when the crowd feels it matters most. That is the spirit with which all of this started, and should be the only spirit in which it lives moving forward.

    —30—

    Bud L. Ellis is a lifelong Braves fan who worked as a sports writer for daily newspapers throughout Georgia earlier in his writing career, with duties including covering the Atlanta Braves, the World Series and MLB’s All-Star Game. Ellis currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs and contributes his thoughts on Braves baseball and MLB for a variety of outlets. Reach him on Twitter at @bud006.

    The 2018 Run is Done, but for Inspiring Braves It’s Only the Beginning

    By Bud L. Ellis

    BravesWire.com

    ATLANTA – The cadence of a baseball season is unique in that it starts with the sleepy slumber of late winter, the nearly seven-month marathon that builds to a crescendo, then concludes with a frantic sprint to a championship by 10 teams. One squad lifts the big trophy, and the other nine see their dreams end with the subtleness of running head-first into a concrete wall.

    Regardless of final result, for all teams the season’s conclusion does signify an end. But there are teams that the end only hints of a grander beginning, an earmark of better things to come. The 2018 Atlanta Braves embarked on their season March 29 at SunTrust Park against the Philadelphia Phillies, looking to avoid a fifth consecutive losing season. Some 193 days later, their season closed with a 6-2 defeat Monday to the Los Angeles Dodgers in Game 4 of the National League Division Series.

    There will be plenty of time in the weeks to come to discuss what this franchise’s accelerated progression from rebuilding squad to NL East champion means in the grand scheme of building a World Series champion, what moves will be made, what vulnerabilities were exposed. Now is not that time, not when the bandage has been ripped from the wound, when the standing ovation the home crowd gave the Braves as they walked off the field one last time still echoes in our ears, while many of us still are smiling with pride while tears trickled down our cheeks.

    No, this is a time to sit back, to breathe, to go ahead and laugh about how far the Braves have come in just six months and nine days, and yes, to cry a little bit. Because whoever said there is no crying in baseball never has lived and died with a baseball team for years, then to experience a season sprinkled with so much pixie dust, you find yourself looking at your friends or spouse or children or parents and repeatedly asking, “how is this happening?”

    Like many of the great pure joys of life, you just let it ride. And boy, what a ride these Braves took their beleaguered fanbase on in 2018. A .500 record? Yeah, right. How about 90 victories, a division championship, and a respectable battle put up against a team that played for the World Series title last fall? All the walk-off victories. The emergence of so much young talent, names we heard mentioned during the dark days of the rebuild, names typed on prospect lists, names we saw at Rome or Mississippi or Gwinnett, and wondered how they might fare amid the grind of a big-league schedule.

    You know the names by now, from the generational star-in-the-making Ronald Acuna to the All-Star Ozzie Albies, from the emerging Mike Foltynewicz and Sean Newcomb to the next wave of great arms fronted by Mike Soroka, Kyle Wright, Touki Toussaint, Bryse Wilson and Kolby Allard. Guys like Johan Camargo, who finally did enough to get the third-base job for keeps and never looked back. Guys like Chad Sobotka, who started the season at High-A Florida and ended it pitching in the NLDS. Don’t forget Dansby Swanson, lost for the playoffs with a hand injury but one of the NL’s best clutch hitters and defensive shortstops in just his second full major-league campaign. Or Ender Inciarte, acquired with Swanson in the now-famous heist of a trade with Arizona, anchoring Atlanta’s defense in center field while delivering his typical strong offensive second half. Or Charlie Culberson, who authored several of the season’s most signature moments.

    These Braves took all that youth and blended it with the veteran leadership provided by Nick Markakis, who made the All-Star team for the first time at age 34, the tandem of Kurt Suzuki and Tyler Flowers behind the plate, the resurgent Anibal Sanchez – plucked from the free-agent scrap heap in March, but who pitched so effectively he earned a NLDS start while mentoring the young arms along the way – and a nod to one of this team’s lightning rods of criticism in recent years, the veteran Julio Teheran, who didn’t get a start in the NLDS but proudly came out of the bullpen in Game 4 and held the Dodgers at bay.

    And then, there is the constant.

    In Sunday’s Game 3, the first postseason game in the two-season existence of SunTrust Park, Acuna nearly brought down the house with a grand slam that staked the Braves to a 5-0 lead. The Kid gave Atlanta a cushion that the dogged Dodgers chipped away at until drawing even, and that fear of the run ending with a postseason sweep certainly creeped into the minds of even the most optimistic Braves fan.

    But that’s where The Captain came in. Freddie Freeman watched the Braves tear down the organization to the nubs in the years following Atlanta’s last postseason appearance in 2013. He never wavered, never complained, set the tone, led by example, excelled even as his prime years began with the Braves seemingly no closer to contending. All he did this season was lead the NL in hits and played Gold Glove-level defense while serving as the steady face of a team on the rise.

