By Terra Avilla
On July 5th, the morning after the last firework faded from the sky, I found myself in my backyard, syrup still sticky on plates, our family in the backyard, still visiting from the holiday.
Frankie was in the backyard with his brother and all the kids when his phone rang. He didn’t say a word -he just ran to his truck.
Peach ran inside, breathless and red-eyed- “Momma! Dad said the grandstand is on fire!”
“No way” I thought.
But then… I swear I forgot how to breathe. I looked across the rooftops toward Memorial and the sky was stained with smoke.
The grandstand at Frank Ernaga Field wasn’t just a place to watch baseball… they were the backdrop to some of my fondest memories. Mine… and yours. I know that.
They were the setting for countless little family stories stitched together over the years, and the stage for an entire town’s shared joy and heartbreak.
This wasn’t just another ball field. That wooden grandstand was a patchwork of time, built generations ago and worn down by hope, tradition, nerves and laughter.
It was the last of its kind in our corner of Northern California, where you could find real shade, a genuine breeze, and the best seat… literally and figuratively… in Lassen County.
Your feet would thump the old boards, the same ones worn smooth by grandfathers and grandkids alike, and from the top row, you could see every inch of the field and every family gathered below.
When the girls were little, those same steps were mountains to climb and stages for giggles. I remember Pearl’s first steps – they were right there. Shaky, triumphant, lost to everyone but me because everyone else was glued to the game. I cried. It was during a fall ball game, synced perfectly with an RBI for the Cougs.
For the past 11 years, my family has measured our years not on calendars, but in innings and seasons, and that grandstand was an integral part of it all.
The girls would run… always running… up and down the steps, always daring, always shouting “DADDY!” toward the dugout until Frankie, no matter how deep into strategy or stress, would glance up and shout “AHHH!” back in that exaggerated way that made them burst out laughing.
If you have been at a Lassen College Baseball game over the years, I would bet that have heard that.
For the last sixteen years, Frankie has spent more of his waking life within sight of that grandstand than he has at home. I joke about being a baseball wife, but the truth is, that field, and that grandstand was our shared refuge.
Week after week, we’d gather with our baseball family, parents, friends, neighbors, shoulder-to-shoulder, game after game.
We loaned out sunscreen and Band-Aids and extra snacks, our kids traded seats and secrets up and down the rows. Nap times on strangers’ laps, the comfort of knowing everyone would keep an eye on everyone else’s kids just like their own.
How many times did I whisper for the hundredth -maybe thousandth – time, “Girls, get your fingers out of the fence!?”
And not every memory was laughter. We cried on those hard wood planks too… over heartbreaking losses, hurt feelings, and heart crushing last games of the season.
We high-fived through comebacks and championships, held our breath through tense late innings, watched our babies grow confident, stumble, get up, and become part of something bigger than themselves. That’s what that grandstand gave us – GAVE ALL OF US. Not just a place to watch, but a place to belong.
Frankie made it to the field before the road was blocked, before we could even comprehend the loss. The firemen let him sit in the dugout and watch the flames (and for that I am thankful).
Steve from IGA, ever-present with his camera, caught that haunting moment – my husband staring at what felt like the end of an era. It’s a photo I love for its truth, and hate because I know how much it hurt.
Before we could blink, before Frankie could even tell his players, word had spread. Photos and video were shared online – our heartbreak shared with the world instantly – but it felt like we were the only ones left behind, stunned by silence.
And yet, the grandstand wasn’t just for us. It belonged to Lassen, to everyone who called the field home even for one season. But in my heart, it is where I watched my children grow, friendships form and deepen, and my husband pour every ounce of himself into a community that needed him, and still needs him.
This grandstand was love worn into wood and dust, the sound of hope and family echoing up and down those rows.
Now there is an empty gap… not just a place to sit, but in our very sense of place. I know new stands will rise one day, but it will never be these stands, the ones that held our memories, our laughter, our tears, and my sweet family’s beginnings.
If you’re reading this and you ever found a piece of yourself… your childhood, your love of the game, a Saturday afternoon well spent in that grandstand, I hope you’ll help us rebuild.
Not just for the next big game, but for future families who deserve to find their own home in the shade of a summer afternoon, their own patch of history where memories are made.
Donate if you can. Tell your stories. Let’s fill that gap and make sure the heart of Lassen beats strong and faithful, for another hundred years. Click here to head over to GoFundMe and make a contribution.
