Opening Day

I remember going with my Dad to see Fernando Valenzuela pitch opening day in 1981. It was the first of many consecutive shut outs and the beginning of Fernado-mania. I have fond memories of Dodger games. I’m not much of a baseball fan, but I’m happy to hang out with my friends on a sunny day. I’ve heard that Dodger games have changed as of late. Some friends who don’t “root, root, root for the home team” say that it’s a dangerous, violent place. These people are from Philadelphia,. What do they know about murder and urban violence? (Editor’s note: I just googled Philadelphia and Crime and they know a lot.) In any case, Megan and David invited me to go to opening day this year and I couldn’t say “no.”

We left David and Megan’s at around noon and in the time we could’ve been half way to Vegas, we found a parking space in Chavez Ravine with a distant view of the stadium. Now Angelenos get a bad rap when it comes to sports and I’m not saying it’s not deserved. They argue that we get to a Dodger game in the third and leave in the eighth. As a Westsider, it’s not easy crossing town. We would love to have seen the first pitch, but the two lanes of bumper to bumper traffic on Sunset prohibited us from doing so. When we finally got in the parking lot, it was a mess. Not only was it overpopulated with drunken gang bangers, but I was shocked how many fucktards double parked. At one point, we rolled past some dude napping in his Camry, which was taking up two spots. David asked, “Should we ask him to move his car?” Faster than the speed of light, Megan decisively said, “No.” It’s the kind of place where you didn’t want to ask anyone to do anything for fear of getting stabbed, which actually happened in the parking lot. (Click here for article.)

We were excited to have front row, field level seats behind home plate and were surprised to find out that we had top deck seats, but still front row and behind home plate. I believe David was a bit disappointed. Personally, I don’t care where I sit, I’m just there to hang out with my friends, but after the long drive and the hike up to our seats, my blood sugar level was beginning to plummet. Since I eat fourteen times my body weight every seven minutes, blood sugar usually isn’t an issue, but I was going on five hours with only a cup of Kashi Good Friends and soy milk. We got to our seats, which were awesome. I took everyone’s order: a dog, coke, water and beer, plus what I would get, and found the first place that sold food. It was called “Dodger Dog Express,” named after the mediocre hot dog that Dodger stadium is famous for. Now I was in no mood for irony; but, ironically, they were out of Dodger Dogs. For those of you who know me and my Rain Man ways, I’m not incredibly adaptable. Maybe my expectations were too high, but when you call yourself “Dodger Dog Express” you better have some fucking Dodger Dogs up in that bitch or change your fucking name. I grabbed the drinks, ran back to the seats to drop them off, and went to another food stand. Guess what they didn’t have? If you guessed the only fucking thing I wanted to purchase, you’d be exactly right. This led me to the main concession stand, which of course had the longest lines. I got in and it moved slowly when it moved. When I was one person away from the front, my concession lady disappeared. I don’t know if she went to take a dump or what but one of the other Junior High drop outs should’ve filled in. Since I don’t believe in the diffusion of responsibility, I yell out, “Is anyone working this line?” It’s already bad enough that I feel like a D Block prison guard on the set of American Me, but now my English as a First Language falls on deaf ears. She finally returned and I bought four hot dogs, one for David. I ran to the condiment station and put mustard on one and shoved it in my mouth. I don’t recall chewing it or what it tasted like, but my blood sugar level returned to normal and the universe was okay again.

We hung out for a few innings until Jake, Megan and David’s son, had enough. It was fine for me. We ended up missing the stabbing, the report of a man with a gun in lot four, and Orlando Hudson hitting the cycle, perhaps the rarest of offensive feats in baseball, but I got to hang out with my friends and shove meaty tubes of carcinogens in my pie hole. If someone gets tickets and drives, I would go back to Dodger stadium again. Save for the traffic, the lines, the paucity of food at certain stands, and the gang bangers, I had fun at Opening Day.