I was forced last week to contemplate the humble job of bricklayer.
As salaries go, it’s not so humble. According to Salary.com, an Oklahoma City bricklayer makes $37,000 to $50,000 per year. But it’s not the sort of job we think of as glamorous. A worthwhile trade and noble bit of work to be sure, but it is just a bricks-and-mortar sort of job.
Except when it isn’t.
Some years ago bricks became fashionable as a fundraising mechanism. Donate some money and your name could be enshrined in the courtyard or entryway of any number of places. Newsmen’s names were carved into hardened clay and laid in Centennial Plaza at the Oklahoma Press Association building with proceeds going to the Oklahoma Newspaper Foundation. We’re a little worried the bricks will outlast the industry.
Zoo Bricks at the Oklahoma City Zoo’s entrance go for $35 to $500. The money goes to the Zoo FUNd for Kids, which has provided more than $250,000 in scholarships.
There’s an Honor Walk at the Veteran’s Memorial in Grove, where engraved granite pavers are available for $50.
Pioneer Stadium at Stillwater High School has them too.
I’ve wandered by hundreds of those engraved bricks without ever giving much thought to how much they cost, whether the brick makers were making a lot of money on them or if the bricklayers gave two seconds of contemplation to the tributes they were cementing in place.
Last week I was in San Francisco, where I grew up watching the Giants lose to just about everybody in a cold, gray, damp cement bowl at Candlestick Point. There are few baseball venues that demand a parka and a lap robe in June, and even with such preparations I occasionally sought a hot brandy by the fifth inning.
Nine years ago, the Giants moved into what is now called AT&T Park. Pacific Bell paid $50 million over 24 years for the naming rights, which were inherited by SBC and then by AT&T, which is SBC renamed. It’s OK if you feel as though you need a scorecard; we’re talking about a baseball stadium. It was the first major league stadium built with private money since Dodger Stadium, which opened in 1962.
AT&T Park is a spectacular new-old stadium on Third Street at China Basin. When I was a lad, the area was a derelict blight of dilapidated warehouses and winos; no one with sense visited after sunset. A block away was an empty lot where we used to buy our Christmas tree. Now that corner of the city is the trendy, pricey, palm tree and condo-laden land known as SoMA, for South of Market.
Reserve a slip in advance at South Beach Harbor for $15 and you can sail to the game.
On the side of the stadium that attracts temperature-insensitive kayakers who chase home-run balls under paddle power is a walk of fame that memorializes great moments in Giants history. Few are recent, but my childhood heroes are well-represented: Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bonds, Tito Fuentes, Willie Mays and the hero of all heroes to Bay Area boys my age, Willie McCovey.
Underfoot, there are bricks. Willie Mays Plaza, at the stadium’s entrance, has a pathway of engraved bricks. The first time I was there I was early for the game and went looking for the one brick bearing the name of a friend. I never found it, but in the attempt I read a lot of bricks.
Most of them were tributes to fathers. A few were from daughters, but the majority were notes of thanks from sons to dads.
Thanks for teaching me about baseball, Dad.
To the Giants’ biggest fan, from your son.
For my father, because I hate the Dodgers, too.
For Dad, and all the innings.
To my father, who never went down lookin.’
It’s tough to stand and remember the hours of catch, the great seats for that one doubleheader and the hours spent smelling the grass and the shared hope that McCovey could put one over the fence in the bottom of the ninth.
Last week, I was by that stadium with my 2-year-old, Raymond, and I wanted to tell him about those bricks, and about baseball, and about the grandfather he’ll never get to meet.
I’m not sure those humble bricklayers know how important their job is, or what exactly they’re cementing into place. But if I could buy one of those bricks this Father’s Day, I’m pretty sure it would say, “To my Dad, who loved this game. I wish we could have played extra innings.”