    Freeman slammed a long leadoff homer into The Chop House leading off the sixth inning of Game 3, turning SunTrust Park upside down in a moment that had you closed your eyes, you would swear you were standing inside long-gone Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium in the early 1990s. That homer proved to be the difference in the Braves lone victory in this series, but served symbolic in that the franchise foundational cornerstone had delivered the knockout blow on the national stage.

    So, of course it was Freeman striding to the plate with two outs in the ninth inning of Game 4, Atlanta’s remarkable season hanging by the slimmest of threads. Freeman struck out to end the game, the series and the season, but not before the packed house serenaded him with chants of “Fred-die! Fred-die! Fred-die!”

    When the season ended – when the journey collided with that concrete wall of finality – at 8:16 p.m., the disappointment quickly faded into the aforementioned ovation. A few minutes later, Freeman told the media that for how proud he is of how far the Braves have come, the ultimate goal is to win the World Series. He emphasized and repeated the point.

    At the end of previous seasons, that type of comment would’ve be met with laughter. Nobody’s laughing now. Yes, the hearts ache and the tears fall, if for nothing else this team and its players have left an indelible impression on us all. The hashtag #ForEachOther rang true all season long, as players and fans truly felt they were in this together.

    Yes, 2018 has reached its end. But in every way imaginable, this also feels like only the beginning.

    —30—

    Bud L. Ellis is a lifelong Braves fan who worked as a sports writer for daily newspapers throughout Georgia earlier in his writing career, with duties including covering the Atlanta Braves, the World Series and MLB’s All-Star Game. Ellis currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs and contributes his thoughts on Braves baseball and MLB for a variety of outlets. Reach him on Twitter at @bud006.

    Cooperstown Bound: The Incredible Career of Chipper Jones

    By Bud L. Ellis

    BravesWire.com

    ATLANTA – The crowd gathered around the 23-year-old peach-fuzzed kid, who stared into the sea of microphones and cameras, and responded to question after question following a four-hit, four-RBI performance to help lift his team to victory.

    Part of that media scrum late in the evening on June 6, 1995, inside the cramped no-frills locker room of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, included a 22-year-old peach-fuzzed kid holding a pen and a notepad. At some point amid the back-and-forth, the novice reporter summoned up the courage to ask the young baseball player what he hit to drive in two runs in a bases-loaded fourth inning, and followed up with a question about approach given that hit came on the first pitch while the other four at-bats of the night were worked deep into the count.

    The kid in the spotlight provided a quick analysis of his performance, giving the kid holding the notebook a couple of quotes that would land in a college newspaper’s weekly summary of recent Braves games.

    Some 277 months after that exchange, both those kids have kids of their own, are immersed into new realities, carry a few extra pounds and, yes, both have facial hair tinged with gray. Welcome to middle age, Chipper Jones, who Sunday will take his rightful place in baseball’s Hall of Fame, the crowning achievement of a 19-year career which produced a World Series title, an MVP award, All-Star games and 10,614 plate appearances – all with one team.

    The blunt numbers scream Hall of Famer, but for Chipper Jones – a kid from Pierson, Fla. – it goes far beyond just the raw data. It goes to something etched on a plaque hanging in my Braves Room, a quote that sums up the essence of Jones’ relationship with the team he signed with in 1990, the team I’ve loved since the late 1970s and a team that I covered a bit from time to time during a previous life.

    “I’m a southern kid and I wanted to play in a southern town where I felt comfortable.”

    That comfort level brings much discomfort for opposing fanbases, most notably the one who pledges allegiance to the New York Mets. Chipper made a livelihood out of crushing the Mets, from hitting 49 career homers against the team from Flushing in 245 games to his famous smash job against New York during the 1999 race for the National League East title, in which he belted seven homers while hitting .400 with a 1.510 OPS in 12 games.

    But this story goes beyond the numbers. It goes to a relationship between father and son, the elder imparting wisdom and spinning yarns of heroes of yesteryear, of games watched together, of batting practice and little league and travel ball, of going away to play baseball in high school, of growing up and making mistakes and learning to be a man – lessons we have to learn regardless of athletic prowess or lack thereof.

    For me, it goes to the moments. I saw his first major-league hit – Sept. 14, 1993 against the Reds, in the midst of the last great pennant race, a chopper to third base that Juan Samuel could not field in time to throw out the fleet-footed switch-hitter. I saw his last major-league hit – Oct. 5, 2012 against the Cardinals in the NL wild-card game (a game remembered for the worst officiating call I’ve witnessed in 40 years of attending and covering sporting events), another infield single in his final at-bat as a major-leaguer.

