May 13, 2003
Amidst the ocean of brake lights I finally saw it: the majestic stadium nestled in the soft bowl of Chavez Ravine, and the towering stadium lights burning bright and pure against the orange sunset and steel backdrop of Downtown Los Angeles.
People of all shapes and colors streamed through the parking lot in the same direction as if they were being sucked into a black hole by some unseen force, like worshippers journeying to the temple, all with one thing in common--Dodger blue. I could easily pick out the names of my favorite players on the backs of other fans. How was it possible that so many people were just as obsessed with this as I was? How had so many followers all decided to unite on this one night?
Inside the massive maze of a stadium, everything was covered in everything Dodgers: vendors, gift shops, Dodger dogs, Dodgers television. Crowds of fans swirled in all directions and I clung tighter to my dad's hand as he led me through the throng towards our seats. I was suddenly embarrassed that I neither wore nor possessed anything resembling the sacred shade of blue that I had pledged my allegiance to and that now enveloped everything and everyone in sight. I felt naked and out of place--until we stepped into the stands for the first time.
The first thing I saw was green--the most vibrant, perfect shade of green I've ever seen, almost too green to be real; greener than any field I'd ever set foot on, greener than all the times I'd seen it on TV. How do they make the grass so green? Maybe it's special Dodgers grass. Perfectly manicured stripes of green crisscrossed their patterns across the grass where fan-favorites like Shawn Green and Dave Roberts would roam eighty-one nights a year. Several figures clad in white effortlessly tossed the ball impossible distances across the vast green expanse; the white of the ball easily visible against the sea of green.
I watched other players warm up and stretch elsewhere on the field as groundskeepers watered the infield, turning the rich brown of the dirt even darker. This time the names of my favorite players rested on their own shoulders. Cesar Izturis and Alex Cora talked casually in the grass while Adrian Beltre continued his jog across the field--my idols in the flesh. I was breathless, riveted to my seat.
And then it was game time.
"And now, your Los Angeles Dodgers!"
The stadium erupted as the vibrations of the booming PA system rolled through my chest, adding to the pang of excitement in my stomach. I already knew the lineup by heart before the PA announced it, but with the music pounding through the enormous speakers behind the centerfield wall, the rumble of the announcer enunciating every name, the roar of the crowd as each player was announced--I'd never heard the lineup like this. Dave Roberts wasn't leading off tonight; Brian Jordan was playing center in his place. Sad. Oh well.
The ball seemed larger and everything moved much faster than on TV. This was nothing like watching televised baseball: no onscreen stats, no commentators, no commercials or ads between innings. The players played and the stands roared its approval; no more, no less. It was purely baseball, unfiltered and untainted. Every crack of the bat, every pitch hitting the glove was just as real and close to me as the crunch of peanuts beneath my feet. This was heaven.
I couldn't see the faces of the players up like the close-ups on TV; now they were just walking colors and numbers but I could tell who was who. I could peer across the field into the Atlanta dugout and spy Chipper Jones leaning over the railing with Gary Sheffield; I could watch Brian Jordan interact with the left field ball boy between innings. Although I couldn't tell whether Paul Lo Duca had shaved tonight or not, it all made my idols seem more believable. More like men instead of gods.
And they played ball. Every strike was greeted with thunderous applause, vendors patrolled the stands selling peanuts, frozen lemonade and real Cracker Jack, and fans played keep away from the stadium ushers with beach balls. I begged for a Dodger dog until Dad gave in. There I saw, happily munching on a ten-inch hot dog slathered in ketchup and onions while my dad asked my baseball trivia that I fielded with ease.
I counted the innings as the game went on because I didn't want it to end--but I wanted the Dodgers to win too. The score went back and forth; Atlanta scored and the Dodgers answered back the next inning. In the bottom of the 5th, LA outfielder Mike Kinkade hit the ball high into the night sky. The piercing crack of the bat sent the hometown crowd to its collective feet. Andruw Jones could only watch as the ball soars into the mysterious space behind the centerfield fence. The stadium explodes as lights flash and Kinkade nonchalantly takes his victory lap around the bases while I high-fived as many people as I could. It was the best thirty seconds of my life.
When the middle of the seventh rolled around, I stood on my seat, wrapped my arms around my dad's broad shoulders and sang "Take Me Out tot he Ballgame" at the top of my voice along with 40,000 people. Because it's root root root for the Dodgers, we sang; if they don't win it's a shame. When Ron Coomer singled home Izturis later that inning to give us the lead, it appeared we were on our way to victory.
The Dodgers entered the 9th leading 4-3, and that only meant one thing--Eric Gagne. The noise meter on the jumbotron began to spike as the stadium came to its feet one last time to hail the beard Canadian jogging in from the left field bullpen. "Welcome to the Jungle" blared over the speakers as he took his warmup tosses. I couldn't see his goggled face but the big number 38 on his back was enough for me. Fifty-two saves in 2002 made him one of the best closers in baseball and my favorite pitcher. Gagne on the mound with a lead was game over.
But not tonight. The Braves kept swinging and send the ball into the outfield grass as runner continued to cross the plate. The 4-3 lead quickly became an 8-4 fiasco. Gagne was pulled and had to take the long walk of shame to the dugout, a walk he rarely took. The stadium began to empty as the Braves continued to hit Dodger pitching, and soon the score was 11-4 Atlanta. My dad wanted to leave because it was late and LA traffic was getting worse by the minute but I begged him to stay.
"The Dodgers are losing and it's past your bedtime," he said. "Sorry bud." I knew that but I didn't care. I didn't want it to end no matter how bad it was; I wanted to hold on to every minute of this once in a lifetime opportunity to share this sacred airspace with the best in baseball.
I walked dejectedly back through the parking lot with thousands of disappointed fans, my back to the lights and the grass and the players. On the way home I turned on the radio to listen to Vin Scully describe the last inning. The Dodgers went down quietly, unable to mount a comeback.
When I got home, I gratefully collapsed into bed. My team had lost and my ears were still ringing, but as I slipped into dreams and unconsciousness, I was back on that field of perfect green.
