Ever since the Yankees turned lousy, I haven't
been much of a baseball fan. I went to one Dodger game when I first
moved to L.A. eight years ago and was doing the I-have-to-experience-everything
trip. I experienced half the crowd getting there in the third inning
and the other half leaving in the sixth and I haven't been back since.
So when Charley Potts corralled me at the Sparkletts dispenser one Friday
in May, I wasn't especially responsive.
"Went to the Dodgers' game again last night,"
Charley said. "Helluva game. Strawberry had two homers and a double.
Dodgers won, nine to one."
"That's nice, Charley," I said, "but it seems
to me nothing ever happens at ball games."
"Nothing ever happens?" Charley looked incredulous.
"Lots happens. Everything happens. Everything you ever wanted to happen
happens at the ball game." Imagining Johnny Carson saying, "Wrong again,
Dodger Dog breath," I made my exit.
Saturday afternoon, when I got back from the
recycling center, there was an envelope in my mailbox. In it was a ticket
to that Sunday's game, with a Post-it attached that said, "A PRESENT
- CHARLEY." Since my father always told me never to turn down anything
free, I decided to go.
Sunday afternoon found me parking my '73 MGB
(which was experiencing disintegration of the infrastructure) in Lot
23. On my way into the stadium, I bought a scorecard. I wanted to see
what $2.50 got you at the ballpark these days. Thumbing through my purchase
on the way to my seat, I discovered a lovely picture of Tommy Lasorda
and Madonna on page twelve.
My seat was in Section 2 on the blue level, which
turned out to be right behind home plate. As I arrived, the groundskeepers
were putting the finishing touches on the infield. Sitting to my left
was a couple in their mid-twenties. Both were wearing Day-Glo shorts;
the woman had on a halter top which didn't do much to halt her thirty
extra pounds from overflowing all over the place. The guy had one of
those why-bother mustaches and a fresh scrape, still oozing blood, on
his right knee. I wondered if he had slid into his seat. There was an
empty place to my right, which I figured was Charley's.
I wasn't paying much attention to the public-address
announcer, but I caught the words "accompanied by Nancy Bea Hefley on
the Dodger Stadium organ" and knew it was national anthem time. I wondered
what Nancy Bea Hefley did while the Dodgers were on the road. The anthem
started, with the singer sounding like Jim Nabors. But when I looked
over to the Diamondvision to make sure that was who it was, the fifty-foot-high
face I saw there was Axl Rose's. He got a big hand when he was done.
The game began, and as I expected, not much happened.
A hit here, a strikeout there; it was pretty boring. In the bottom of
the third, Mike Sharperson drove Jose Offerman in from second with a
single, and the Dodgers led the Braves, 1-0. At one point in the inning,
I thought the wave was starting, but I was relieved to find it wasn't.
I hate the wave.
In the top of the fourth I heard chanting from
the row in front of me, a little to the right. It came from a bunch
of people having a Passover Seder. They were all adept at simultaneously
following their service and the game. It was kind of like baruch
atah go Darryl adonoi. They had the shankbone, the hard-boiled
egg, the matzohs and all the rest. When it came time for the part where
the kids are supposed to find the hidden matzoh, six or seven youngsters
ran up the aisle and disappeared into the crowd.
In the top of the fifth, I started wondering
if Charley was ever going to show. In the bottom of the fifth, Kevin
Gross, the Dodgers' pitcher, helped his own cause by putting a fly ball
over the left field wall. The Dodgers were ahead, 2-0. Meanwhile, Gross
was pitching a two-hit shutout. It was a pretty good game, I guess,
but as I'd supposed, not much was happening. I noticed the Goodyear
blimp circling overhead, wondered why, and then spotted an ESPN banner
hanging from a railing. I hoped the cable people were getting their
money's worth.
In the top of the sixth, I heard a cheer that
didn't have anything to do with the action, and again I thought the
wave was starting. Then I realized all the cheering people were looking
up, so I did too. I saw a small plane pulling a banner that said:
MARIE WILL YOU MARRY ME LOVE MARTY
I had just had time to mutter something snide about
punctuation when an orange-red beam shot out from the Goodyear blimp's
gondola and struck the plane. A huge explosion followed. When it cleared,
the only evidence of the plane was two pieces of the banner floating
down into right-center field. Both of them said "MAR." The second landed
right on top of the first. As the groundskeepers hustled to retrieve
them so that play could continue, I heard Vin Scully on a radio a couple
of rows back, saying that the blimp pilot was on a nine-game consecutive
hitting streak.
Then I noticed a weather balloon rising from the box
seats near third base, trailing a banner that said:
MARTY NOT IN A MILLION YEARS LOVE MARIE
In the bottom of the sixth, the Dodgers put men on
second and third with no out. Mike Piazza sent a fly ball into short
center field. The runners hesitated, not knowing if the ball would be
caught. Suddenly, the ground opened up and a twelve-foot-tall, loincloth-clad
giant appeared. He pushed the center fielder into the hole, caught the
ball, and uncorked a great throw to second, where Delino DeShields was
doubled up. The giant stayed in center while the next Dodger popped
up to end the threat.
The Braves went down one-two-three in the top of the
seventh. They pinch-hit for the giant. The guy to my left, whose knee
had by now completely healed and whose mustache had grown into a ZZ
Top-style beard, pointed out that with a strike zone that big, the giant
would be easy to fan.
It was time for the seventh-inning stretch. Nancy Bea
played Take Me Out to the Ball Game while Diamondvision showed
shots of the crowd. One was of a six- or seven-month old baby giving
the camera the finger. Another revealed a group of people in the left
field pavilion levitating. In a third, the Seder kids were throwing
people off the upper deck as they searched for the matzoh.
When I sat down, I realized the seat to my right was
occupied. It wasn't Charley; it was a woman wearing 1930's-style aviation
gear, goggles and all. She had a plate of nachos and a navigation map
of the South Pacific in her lap. She kept yelling, "Bring in Lefty O'Doul!"
The Dodgers went down in order in the bottom of the
seventh. In the top of the eighth, I saw Godzilla wandering around in
the parking lot, smashing cars and occasionally peering over the fence
to watch the action. In the bottom of the eighth, the Seder kids came
back, having evidently found the matzoh somewhere out in the bleachers.
But it was too late, as their parents had in the meantime converted
to Islam and were now kneeling toward the east, getting imitation nacho
cheese sauce all over their knees.
In the top of the ninth, the Dodgers brought in Sandy
Koufax. With two out the fans started doing the wave. By the third time
around, most of the people in the stands were doing it. By the fifth
time, I knew I was the only one in the stands not participating. When
it came around again, I felt compelled to jump to my feet and fling
my hands into the air. As I did, Koufax struck out Hank Aaron to end
the game. Meanwhile, a huge wall of water, taller than the stadium,
rumbled in from center field and inundated everything.
I came to out by second base. Lying on the ground near
me were a shankbone, a navigational map of the South Pacific, and an
engagement ring inscribed TO MAR LOVE MAR. The stands were empty. It
was dark, and the stadium lights were on. I found an open gate in left-center
field, near the bullpen, and walked out into the deserted parking lot.
My car waited alone in Section 23. Nothing new had fallen off. I got
in and drove home. As I headed west on Sunset Boulevard, I tried to
figure out how I was going to afford season tickets next year.
This was the first story I ever wrote, as the first assignment in the
first writing class I ever took. It appeared in The Silver Web
#12, Summer 1995. Copyright © 1995 Nathan Walpow.
