Pull on your boots, let your hair down and get ready to hoot and holler with the Sox. The ballpark is a gas and I just love it. It’s the very last of the old school, everyday ball yards with the warmest and friendliest fans you’ll ever meet, I swear.

Despite a history of great players who’ve played these grounds, today the Sox are an independent ball club and the stadium seems to express itself in solidarity toward that resiliency.

It’s not downtown. It’s by a rail yard. You can’t get there by freeway, just surface streets. But there are acres of free parking. More interestingly, the stadium, which was built in the 1950s, is nestled next to a huge high school football stadium that has had an impressive, multi-million dollar makeover. It’s quite a contrast.

But nothing else matters than fun here in the wild west. While GM Mark Lee (an ex-major league reliever) has upscaled the seats, field, food and of course, the concourse bar, this park still has a classic boys of summer charm to it. Old fashion dugouts and a cozy first to third, two tiered, roof top grandstand—complete with an aged, perched pressbox—all harken the lost era of when the game was innocence in flannels.


Perhaps nothing exemplifies the Amarillo spirit than when a Sox batter slugs a homer and then has his helmet passed around the aisles as fans tip his feat with dollar bills.

The place could pose as its own living, quasi-museum. Check it out on a packed night. It’s nuts.

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