The Last Game at Memorial Stadium

BaltimoreBaseball.com is delighted to be partnering with John Eisenberg, the author and longtime Baltimore sports columnist, whose latest venture is an Orioles history project called The Bird Tapes. Available via subscription at birdtapes.substack.com/subscribe, the Bird Tapes is built around a set of vintage interviews with Orioles legends that Eisenberg recorded a quarter-century ago while writing a book about the team. Paid subscribers can hear the interviews, which have been digitized to make them consumable. The Bird Tapes also includes new writing on Orioles history from Eisenberg, who is the author of 11 books, including two on the Orioles. BaltimoreBaseball.com will publish Eisenberg’s new writing.

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On Sunday, October 6, 1991, the Orioles played their last game at Memorial Stadium. A sparkling, new ballpark was primed to debut at Camden Yards in downtown Baltimore the following spring, but months before that, the city was flooded with memories and emotions on the day the Orioles closed down the only place they’d called home since their arrival from St. Louis in 1954.

Memorial Stadium was where the Orioles had started as also-rans and grown into a powerhouse; where they’d won and lost World Series; where Brooks and Frank and Boog had dominated and then Cakes and Eddie and Cal had, too; where a thing called Oriole Magic was birthed and the Earl of Baltimore had reigned.

The old place was showing its age, but it was familiar and comfortable, and most importantly, it was where the baseball memories of players and fans alike had originated and hardened into legend, as memories do.

I was at Memorial Stadium that last afternoon, covering the event for the Baltimore Sun. My editor had asked me to take off the hat I usually wore — I was a columnist, offering opinions – and write a story for the front page of the newspaper.

As I’d done on countless other Sundays, I drove to the ballpark, parked and headed for the press box. In any other year, the game would have drawn a meager crowd. The Orioles were finishing up a miserable season, having already lost 94 games. The cool, cloudy weather was more suitable for taking in a football game, not that Baltimore had a pro team in 1991.

But none of that mattered on this Sunday. Every ticket was long sold and more than 50,000 fans were crammed into the ballpark.

It was hard to know what to expect. A game would be played. A commemoration of some kind would unfold. The Orioles hadn’t revealed many specifics.

It wound up being one of the most poignant events in Baltimore sports history.

The game itself was forgettable. The Detroit Tigers scored four runs in the top of the first inning, and with one of their best pitchers, Frank Tanana, on the mound, it was soon clear the lead would easily stand.

Mike Flanagan came out of the bullpen to pitch the top of the ninth for the Orioles, a moment dripping with symbolism. A long line of Oriole aces had ruled from where Flanagan stood, on the mound at Memorial Stadium. A former Cy Young Award winner, now 39, Flanagan understood and embodied what had gone so right for so long. The crowd roared when he struck out Detroit’s Travis Fryman for the final out and walked off the field with his head down, on the verge of tears.

Not a soul left the park after the Orioles went quietly in the bottom of the ninth. It was time to confront and acknowledge the end of an era. Home plate was dug up and put in a limousine destined for the new park at Camden Yards. Then the past itself was dug up. It turned out dozens of former Orioles had come back to help close down the ballpark. One by one, dressed in vintage uniforms featuring their numbers, they began to take the field.

It happened without introductions on the stadium PA — none were needed. Music from “Field of Dreams,” the classic baseball movie, was the only sound echoing through the old place.

Appropriately, Brooks Robinson came first, trotting up and out of the home dugout and taking his usual spot at third base, as he’d done thousands of times. With his glove in hand, he kicked at the dirt with his foot, as if readying himself for another ground ball.

Frank Robinson followed, doffing his cap at the ovation as he jogged stiff-leggedly toward right field. Then more and more players followed. Boog Powell took first base, Jim Palmer went to the mound and Rick Dempsey trotted to where the catcher stood. Soon, it was a sea of former Orioles and they formed a circle around the mound with Weaver in the middle.

So simple. So powerful.

My story wound up stripped across the top of Monday’s front page, a space usually reserved for important national or local news. Here’s how my story began:

The last out was history, the Field of Dreams commemoration was over and now Earl Weaver was standing down beneath the stands, dressed in a t-shirt and smoking a cigarette, just like always, only now there were red tear stains at the edge of his eyes and a tremble in his voice.

“God, that was just gorgeous,” he said, and he looked around the impromptu clubhouse, where dozens of Baltimore Orioles from every generation dressed yesterday, all of them coming back on a cool, windy afternoon to say their goodbyes and pay their respects as the last baseball game was played at Memorial Stadium after 38 years.

He pointed at Brooks Robinson and Frank Robinson and Boog Powell and Jim Palmer, at Luis Aparicio and Rick Dempsey and Don Baylor and Bobby Grich, at Dennis Martinez and Davey Johnson and Mike Cuellar, and by gum, even Jim Gentile.

“The people in here, this is what it all comes down to,” said Weaver, who was the Orioles’ manager for more than 2,500 games. “The people in here are the reason there’s such a great sense of history about the stadium. We’ve got four Hall of Famers in this room. Four 20-game winners. We just had so many great players and teams here. That’s what today was all about.”

I had started with Earl because, aside from being a brilliant manager, he was what reporters called “a great quote.” No surprise, he delivered.

My story continued:

“Every one of us went out there with a lump in his throat,” said Powell, the team’s first baseman in its first days of glory. “They might not admit it, but they did. To me, it sort of summed up what we were all about as a team. We had a special bond with the people here. And some damn good baseball teams.”

The first ex-Oriole to take the field was Brooks Robinson, who emerged from the dugout carrying his glove and took his usual position at third base. As the crowd roared, Robinson kicked gently on the dirt with his right cleat. “It was the most exciting moment of my career,” he said.

Frank Robinson then ran out to right field, Powell to first base, Palmer to the pitcher’s mound, Don Baylor to left field and Rick Dempsey to where the catcher stands. Then the players began emerging in groups, joined in the end by the members of the 1991 team. Weaver was the last person in an Orioles uniform to take the field at Memorial Stadium.

Dempsey, who played for the Milwaukee Brewers this season, led the crowd in two O-R-I-O-L-E-S cheers and took another of his famous pantomime trips around the bases. Then the players threw balls into the stands and Auld Lange Syne played on the loudspeakers. The words “So Long Friend” appeared on the scoreboard.

“It’s kind of a strange day,” said Ken Hartman, a 28-year-old insurance salesman from Lutherville. “There’s a real touch of sadness in the air. The weather is appropriate, no sun, kind of sad. But so many people are here to celebrate the joy of the memories they’ve got. So how do you feel? I’m not exactly sure. It’s sad but it’s not sad.”

In the top of the fifth, the fans in section 40 of the upper deck gave a present to their orange-jacketed usher, Felix Vaughn, who had worked in the section for seven years. “It’s like family up here,” Vaughn said.

The Tigers’ Frank Tanana threw the last pitch at 5:07 pm, a curveball that Cal Ripken Jr. hit on the ground to third base, leading to a double play. There was little reaction from the crowd. Tanana took off his cap and tipped it to the fans. There would never be another moment of major league baseball at Memorial Stadium.

“That part is kind of strange, real strange, really, after so much happened here for so long,” Powell said. “But they can’t erase the memories we had, can they? That’s the great part. We all have memories of this place and they’ll never go away.”

If asked to identify the most moving events I’ve covered in more than four decades of writing about Baltimore sports, I’d start with the obvious — the Ravens’ two Super Bowl victories, the night Ripken passed Lou Gehrig.

But the last game at Memorial Stadium belongs with them.

If you were there, you’ll never forget it.

Video of the ceremony after the last game at Memorial Stadium.