I can tell from his face that this request is out of the ordinary. He surveys the lot, and for a moment I believe he will wave me through. But his care to do his job well prevails.
"You're not going to be able to do that," he tells me.
Business, depositions, specifically, have brought me to Houston, but why I am here, in the Astrodome parking lot, is entirely personal. My road to this place began on a summer night many years ago.
July 13, 1979, to be exact.
That night, in a stadium in Anaheim, thirty-two year old pitcher Nolan Ryan took the mound for the California Angels to face the visiting Yankees. Ryan had pitched four no-hitters by this point in his career, and that night he was working on a fifth. Across the country, in Mount Airy, North Carolina, my father and I watched downstairs. It was late, as I recall, but why I was not in bed I cannot remember. Perhaps I could not sleep, which means my middle child comes by it honestly. These details are fuzzy, but what was clear was that something exciting was happening, and I wanted to watch.
This is also the first sporting event I can remember ever watching with my father. There were others in the ensuing years, to be sure: Indiana beating Carolina in the 1981 national championship. Carolina's win over the Georgetown the next year. The Redskins' Super Bowl win in 1983. But Nolan Ryan's attempt at a fifth no-hitter, more than any other pitcher had done, was the first one I can remember.
My father and I watched the late innings of the game together, and Yankee after Yankee failed to get a hit. At seven years old, I didn't even understand what a no-hitter was, but I knew from my father's growing excitement that I wanted it to happen.
In the top of the eighth, Angels centerfielder Rick Miller misplayed a line drive. The official scorer for the game ruled it an error, keeping the no-hitter in tact.
I wanted this to happen.
In the top of the ninth, with one out, Reggie Jackson singled up the middle, ruining Ryan's quest for the record books. My father and I watched as the Anaheim crowd, grateful to have been treated to such a masterful pitching performance, gave Ryan a standing ovation. Ryan, equally grateful, tipped his hat several times.
Nolan Ryan, though I had never heard of him before that night, became my hero.
And that scoreboard! That giant display of colored animation - cowboys, bulls, fireworks - every time an Astros player hit a home run. It was magical.
Strange are the fragmented memories of childhood and why some events survive in our minds and others do not, but I remember that during one of my childhood colds my mother gave me a Kleenox box with various American landmarks on it, including the Astrodome. I stared at its image for hours.
In between innings a stadium employee went through the stands wearing a helmet with a small post on top. Fans tried throwing Frisbee-style rings around it, and I was lucky enough to get a chance to try. When I successfuly threw my ring around the target, there I was. Larger than life on that Astrodome scoreboard.
Home.
During that game in the dome's last season, I wished I could have been there more.
The Astrodome now faces an uncertain future. Development approaches. It is dwarfed by a football stadium that stands beside it. The Astrodome, once a giant, looks tired and out of place. The circular stair towers attached to the dome have already been demolished, and unless the private sector steps up, the rest of the Astrodome will be torn down, too.
This is why, fourteen years after coming here to say my first good-bye, I've come again. To bid this final farewell.
Following the attendant's instructions, I pull forward so that I can make a U-turn and then leave the lot. Before I turn, I roll down the window and take a picture.
Nolan Ryan eventually threw that fifth no-hitter on Saturday, September 26, 1981, in the Astrodome. Across the country, this time in Burlington, where we'd moved the year before, I watched with several friends. We lay on our stomachs on the floor, beside each other, rooting for Ryan. I knew what a no-hitter meant this time, and I again wanted it to happen.
We jumped and cheered when he did it.
So much of my childhood was invested in this team. This building.
I am forty-two now. Nolan Ryan has been retired for many years, and my father, who so kindly let me stay up one summer night instead of sending me back to bed, died this past September.
As I leave the parking lot I take one last look back. I say good-bye, and I feel yet again some part of my childhood disappear into the ether.