Tuesday, October 7, 2008
20 Years...
Friday
I took Friday off. My mom has escaped the 909 and found green pastures in the city we called home for about 10 years. It’s where my appreciation for girls formed by way of Jessica’s mad teather ball skills, Wendy’s cute but emotionless expressions, Veronica’s adult like sexuality, Magaly’s Arabic and totally inappropriate for a 5th grader Halloween costume and Deanna’s aggressive “do you want to me my boyfriend?” approach. What’s greater, I fell in love with baseball and the Dodgers.
After several attempts at getting a rent free moving truck we opted to postpone driving the 35+ miles and not use my trusty but limited Chevy S-10 as an actual moving truck. I figured I’d bite the bullet on Saturday and rent a U-Haul. At least I’d have a Bud Light drinking moving crew to help while providing Cantinflas comical value. We’d wake up early, bust ass like the Mexicans we are and make it to Dodger Stadium in time to pound two Arrogant Bastard Ales and catch the 1st inning. What, didn’t you know the Dodgers are in the post-season? Pssshhh!
Saturday
A smashed thumb, a sweaty t-shirt, a 20 case of Bud Light and five hours later, mission accomplished. We jet set from Fontucky to West Covina to Baldwin Park to El Monte to Highland Park like the soul rich concrete jungle Angelenos we are, ate, showered and rolled out to the Ravine.
There was an electricity and atmosphere even on our way into the parking lot. Dog eat dog L.A. driving gave way to cat eat cat. Fathoms of sea couldn’t jump into the ocean of blue that is Dodger Stadium fast enough. 10 year olds from 1988 reemerged and hurried up and down the hills of Chavez with chicas/wives/lovers in tow. From the moment we got to our Loge 146, Row N, Seats 1 & 2 we dialed in to every pitch as if it were the last. We, meaning each and every inhabitant of Dodger Stadium that wasn’t working the concessions and even some that were. Without giving a play by play, there were highs and highers that caused the usually calm and collected narrator to lose all sense of self the way Disneyland makes 8-year olds go apeshit. When Jonathon Broxton threw that final pitch and Alfonso Soriano nearly checked his swing Dodger Stadium went nuts. Strangers hugged strangers, old women high-fived teenagers, gypsy’s rejoiced, etc. etc. etc. The Dodgers swept the Cubs.
8 wins to go
Here’s the funny part of the story. The Dodgers merely won a Division Series; they haven’t even made it to the World Series. Big woot right? Well, they accomplished something that hadn’t been accomplished around here in 20 years, 20 long frustrating years. To give you some perspective, Reagan was president and on his way the fuck out and into the twilight of his life that included dying in a soot of his own shit while having no idea who the person in front of him was. If karma plays out as it should, I hope George W. Bush and the Dodgers find the same fate. Joe Torre said it best, “We have 8 more wins to go.”
Sunday
All was back to normal on Sunday, I watched football, Saturday night’s TiVo’d MMA event and some baseball. The chica and I ended the night with the usual five minute drive to The York for a grilled cheese and a Craftsman OctoberFest brew and back home to veg before the thought of Monday morning crept in and sleep kicked in. All in all the curtains came down on a great weekend.
The National League Championship series begins on Thursday and like every Dodgers fan, I pray for the best but expect the worse. The magic of Saturday night aside I’m still realistic, more so a skeptic but I’d be lying through my teeth if I wasn’t prematurely dreaming of a World Series victory. 8 wins away. It doesn’t seem like much but it’s what separates today from 20 years. Let’s hope Kirk Gibson continues to live through that James Loney grand slam in Chicago. Let’s hope Russell Martin has a Mike Scioscia moment. Let’s hope Chad Billingsley sits alongside Orel Hershiser in the palate of Dodger history.
Let’s hope a glossy eyed kid loses his voice again.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, Los Angeles
Friday, October 3, 2008
L.A. Dodgers
In case you're living under a rock somewhere, the Dodgers are 1 win away from making it to the National League Championship Series. The last time they were in this position I was 10 years old, so yea it's kind of a big deal. I posted this little piece in this sport forum I read/write called the sporthinkery. Just thought I'd post it here too. Enjoy...