    In between, I was fortunate to be in the building when Chipper celebrated winning two pennants and a World Series championship, was a member of the press asking him about the disappointment of losing the first two World Series games at home in 1999, covered him belting a home run in Atlanta in the 2000 All-Star game, and countless other moments as fan and sports writer that are blurred by the passage of time.

    During that stretch, I grew up, got married, became a dad, changed careers and started coaching baseball. Chipper is one of a select few I always pointed to when players and parents would ask for somebody in the majors for their children to watch and learn how to play the game. He never took a pitch off, wanted to be in the lineup every day, wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, and put his heart and soul into every game in which he took the field.

    Friday night, I sat in SunTrust Park with my oldest son. Jonny Venters, who the Braves acquired from Tampa Bay the night before, made his first appearance with Atlanta since that 2012 wild-card game. When I showed my son a tweet by Kevin McAlpin of 680 The Fan and 93.7 FM stating how long it had been since Venters pitched for the Braves, my son immediately replied: “Chipper’s final game.”

    It was interesting to watch the All-American boy with the good looks and the immense talent grow up before our eyes. Consider the greats of that era of Braves baseball. Glavine was drafted in 1984. Smoltz was traded for in 1987. Neither transaction moved the needle because, to be blunt, the Braves were irrelevant in a town captivated with Hawks basketball (and I loved me some Atlanta’s Air Force back then) and college football and little else, especially a baseball team that finished buried in the old NL West every year from 1985-1990.

    Maddux? Sure, that was a huge move, but it came in the winter following the 1992 season, after the Braves had captured the city’s heart and soul with two consecutive NL pennants. Cox? He managed here from 1978-1981, left for Toronto, then came home to serve as general manager starting in 1986 until he moved back to the dugout in 1990, during the aforementioned awful years. Even Schuerholz, the architect of that worst-to-first 1991 squad, had been here nearly three full seasons before Chipper arrived.

    The point being: Chipper went from start to finish in the midst of one of the greatest runs in American pro sports history, with all eyes on him, with the pressure of a city and a fanbase eager to shake its reputation of being a bad sports town. And Chipper delivered, often in dramatic, “did you see that?!” fashion. Even his last homer, the walkoff blast off Jonathan Papelbon on the Sunday before Labor Day in 2012, still elicits tremendous emotion nearly six years later.

    I started my third year of college as a 20-year-old when I sat in old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and watched Chipper leg out an infield single for his first knock in the majors. I sat in Turner Field as a 39-year-old husband and father of two, with my oldest son by my side, when Chipper legged out an infield single in the ninth inning of the 2012 wild-card game in his final at-bat.

    Off the field, Chipper made his share of mistakes. His biography, “Ballplayer,” written by the fantastic former Atlanta Journal-Constitution writer Carroll Rogers Walton – who was more than kind to a young sportswriter trying to find his way once upon a time – is a tremendous tell-all of that side of the guy who went from hot-shot, cocky top prospect to franchise icon.

    And now the journey arrives this weekend in Cooperstown, and enshrinement in the hall of baseball immortals. I’ll spend Sunday in a hotel room next to SunTrust Park at a private watch party before the Braves game with the Dodgers, and I’ll lift a glass in honor of a player who brought this fanbase so much joy for two decades.

    Seventy-eight days after Chipper’s first big-league hit, a song was released that played constantly on radio during my college days. “Mr. Jones” became Counting Crows’ biggest hit, and I think often of this lyric from that song anytime I think about Chipper’s journey:

    “We all wanna be big stars,

    “But we don’t know why, and we don’t know how,

    “But when everybody loves me,

    “I wanna be just about as happy as I can be.”

    Suffice to say, Chipper became one of the biggest stars of all. And it sounds like he’s happy with his life. Any of us who go through life pray for happiness and contentment. That transcends any success we find in our chosen profession. As someone who is in that place, I’m so happy Chipper has found that peace.

    Sunday, in a small village in upstate New York, he will cement his rightful place amid the greatest of the greats. And to think, we’ve been watching this journey for a quarter-century.

    Well done, kid.

    —30—

    Bud L. Ellis is a lifelong Braves fan who worked as a sports writer for daily newspapers throughout Georgia earlier in his writing career, with duties including covering the Atlanta Braves, the World Series and MLB’s All-Star Game. Ellis currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs and contributes his thoughts on Braves baseball and MLB for a variety of outlets. Reach him on Twitter at @bud006.

    The Battery Transforms Your Braves Gameday Experience

    Battery-1 (600px)By Bud L. Ellis

    BravesWire.com

    ATLANTA — Back during my sports writing days – before Twitter and wi-fi and blogs – one of my favorite assignments was covering college football on campus. There are few things that beat the atmosphere, the energy, the feeling of being in Atlanta or Clemson or Baton Rouge on a crisp clear Saturday in the fall, seeing the people, hearing the music, smelling the food.

