By Drew McQuade

The Vet held its last Sunday service yesterday, dramatically disintegrating into a pile of rubble and dust. All those home runs, touchdowns, foul balls and fumbles swiftly fading into a future parking lot.

The Vet is dead, yet I can dig it up and dust it off whenever I want from the shelf in the back of my mind. There are decades of collective memories of the former home of the Phillies and the Eagles but it’s the personal ones that truly grab you. They can be awakened anytime in vibrant colors and emotional warmth.

For me, there are two such pieces of eternal fabric.

In 1976, I took my ailing dad to the Vet as the Phillies hosted the All-Star game. It was gut-wrenching to see my fragile father, a skeleton of the strong, yet sensitive man who raised me, labor up those long ramps to our seats in left field. The former Marine drill instructor, who was decorated for bravery in World War II, moved as if his legs were made of the same material as the surface below him.

I went to grab his arm to support him. He waved me off with a nervous smile.

There was no need for feeble toughness. For a couple hours, my dad put his daily struggle with mortality on hold. When we finally made it to our seats, we had a ball. Father and son eating hit dogs, cutting up the players and some of the strange characters selling concessions. 

It didn’t matter that from our angle we really couldn’t see the home run ball hit by Phillies’ slugger Greg Luzinski. It landed somewhere just below us. We craned our necks in vain. Without binoculars, the mammoth Luzinski rounding the bases  was no more than an ant with an eating disorder.

I was able to smile momentarily when we left the Vet that day, the last time we went there together. I wish he could join me for a day at the ballpark now.

In 1995, I took my 12-year-old son to the Vet for a playoff game between the Eagles and Detroit Lions. We climbed to the 700 level but before we sat down we had to pass through an impromptu inspection from a massive guy dressed like a Viking, not the Minnesota kind; the kind named Thor. 

For a moment, Thor and I almost squared off because my blue Penn State jacket looked like Detroit Lions’ garb through his blood-shot eyes.

My son and I had a ball. The Eagles annihilated the Lions. We hugged and high-fived perfect strangers all afternoon. The highlight to my son was the reaction to defensive back Barry Wilburn’s touchdown after an interception. A fan was tossed through the air a couple rows before bouncing off the ground and instead of checking for injuries, he immediately conducted a painful, futile search for what was left of his cup of beer. Then he cheered anyway.

If it wasn’t so much fun, it might have been scary. All those inebriated crazies united in glee.

I was able to smile deeply when I left that day. We’ve been back plenty of times. We’ve been to the Eagles new home and we have tickets to the Phillies new home.

There is nothing as pure and as pleasurable as taking your dad or your son to a game. The Vet was just a building. Anytime I want I can still see it. My dad and my son are sitting beside me. They’re laughing hard.