I can't believe we're still stuck on politics and music while the baseball play-offs, er division series are in full swing. Maybe you're like me and feel weird about the Rays being there and not the Yankees. Say what you will about the Yanks, but I love watching them in the post season. Sure, the Sox are the late 90's version of the Yankees but it's no fun watching that Manny-less team. I'll take an annoying Paul O'Neil over fat ass Ortiz, I'll take Keith Olbermann's mom aiming Chuck Knoblauch over Dustin Pedroia any day of the week. You'll rarely hear this from a Dodgers fan but I miss the Yanks.
Expectations are low. If you get a chance, check out www.dodgerblues.com. Without the pathetic banter of Cubs fans of today and Red Sox fans of pre-2004 this guy captures the essence of being a Dodgers fan. We're realistic, crass, cynical, we love our team but we never ever take it too serious. Why, because it's baseball. Plus, we live in (in my opinion) the Rome of our time, Los Angeles. The Dodgers and Lakers are a part of the collective of our Angeleno identity not the be all end all of our existence. While there is something romantic and beautiful with such blind devotion, it's juvenile and I prefer to take the common sense approach. Hey, if its the bottom of the 8th inning, the Dodgers are down by 6 runs and I have a couple of girls lined up to meet my friends and me at the 35er in Pasadena you think I'm going to waste fun time watching my favorite team go down 1,2,3 in the 8th then 1...2...3 in the 9th? I'll play the odds and try my luck at the 35er in another kind of game. Granted, I live with my girl now and no longer partake in such debauchery but years ago? Forget about it.
Having said that, it's been a delight watching the Dodgers destroy the Cubs. The last time I felt this kind of jubilation I was 10 years old and the baddest lefty in Baldwin Park. My dad was my hero (still is actually) and my biggest worries revolved around getting the flat tire on my BMX Tracker fixed, doing my fractions homework, finishing my chores with enough sunlight left to play hours of "tackle the man with the football" and setting up boxing matches between my little sisters. Some things never change.
I really don't know how far the Dodgers will go. My heart tells me this team could be the one to re-write the history of sketchy 1988 replays, they've already busted the ghosts of Jose Lima that have haunted me for years. But I have my reservations. This Cubs team is not dead, they're one 3 run blast from it but their heart beat is very much alive. 27 outs alive. I remain cautiously optimistic.
Labels: Dodgers
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
White Tank Tops
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, fall, fantasy sports, Los Angeles, nightlife
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Opening Summer
Monday was the home opener at Dodger Stadium; the first of 81 home games or as I like to call them, 81 opportunities for bliss. 81 opportunities to shape the collective lives of a city. 81 opportunities to combine the love of my friends, over priced beer, baseball, a blue uniform into more sh*t to think about as I lay in my deathbed, eons (hopefully) from now.
It’s hard to describe Opening Day at Dodger Stadium to the casual fan but it’s reminiscent of the feelings one would get on the first day of school in elementary school, mixed with going on a date one’s actually excited about (not excited, like “I’m gonna get some ass” excited, more like “She could be the one” excited), add to that running into an old friend that one actually misses, throw in that nine year old feeling of playing with one’s friends all day until one’s chest started to hurt from all the biking, swimming and/or running topped off with a long cool drink from the water hose.
The fraternizing continued in the stands. The drunk cholo behind us provided the comedy, the white boy directly in front of me was treated like a younger brother by me and my peeps (wedging and head taps included) and the entire left field pavilion was our playing field. "Choooows," and "F the Giants!" rang like Liberty Bell, all in good spirit of course. Hey, if you can't make fun of your brothers and sisters, who can you make fun of!?
Dodger Stadium was in its pure element. Thousands of Angelenos from all walks of life graced the summer-like landscape like blue petunias at Hearst Castle. The grass appeared greener than most days, the uniforms were a tad brighter, the crowd was two degrees above exuberant. To top it all off, there were beer sales in the left field pavilion! I can go on, I really can but the only way to truly understand what Opening Day is like, one simply needs to be there. On the top 5 list of things born and bred Angelenos must do at least once in their life, going to Opening Day ranks right up there.
Oh yea, and the Dodgers won.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, summer
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