    For many, attending a college football game goes far beyond four 15-minute quarters on a 100-yard field. It is the experience of gameday, of eating and drinking with your friends, of gathering with fellow fans, with hanging out for hours before kickoff and hours after the final whistle. When time would allow, I would always try to spend a few minutes soaking in the pregame atmosphere before walking into the stadium, and would attempt to decompress from deadline by enjoying the postgame vibe.

    Outdoor concert stage and lawn at The Battery

    Outdoor concert stage and lawn at The Battery

    Which leads me to a sunny Sunday morning at the confluence of Interstates 285 and 75, on the first weekend in August at the new home of the Atlanta Braves.

    Certainly, I have been fortunate to experience some incredible pre- and postgame atmospheres through the years with Braves baseball. Playoff and World Series games, anticipation for opening days following division-winning seasons and a long offseason, the gathering of friends old and new and good food and cold beverages is not a new concept for those who chop and chant and wear all things tomahawk.

    But this year, it is different.

    And it is glorious.

    In the rush of working fulltime, of doing freelance work, of coaching kids baseball – heck, of just being a responsible adult – I often do not take the time to slow down and enjoy what’s around me. I think we’re all guilty of that, especially in the crafts I ply and the life I lead. But every once in a while, even I have to slow down the whirlwind that is the day-to-day grind.

    Without a live deadline on this day and with my best friend of 30-plus years en route for his first foray to SunTrust Park, I made it a point to get to The Battery nice and early, some 3 ½ hours before first pitch. It is not the first time I’ve arrived at a Braves game way early, but not for a regular-season game in August with the team seven games under .500, and certainly not something I would do in previous years.

    Antico's Pizza at The Battery

    Antico’s Pizza at The Battery

    Because in years past, the Braves played at the confluence of other interstates (namely 75, 85 and 20) on the southern fringe of downtown Atlanta, adjacent to a part of the city that, to be kind, is less than desirable. To be blunt, there have been more than my fair share of moments through the years, from attending games as a kid in the 1980s to taking my wife and kids to games in recent years, where I questioned why a professional sports franchise would choose to have its headquarters in an area like what the Braves left behind when they moved to Cobb County.

    For all the fervor and angst over the team leaving downtown, it has turned out to be a brilliant move. And for the incredible job done in constructing SunTrust Park – which is one of the nicest, most enjoyable places to watch a ballgame in the majors – it is what has taken root right outside the outfield gates that sets this place apart.

    Some three hours before gametime, The Battery already was abuzz with fans congregating, chit-chatting with others, playing catch on a patch of green grass, browsing shops (some of which still are not open yet). Two hours before first pitch, the various restaurants in the area already were dishing out food. An hour before Lucas Sims delivered the game’s opening pitch, the taverns had the taps flowing. The place still was packed an hour after the final out of a 4-1 loss to the Marlins, fans catching a postgame meal and listening to music and watching Kelsey Wingert (who, like the team she covers, is a young rising star in her own right) anchoring the postgame show.

    Roll it all together, and you get a place that is completely focused on the Braves and baseball. It is a dream come true for this fanbase, to have a locale where those who cheer for this team can gather and make every one of the 81 home games a season a true experience that goes far beyond the nine innings played on the field. And as for the other 284 days a year when the Braves are not playing, The Battery remains a true destination, a must-see for any baseball fan.

    Live at the Battery sports bar & grill

    Live at the Battery sports bar & grill

    I left The Battery nearly 90 minutes after the game concluded. The only times I can remember a large gathering of fans outside of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium or Turner Field that long after a game ended were in Octobers long passed. But this day was in August, another average day in the midst of the long marathon that is a baseball season that will not end with a playoff appearance.

    Yet here they were, fans by the thousands still soaking in the experience of a day spent watching major league baseball. The Battery was designed with the modern fan in mind, but the ability to gather with people who love this team, love this game, harkens back to a bygone era where a sports team can meld an entire population behind one squad, one goal, one dream.

    All I can think of as I walk through this place is how amazed I am, as a fan who as attended games in person for parts of five decades, that the Braves call this place home.

    And how incredible it is going to be in Octobers to come.

    —30—

     

    Bud L. Ellis is a lifelong Braves fan who worked as a sports writer for daily newspapers throughout Georgia earlier in his writing career, with duties including covering the Atlanta Braves, the World Series and MLB’s All-Star Game. Ellis currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs and contributes his thoughts on Braves baseball and MLB for a variety of outlets. Reach him on Twitter at @bud006.