Dunn Tire Park revisited

By Christopher Schobert

One of the earliest memories of my sporting life is a family outing to see the Buffalo Bisons play at War Memorial Stadium, also known as the legendary “Rockpile.” Pretty apt nickname, that. Literally, it appeared to be a pile of rocks chiseled to slightly resemble a stadium. There was a concession stand actually planted on the field, which seemed odd, as did roughly everything about the night, in my mind. Is this really professional baseball? Why don’t I recognize any of these guys? And what’s a Mud Hen?

Those were the old days. What followed was the truly exciting construction of Pilot Field (a much less lame name than Dunn Tire Park), brief dreams of Major League Baseball, and a change in major league affiliates, from the Pittsburgh Pirates to the Cleveland Indians.

Bisons at bat
Bisons at bat.
Photo by Brad Bisbing, courtesy of the Buffalo Bisons.
Driving by the ballpark, I often wonder if I—and all of Western New York—take the Bisons for granted. The team’s games, especially early in the season, are often sparsely attended, the players never quite seem to endear themselves to the community anymore, and my guess is that four out of five Buffalonians don’t know the last time the Bisons won their division. (Ha, it was 2005.) That’s a shame, since the team has been very successful in recent years and even featured the man with the greatest name in pro sports, Coco Crisp, now playing for the Boston Red Sox.

Despite my lackluster attendance record for the last half a decade or so, I’ve had plenty of close encounters with the team during my twenty-six years on this planet. The strangest was the night my parents, cousin, and I were chosen as the game’s “couch potatoes.” This meant that we were to watch the game from a large, ugly sofa planted between the bleachers and the scoreboard as some type of potato chip promotion. We trudged past the bleachers and climbed an awkward set of stairs to our comfy seats. Oddly, the sofa was about four feet off the ground and covered in sand. The game itself was something of a blur, as I concentrated more on not falling into left field.

Then there was the night that the extended Schobert family dragged the grandmothers out for an evening of minor league baseball. Juan Gonzalez, who later achieved success with the Texas Rangers as one of the greatest sluggers of the 1990s, hit a soaring pop-up that, stunningly, landed at the feet of my then-sixty-something grandmother, who calmly picked it up. Grandma caught a ball!

I was lucky enough to attend scores of games as a young man, and what I truly loved more than anything else about the Herd was that their win-loss record meant nothing to me. I simply didn’t care if the team proved victorious when I attended a game, or where they finished in the standings, for that matter. I was there for the experience, for the food, for the feeling of serenity that one can only get from a baseball game. Watching the Bills or Sabres, for me, is nerve-racking; I want them to win so badly that sometimes enjoyment seems impossible, like an Oscar for Martin Scorsese or peace in the Middle East.

But the Bisons? It’s not like that at all. Bisons games are about fun. That’s why a part of me is happy Buffalo was never awarded a major league franchise. Sure, it would have been pretty amazing to see a steroid-crazed Mark McGwire hit a home run here, or witness the most boring man in professional sports, Cal Ripken, ease closer to his iron man record. But ticket prices would have skyrocketed, the stadium would have to have been completely altered, and it’s hard to say whether or not the city could even support another franchise.

Instead, we’re left with Triple-A ball, and I’m all right with that. There’s certainly enough happening at the games to keep things interesting: special Kids Days, bobblehead giveaways, and appearances by the Famous Chicken, not to mention Buster and Chip. (Has Chip’s origin story ever been told? Is he meant to be Buster’s son? Nephew? Family friend? God forbid we imply that Buster has procreated.)

The Bisons’ promotional lingo, too, remains endearing. For example, there are the team’s annual “fridaynightbash!” events; eleven are scheduled for 2006. These nights feature pre-game tent parties with food and music, as well as post-game fireworks, with the game itself something of an afterthought. Fans can get into the spirit of the event by speaking the “fridaynightbash!” way, letting your words all run together and ending your thoughts with an exclamation-point-like-flourish: “ihavetohitthebathroom!” or “ineedanotherbeerrightnow!” or, more pressingly, “howlonghasthegamebeenover!”

A Bisons ticket remains the best value in Buffalo, especially for the families. In fact, a summer afternoon game was my nephew’s first Buffalo sports experience. It didn’t run too smoothly; he was only three at the time and managed to get his leg caught between the seats at one point. But I do remember him happily clutching a wee baseball glove, ready to snag any incoming fly balls. He didn’t, but I can bet that he and his younger brother will be watching the skies for pop-ups for years to come. And that makes me happy. By the time they’re my age, maybe Buffalo will be back in the hunt for a major league team. Or maybe we’ll still be facing off against Norfolk, Richmond, and Rochester. Either way, one thing is certain: I won’t care about their record. Just steer me toward the occasional “fridaynightbash!” and I’m content.


Christopher Schobert has fond memories of Tom Prince and Orestes Destrade.


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