Born in the USA: A Baseball Story

by editor Michele Catalano

I

On June 4, 1984, I was working at the record store that day. I remember because it was the day Springteen released Born in the USA. The crowd was frenzied, the store was trashed, the record sold out by midmorning. This is not the story I want to tell about this album, however. I’m just setting the stage.

II

In 1983, I became smitten with the Atlanta Braves. I was a Yankees fan, but needed a National League team to root for because all my friends were Mets fans, and I certainly wasn’t going to root for them. But we went to a lot of games at Shea Stadium, and I needed to have an interest in a team. Thanks to Superstation TBS, I chose the Braves because I could watch all their games. I thought it would be a fun diversion to root for another team. It turned into an obsession. My friends had to stop me from getting BRAVES3 as a license plate in New York. (I know, as do all self-respecting Braves fans, that Dale Murphy should be in the Hall of Fame). I was all in.

III

In the summer of 1985, Born in the USA was still very much on our minds and our turntables. My boyfriend and I had seen a few shows on the tour in the summer of ‘84. We were looking forward to a few more nights with Bruce in New Jersey that summer.

As much as we loved Born in the USA, our friend Hank was completely obsessed, in much the same way I was still obsessed with the Atlanta Braves. He had a dozen or so T-shirts from the tour. He had several copies of the album, “just in case.” I think it was the only album he listened to for over a year. People would get annoyed with his nonstop talking about Born in the USA, but I let it go. I knew what it was like to go deep on something.

July Fourth rolled around, and my parents were throwing a party, as they did every year. Mostly relatives, including cousins my age, some people from the firehouse my father belonged to, some of my record store friends, and my sister’s friends. Their parties were always a good time, with enough food and beer to last the night. Dad, a die-hard Mets fan, had a TV outside, wired through the house cable. Party or not, he wasn’t going to miss a Mets game. As luck would have it, the Mets were playing the Braves that night. A 7:30 p.m. game would take us right to the end of the party and probably the end of the beer. Perfect.

Except it was raining in Atlanta, hard enough to keep the game from starting on time.

IV

The Born in the USA train kept rolling into the summer of 1985. There were six singles released from the album; it stayed on the charts, and in our hearts, for a long time. After the starkness of Nebraska, Born in the USA felt exhilarating. There was something for every Bruce fan on this album: everyone who wanted catharsis, everyone who wanted something fun, everyone who wanted something that punched them in the face, that didn’t deal in the subtleties of Nebraska. We got an anthem. We got a love song. We got it all. For Hank, it was more than that. The album became his entire personality, and it was coming to a head in July 1985.

V.

It was 9 p.m. by the time the baseball game got started in Atlanta. Fireworks were going off in my Long Island neighborhood, The young cousins were playing with sparklers. The firemen were telling stories and guzzling Buds. Up on the deck, where the TV was, Hank had hijacked the stereo (nothing more than a portable CD player with AM/FM tuning) to listen to his ever-present copy of Born in the USA. He was drunk. Very drunk. He was singing and playing air guitar and having a generally great time, so we left him alone. Neighbors were still shooting off fireworks. No one was going to complain about the noise emanating from Hank.

Hank was especially fond of “Darlington County” and would try to cajole us to sing along with him. Sometimes we did. Sometimes we just wanted to watch baseball.

VI

This was not supposed to be a notable baseball game. The Mets were a good team; the Braves were not. We had the game on because these were our teams. We had started out with around twenty Mets fans gathered in the backyard with me, a Braves/Yankees fan, and a few people there who didn’t care. But the night was dying down, the fireworks were dying out, and the only ones left by the time the game actually started were my father, his firehouse buddy whose name escapes me, and my record store friends. There was still beer. There was still food. There was still baseball. These guys were not leaving.

Around the third inning, the rain once again came down in Atlanta, and we lost a few people who decided the game wasn’t worth sitting through another delay. That left six of us. We were locked in, rain delay or not. My dad turned the grill back on. The Braves took the lead (full disclosure: my memory is not this good; I have had to resort to the internet to fill in some blanks).

VII

Hank was crooning. He had put on “Downbound Train,” or one of the slower songs, and was holding a beer to his mouth like a microphone. Hank was always a source of amusement; he liked to be the life of the party. And I have to admit we encouraged him. See, Hank was a big guy, maybe 6-foot-4 and broad. Watching him go through the Born in the USA tracklist as we watched a baseball game—turning from serious to playful to dramatic, singing out loud to us—was a bit of a surreal experience. He just loved this album so damn much. I had reached the point at which I played it once in a while, but Hank had other plans. Hank was drenched in Springsteen vibes.

VIII

The Mets took the lead in the sixth inning. Keith Hernandez had already hit for the cycle. The propane ran out. We sent two volunteers to Taco Bell, which used to be open until 2 a.m. They come back with two dozen hard-shell tacos and a case of beer.

In the eighth inning, I gave Hank a pair of headphones. We were locked into this game, and Hank decided to put on “Glory Days” every time someone scored. He reluctantly put on the headphones. Dale Murphy gave the Braves the lead with a double. Hank started screaming the words to “Glory Days.” We all joined in. We were tired—the party had started at 3 p.m.—buzzed, and giddy. I had no idea what time it was, but I was sure the neighbors were not appreciating our drunken singalong. I had to work in the morning. I hoped the game would end soon.

IX

The game went to extra innings. Only four of us were left, including Hank. My father had long gone inside to fall asleep watching the game in his recliner. My mother and sisters were sleeping. The occasional firework went off, even though it was around 1 a.m., because my neighbors are assholes. Speaking of assholes, we sang “Glory Days” when the Mets tied it up again. I no longer cared who won.

In the 17th inning, Mets manager Davey Johnson and Met outfielder Daryll Strawberry both got ejected from the game. I was close to ejecting these people from my house, but I couldn’t give up now. I was going to see this game through.

X

The Mets had a one-run lead in the bottom of the 18th. Up to bat for the Braves came Rick Camp, a pitcher with a .060 batting average. I could feel it. The game was going to end. What the hell was Rick Camp going to do here?

Then Hank started a slow, chanting version of the “Glory Days” refrain. The rest of us joined in, because why the hell not? We sang very low, almost in a whisper, so as not to wake my parents, but also because the vibes felt very much like the moment called for that.

Rick Camp swung at an 0-2 pitch from Tom Gorman. I could not believe my fucking eyes! The ball sailed out of the park! Rick Camp! Rick Fucking Camp! Tie game! Glory Days!

All of a sudden, I wasn’t tired. I was invigorated. I wanted more baseball. I wanted this game to last forever.

XI

The 19th inning did in the Braves. I knew it was over when the Mets went up 16-11. I was disappointed, yet relieved. Hank and the others did a round of “Glory Days” as the game ended at 3:55 a.m. They lit off fireworks at Fulton County Stadium, a thank you to the fans who waited around that long.

I decided to leave the cleanup for later, but took the CD player in the house. I gave Hank his Born in the USA CD and asked him to never again bring it to my house. It would be a while before I could hear that song without thinking of a 6-hour baseball game that my team lost.

The “Rick Camp” game, as it’s known, is actually a highlight of my life. I’m no longer a Braves fan (I kind of hate them). I can look back at what was a really good time without feeling let down about that Braves loss. It was a fun night in what was a great, Springsteen-filled summer. It’s part of my glory days.

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