There were more than a few moments of shock and disappointment. The first was when I tried to wedge myself into the seats from the old Ebbets Field and realized my 21st-century ass had no place in a 20th-century ballpark. The second was standing in front of an enormous case in Abner Doubleday's palace containing the Philly Phanatic. The great green behemoth stared silently from his crystalline prison, and I contemplated busting him out, Princess Leia style, when I was distracted by the dulcet tones of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," drawing me away from the tragic trophy-beast and to an exhibit on stadium tunes. My reverie was shattered, however, by a pair of Yankees fans complaining, "Whud da fug is dis? Bob Denver? Whuds dat godda do wiv baseball?" Everything, you pinstriped pinheads, everything. The biggest shock, however, came at the top of the stairs entering the third floor of the hall.