This was the College World Series this stadium this atmosphere. You’ll look at these pictures and unless you walked those rows or that concourse you won’t know what magic awaited you. In those pictures you won’t see the memories made with a father, a friend, a girlfriend, a wife, or a grandpa who went out of his way to make the day the best he could.
Rosenblatt….this stadium defined my summers growing up. Long days sitting on the side of the hill baking in the sun with my grandpa getting it down to a science…”Games start at 7 we better get over there at 3 if we want good seats.” So we sat and burned and later my grandpa and I added my buddy Jeff Franks to our tradition. On the side of that hill I learned about baseball and about life. I stepped inside those gates a mad dash to the front row of the right field bleachers. This is where I would dream.
Sitting there I watched legends take form I would dream of being on that field of feeling the dirt. I aspired to be something more than just a kid in the stands. I couldn’t describe it then but now the feeling was simply electric. Nothing beats the sound of the vendors on 13th st lined as far as the eye can see. Nothing beats the sound of the old bats knowing when LSU came to town there were going to be some balls you’d never see again.
See what those pictures miss is the love of the players, the fans, the staff. Rosenblatt was bigger than baseball and in many ways bigger than the CWS. Maybe I’m just being bias but to me this was pure and for anyone who stepped foot inside it meant something different. When they tore down that old stadium they took a lot of memories with it. For me they took my childhood and some dreams. They took the basket of fries and waffle cones. Buried in the debris was sun burns, water bottles, rain delays, crowd surfing and souvenirs long-lost.
I still go to the College World Series and every year when someone starts the wave or tries a left field vs right field chant it doesn’t seem to hold the same spark or same energy. The night the lights went out on Rosenblatt the College World Series lost its soul.
Not a single trip to Omaha goes by without the memory of a day spent on that hill. Not a single summer day goes by without the memory of that concourse, the smell of sunblock and French fries. Not a single second goes by without the memory of those dreams. That was Rosenblatt.
– Matt Corum (Guest Writer)