11.6.24
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There’s only one song that can represent this story.
::
Going to the World Series with your dad is frequently labeled as a “once in a lifetime” opportunity.
Luckily for me, I’m a Dodgers fan.
This was my second trip to the holy land of baseball. And I expect it won’t be my last. I am happy to be in this elitist club.
As a Clippers fan, I know the trials and tribulations of pretty much every sports fan who rarely experience the glory of the mountain top. The long journey of pain, heart brake, and the intimate feeling of “fuck this”. It’s complicated. Padres fans know what I’m talking about (sorry, not sorry).
So being a Dodger fan is a real nice change of pace. October baseball is always a thing and I’m grateful for the many years and memories. The one that I always connect back to — 2017. Game One of the World Series. Bottom of the 1st. 1st Batter. Chris Taylor jacks one to the rafters. The stadium goes nuts.
One of those rare moments in sports that live with you forever, implanted in your brain. The feeling of Dodger Stadium erupting. An epic “welcome to the best of sports” memory.
Let’s run it back.
We walk into Dodger Stadium right as gates opened at 2:00. Beelining it to left field to watch the pitchers warm up. In the first row watching Shohei. A full day of Dodgers fun. Got to hang with Danny and his dad. Joy and hope fills the stadium. Another one for the books, and the game hadn’t even started.
The stadium was electric. Everyone locked into every defining moment of the game. All of the ups and downs. The collective heart sink when the Yanks hit a homer. And the collective joy with each run.
Tickets were over $1,000. Everyone around us betting big money on a Dodger memory they’d hold onto forever. Everyone around us praying that we wouldn’t leave with our heads drooped low in defeat.
As we entered the bottom of the 10th inning the collective angst was heavy hitting. Down one run. Score or lose. Lots of biting of shirts. Lots of hands on faces. A stadium of 55,000 people on the edge — this was going to either be a painful loss or the most epic of victories.
Enter.
Freddie Fucking Freeman.
The bat hits the ball.
I stand frozen. Fly ball? (flashback to Game Two in 2017, Yasiel Puig hits a jack to the warning track which would have given us the W. We lose. Please not again!!!)
That bitch is GONE. Grand slam. Walk off. Game Over. The sweetest of victories.
Electricity. Eruption. Everyone loses their shit. Chaos and joy.
55,000 people emptying every ounce of anxiety, with every ounce of happiness. Flooding the whole fucking place. The most epic collective energy exchange that I will ever experience. Pure bliss. Shared in community. And shared with my dad.
The best 30 seconds of my entire life.
::

Dad — thank you for the tickets and full enthusiasm around “let’s be there”. It wouldn’t have happened without you. I can’t wait for the next one!
(Fuck the Padres)
