Daymares in the Dome

When a man has been a state legislator at 22, a judge at 24, a multi-millionaire at 35 and mayor of a metropolis at 41, what else is there left for him at 53 but to build a suitable monument to himself? For Houston's Kubla Khan, Roy ("Giltfinger") Hofheinz, it obviously had to be a pleasure dome on the order of the Great Pyramid or the Colossus of Rhodes. To Builder Hofheinz, Houston's new, $31.6 million "Astrodome" -- the first covered, fully air-conditioned baseball stadium --is literally "the Eighth Wonder of the World." When he showed it off to French Ambassador Herve Alphand, the ambassador made the mistake of remarking that the Astrodome's lattice work roof reminded him of the Eiffel Tower. Sniffed Hofheinz: "The Eiffel Tower is all right, but you can't play ball there."

Well, they can't in the Astrodome either -- in daytime, anyway. Last week its resident tenants, the Houston Astros (formerly the Colt .45s), played their first day game under the steel and plastic dome, against their own Oklahoma City farm hands. As a precautionary measure, outfielders wore batting helmets in the field. They needed them. Unable to follow the flight of the ball against the jigsaw pattern of the roof, the players staggered about like asphyxiated cockroaches as fly ball after fly ball dropped at their feet. When they quit after seven innings, the Astros were ahead 10-3-- and six of the runs had been scored on lost fly balls. "It's impossible to play under these conditions," moaned Astro General Manager Paul Richards. "Sure, somebody will win and somebody will lose. But who's kidding whom? This isn't baseball."

Red Glasses & Orange Balls. There was talk of installing blue lights to counteract the sun's glare. The frantic Astros sent out for special red sunglasses and colored baseballs: orange, cherry, yellow. "The orange balls are even worse than the white," reported Manager Lum Harris. Suggestions poured in. "I've had 89 phone calls and 130 wires from as far away as Juneau," Richards sighed. The most sensible came from Johnny Keane, whose New York Yankees arrived in Houston to play an exhibition against the Astros: "Paint the roof," said Keane, "or play all the games at night."

Sure enough, the Yanks and Astros played at night, and nobody so much as muffed a fly. The trouble was trying to hit one. "The ball just doesn't carry here," complained Yankee John Blanchard, swinging mightily and watching the ball settle into the catcher's glove. "It must be mathematical." Pitchers were ecstatic. "My knuckler's never broken better," chortled Houston's Ken Johnson. "This is a pitcher's park."

As it turned out, the Astros beat the Yankees 2-1, in the presence of 47,876 considerably distracted fans, including President Johnson. It was the biggest crowd ever to turn out for a baseball game in Houston. In the $1.50 bleacher seats (each with its own arm rest and foam rubber seat), they munched hot dogs and lolled about in shirtsleeved comfort while a $4.5 million, computer-operated air-conditioning system kept the temperature at a steady 74DEG and filtered smoke out of the air. Luckier fans had "Spacettes" in gold lame skirts and cowboy boots to guide them to their reserved seats ($2.50 to $3.50), their choice of three restaurants and a private club that offered everything from "king size roast prime eye of beef" ($5.50) to that old Texas standby, son-of-a-gun stew ($2.50). Almost all of them could go home later and boast that they were sitting "right behind the dugout": to ensure that they could, Hofheinz purposely built the Astrodome's dugouts 120 ft. long.

The Most. There were, of course, a few bad seats in the house: the most expensive ones. The 53 sky boxes, as they are called, are all on the sixth deck, about 115 ft. from the playing field (v. 45 ft. for the average bleacher seat), range in size from 24 to 54 seats, and cost from $15,000 to $32,000 a year to rent. Behind the boxes are one-room "suites," each with refrigerator, ice maker, bar, toilet, a closed-circuit TV that broadcasts Dow Jones averages, and a six-foot butler decked out in gold and orange.

In Hofheinz's own penthouse, high above the rightfield stands, the carpet, chairs, telephones, even the toilets, are all gold-colored. Last week, tamping his cigar ash in a gold ashtray, shaped like a fielder' glove, Hofheinz peered anxiously out of his picture windows, awaiting his big moment.

If he were a patient man, he'd still be waiting. After all, the Astros only hit 70 home runs last year, and in the new ballpark it was all they could do just to get the ball out of the infield. Finally, in the eighth inning, Hofheinz gave up, growled an order--and the giant Scoreboard did its home-run trick. Lights flashed, skyrockets soared, gongs sounded, whistles shrieked, bells rang. Two cowboys appeared on the huge screen, firing six-guns, followed by a steer with a U.S. flag on one horn and the Lone Star on the other. Hofheinz sighed happily. "Nobody can ever see this," he said, "and still think that Houston is bush."

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