By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
By Jeff Balke
By Angelica Leicht
By Jeff Balke
The players may change; the possibility continues to torture some Astros fans, a diamond oddity as curious as it is superfluous. Deep fly ball to center. Beltran's got a good jump. At full speed, his cleats scrape the surface of the warning track. But there's a little bell going off in the fog of his mind -- something trying to remind him the field will soon go vertical.
It is too late. He plants awkwardly and buckles to the ground.
Such is the stuff of Astros fans' nightmares. Richie Deegan had seen enough.
It was a Monday night in mid-June. The 29-year-old was sitting alone in his Galleria-area apartment, bug-eyed from watching his home team continue their slide against the division rival Chicago Cubs. In the fourth inning, Derrek Lee hit a shot to center, which slipped by then-center fielder Craig Biggio's glove as he struggled with the hill.
Deegan, who runs a graphic design company that specializes in logos and Web sites, had groused about the mound since he first spotted it on TV at the ballpark's inaugural series in 2000. Four years later, he's ready to do something. His cause has a name: www.killthehill.com.
"I went right to my computer and designed the site, and I was like, 'This may not have an impact on anyone, but I'm just going to do it to vent my frustrations out there,' " he says.
Two weeks later and his online petition has received a few hundred responses, most of them backing his crusade to level Tal's Hill and push the flagpole beyond the fence. One visitor to the site calls Minute Maid Park "the state of the art stadium with a pimple on its ass." Another pleads, "Remove the hill and stop the laughing from all the other teams in baseball."
With the All-Star Game on deck, the best from those other teams will be arriving next week in a city with 617 square miles of flat terrain -- everywhere but in deep center of its pro baseball diamond.
Outsiders have already weighed in on Deegan's Web site. A New York sports rag favors his campaign, linking the site and sneering, with typical Manhattan pomposity, at "the stupid Astros baseball exec (there's a rare breed!)" who came up with "the stupidest, most dangerous man-made quirk ever." Of course, no mention is made of those same "stupid" execs swiping Clemens and Pettitte from the Boss and bringing them home.
The Astros exec in question is team president Tal Smith, for whom the hill is named. He explains that, after the team had already settled on a design for seating levels and the stadium's exterior, they wanted to tinker with the interior to make it unique.
"I've been in baseball a long time -- this is my 47th year, and I've seen a lot of ballparks and have sorta become a baseball historian, too, on things that preceded me," Smith says. He rattles off vintage spots like Boston's Fenway Park, Detroit's Tiger Stadium and Pittsburgh's Forbes Field and has their oddball charms etched in memory.
Houston's hill is a nod to Crosley Field, the Reds' old home in Cincinnati, which had a similar embankment when Smith started his baseball career there in 1958. The Minute Maid Park slope rises at a ten-degree incline to a height of more than five feet and stretches around 100 feet of outfield wall.
"I thought somebody would say, 'Ah, we don't wanna do that,' or kill it or something because it was different," says Smith. The stadium designers, staff and others referred to it informally as "Tal's Hill" and the name stuck, he explains. "I accuse 'em now of wanting somebody to blame it on." He chuckles gently. No one thought it would endanger players, he says.
"Players fall down chasing pop-ups over by the first and third base line; they fall down making double plays; they collide going after fly balls; they collide at plays at the plate," he says. He also adds that, at about 430 feet from home plate, the hill rarely affects the game. "The fans really seem to like it. Center fielders on other clubs, I guess, would prefer it's not there." He laughs gently again.
Opposing center fielders aren't the only critics. Last summer, Giants trainer Stan Conte suggested to the San Francisco Chronicle that land mines be put in the outfield "so we can all watch outfielders explode. If you happen to go up the hill and nobody blows out his knee, then you get to hit the flagpole with your head."
Smith claims no Astros have complained to him about the hill.
Yet others wonder if recently acquired center fielder Carlos Beltran and his nimble legs -- 12 years younger than veteran Biggio -- increase the odds of a horrifying accident.
A few practice sessions, and the "gifted" Beltran will be fine, Smith says.
Richie Deegan figures that Tal's Hill has hurt the team more than it's helped -- an unscientific estimate, he admits -- and radio talk shows and sports bars continue to debate the embankment.