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The symphony of a baseball stadium cannot by duplicated

It is Bowman Field, where Major League Baseball players will perform in front of Little Leaguers tonight.

It is Howard J. Lamade Stadium, where Little Leaguers occupy the nation’s center stage for sports today and all of the coming week.

It is Fenway Park, a baseball shrine where yours truly makes a third pilgrimmage this week.

In a robotic age ruled by cellphones, these venues attract not with electronic gimmickry but simply by being themselves.

You walk up the entrance ramp and turn the corner at Bowman, one of America’s oldest baseball parks, and there is that unduplicated field of green that has been the nurturing ground for major league hopefuls for decades.

History unfolds in the mind to the time Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan, a rawboned New York Mets prospect, unleashed his first pitch at Bowman — to the backstop. Or the time Williamsport Gray Richie Allen, before he was Dick Allen, patrolled center field as a Philadelphia Phillies hopeful and unleashed a throw home from center field that landed nearly in our laps — in the first base grandstand.

Countless major leaguers have played there on their way to the ultimate destination, where we see them and say, “I remember when he was here.” Stand up and be counted, Danny Cater.

You walk the South Williamsport neighborhoods and enter Lamade Stadium, and there is that two-bank amphitheater, with lawn chairs replacing grandstands and mudslides serving as the most attractive distraction for youngsters.

On the field of dreams below, 11- and 12-year-olds play baseball at a level few their age can attain. Some will never play it better in their lives; some will go on to become major leaguers and return a decade later on a Sunday like today, as Philadelphia Phillie Scott Kingery did last year.

The history in the mind unveils a morning 50 years ago when Newberry Little Leaguers made the Lamade stage and it seemed the entire city was there. The result of that game no longer matters. It is upstaged by the fact they were there.

Also there were pre-teen concessionaires, shouting “Orange-ade, Lemonade” in the hope of selling their sweetwater to those who came four hours early to get a seat on the bank.

You walk the neighborhood in the center of Boston and there are the floodlights and the gigantic Citgo sign, the North Star of a bustling city, and what looks like something you created with your Erector set as a kid. These are the girders that hold up Fenway Park, built long enough ago that there are poles propping up the second deck, obstructed views and seating that seems to be meant for very small people.

And maybe that’s fitting, because an 8-year-old walks up the ramp and stairs at the Green Monster and the green grass and the players and it seems like she does not blink for the next three hours.

History unfolds and takes you to the time in 1975 when Carlton Fisk hit perhaps the most memorable World Series homer ever, just inside the foul pole and over the Monster in left, seemingly waving the ball fair.

They are in Williamsport, South Williamsport and Boston. They represent Little League, the minor leagues and the major leagues.

They are distinctive homes to America’s pastime. And yet they are the same.

They all host a signature communal conversation — the unique din of a crowd at a game.

It is the sound of a thousand conversations among seatmates — friends, families and strangers we have never met and will never see again. We are different, bringing to the stadium dozens of backgrounds, cultural nuances and beliefs.

And yet we are all the same — rooting for a favorite player or team, loving the music between innings, searching out the beer vendor, sure the pitch called a ball by the ump cut the heart of the plate, certain we could manage better than the guy who just pulled our best pitcher in the seventh inning.

We cheer. We boo (not my style). We clap. We stand. We sit. We anticipate a moment, then process the result of it. We rejoice with high-fives in victory, wallow head in hands in defeat.

The din of a crowd is the composite of all these things happening at once. It is a sound that joins rather than separates generations. It makes friends of strangers. It creates commonality among people with differences.

It happens at Bowman, Lamade, Fenway and wherever else we have met on a million summer nights over decades to enjoy the symphony of a stadium.

We don’t know what the music will sound like over the course of the innings. We just know it is special.

And we will be back tomorrow.

Dave Troisi is the retired editor of the Sun-Gazette.

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