Originally I was going to go with The Girlfriend and Double D, but, what is it they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? As it turns out, neither of them could make it, so I'm driving to the stadium by myself. The A/C is blasting in the Prius, as it's shaping up to be another hot day. Unfortunately, Hideo Nomo bobblehead day starts at 1:10 pm, right at the peak of midday Los Angeles sun. No worries, though, as I've carefully chosen seats in what will be one of the few shaded areas of the stadium.
The traffic is particularly bad on Interstate 5. And for no particular reason. There's no accident or construction of anything of that nature. It's just another instance of randomly slow Los Angeles traffic. As if everyone decided in unison to fuck with the guy in his Prius who looks to be in a hurry to go collect his bobblehead. I eventually make it into the parking lot, and as luck would have it, I've entered through the gate what will ensure the longest possible walk to the stadium. As I exit my car, I can see Dodger Stadium far off and mirage-like in the distance. A beautiful gem. "Blue Heaven on Earth," as the locals say. But to get there, I have to traverse the great asphalt desert that is the Dodger stadium parking lot. There's no shade in the parking lot, and I instantly regret not having worn a hat or sun screen.
After surviving the Parking Lot Death March, I eventually make it inside the stadium. But when I get to my seats, I realize very quickly that I've messed up--my seats are right smack in the middle of the sunniest part of the stadium. The temperature dial in my car read 81 degrees, but I'm fairly confident it's closer to one jillion degrees inside the stadium. I think the bowl-shape traps the heat by reflecting all the Sun's rays off of itself in a never ending loop of heat. I have my sunglasses on, but even then it seems too bright. I can feel beads of sweat forming in various places on my body even before I reach my seat.
Given how my seats are situated vis-a-vis the sun, and the fact that my anal retentiveness about time has brought me to my seats 45 minutes before game time, my section is an empty, barren wasteland. The only other inhabitants are a Japanese family of four directly in front of me; a husband and wife and their two very young daughters. Presumably they're also there to collect their Hideo Nomo bobbleheads. Or at least, the father is there for that purpose, as his wife and daughters look absolutely miserable. The father's put on a brave face so as to show everyone what a great time it is to roast alive in the midday sun! He's got his SLR in hand and is perched on the edge of his seat. Hovering, really, ready to snap into photo taking mode at a moment's notice. You know, in case something exciting should happen 45 minutes before the game. His obstinacy in the face of defeat is heroic, but eventually the threat of death by sunshine to his family causes them to vacate their seats for shadier ground, And I am left alone to ponder--what the hell am I doing here?
Oddly enough, having a great time. Going to baseball games alone isn't my preferred way of consuming Dodger Baseball, but it's fun in its own way. When I go alone I feel like I absorb much more of the sights and sounds than I usually do (the absence of drinking probably helps). I think my favorite part is seeing the "melting pot" that is Los Angeles in full effect.
Los Angeles is a weird major city in that it lacks any semblance of a respectable public transportation system, and so you're always driving around. The byproduct of being in a car all day is that you never really have to interact with anyone, especially those outside your group (social, economic, whatever). You might drive through a new patch of the City every once in a while, but you're doing so from the safety of your personal auto bubble. It has the abstract feel of going on a ride at an amusement park.
I've always loved the Dodgers because it cuts through the stratification of everyday life in Los Angeles. It's something that everyone can get behind, regardless of background or means or motive or whatever. In a City that can sometimes feel like 9 million particles colliding into and off of each other with no rhyme or reason, baseball seems to bring some level of cohesion. Sure, it's a trivial endeavor--a bunch of jocks getting paid too much money to play a child's game--but it's cohesive nonetheless. From Fernando Mania to Nomo Mania to Puig Mania, it's a way for everyone to escape from the trials and tribulations of their lives. I always get that feeling of togetherness going to the game. It's a cool sensation walking to the stadium and seeing dudes with crazy neck tattoos chatting it up with downtown guys in suits chatting it up with moms and their kids. After the game we're all gonna go back to our separate and very distinct lives, but for the next three hours we'll be as one. As Dodgers fans. As Angelinos.
Anyway, a small dose of civic pride on a Monday evening. It's funny writing this because I never really thought of myself as an "Angelino," but that label has felt more and more comfortable in recent months. Perhaps it has something to do with moving out of the sterile wasteland that is Orange County (sorry OC friends!) and moving up to the Valley. In any event, not sure how I got from "sweaty, alone, and heatstroke at a baseball game" to here, but oh well. Anything to help rationalize my obsession with diminutive Dodger dolls, right?
--KM
"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."
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