Boys In Blue

The Dodgers are going to the World Series.

This is big. It’s not 108 years big, or 86 years big, but it’s still been 28 years since Kirk Gibson’s magical walk off home run in Game 1 of the ’88 series. I was 16.

Baseball is not my favorite sport. It comes after college football, NFL, College basketball (women and men) and the NHL. So sixth. It’s my sixth favorite sport.

But the Boys in Blue are my #1 pro sports team. LA girl. Legacy Dodger fan. I remember being at my grandparents’ home in Duarte for the ’81 Series win, watching my grandfather, dad and uncle hootin’ and hollerin’ as they listened to the radio on the patio.

(Of course that was the BBQ where my grandfather asked for sherry to pour on the steaks as they grilled, and my grandmother gave him a bottle they had emptied of sherry and used to smuggle vodka across the border from Mexico. The explosion burned my Papa’s eyebrows off his face and all I can remember is them laughing, so probably they were deep into the bottle with the correct label on it. Also my cousin, I believe as a result of PTSD from this night, deliberately sought out and married a San Francisco Giants fan.)

My dad had a friend with season tickets, so once a year growing up we went with Mark to a game. His seats were good ones, in the yellow down third base line. I learned to appreciate the pace of the game live and in person, the rhythm of pitches and shelling peanuts.

I came back to Dodger games in my 20s. It was the late 90s and a game ticket could be had for $6. My roommate would burst through the front door and say “Dodgers?” and off we’d go. If we timed it right, we could leave Long Beach at 6 and be in our seats for the first pitch at 7:05. I knew every approach to get into the stadium, but more importantly–I knew how to get out. And that’s saying something. If there were such a thing as the “7 F*ck Ups of the World”, the parking lot at Chavez Ravine would be one of them.

This was the era of Karros and Piazza, Nomo and Hollandsworth. Also Todd Worrell. That guy. Look, I don’t often feel strongly about sports figures but my antipathy towards Worrell is deeply seated. I watched my boyfriend Mike Piazza put a lot of runs on the board that Worrell gave back in the top of the 9th, with fast balls right down the pipe. Everybody knew. My grandma could have hit them.

When Shea asked me to marry him, I was less worried about his unbaptized soul than I was about yoking with an Angels fan. Mixed marriages are not to be entered into lightly. People have been known to get divorced.

In June, I took the kids to their first Dodger game, with Teresa and Mike. I used to go to Dodger games with Teresa and her mom when she was small enough that we carried her in. Total full circle moment.

But also, we were in LA for Sue’s funeral and she was the kind of Dodger fan who still listened to games on the radio. She and I decided last winter that we would take the kids and go the next time we were down. We went in her honor. Hard stuff.

Tickets are not $6 anymore and so the most affordable professionals sports ticket in town is damn near not affordable. The ushers no longer wear straw hats and chase down beach balls. The peanut guy, though–still cash only. I bought the kids hats and dogs. We did the wave and a group of drunk guys behind us had an inexhaustible supply of beach balls. It was awesome sauce.

And now here they go. A Dodgers-Yankee series would be something for the ages, but at this writing, the Astros are up 3-0 in Game 6 so we’ll see.

Either way, Let’s Go Dodgers. #ThisTeam #Dodgerblue

Surviving a Mixed Marriage

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I knew it going in.

And I knew what a big deal it was. Marriages have broken up over less. But Shea is such a good man.

So I did what women do: I told myself he would change. For me. Or when the kids came. And if he didn’t, I resolved to stick it out no matter what. I put on a brave face for my concerned family and friends.

When my hair dresser took me by the hands and said “Jen, you cannot yoke with a non-believer” I laughed it off.

“Darlene. It’s not like he doesn’t believe in God. He’s just an Angels fan. We’ll make it work.”

I come from a family that bleeds Dodger Blue, so far back that my grandparents watched them play in the Coliseum when they first came to LA from Brooklyn. All through my twenties, I was the queen of the last minute $8 ticket.

I know how to get out of Chavez Ravine ten different ways. Only real Dodger fans will understand the value of that. They also know that we don’t need no stinking tail-gating, not when there’s Dodger dogs and cold beer walking up and down the aisles. Plus, there’s nothing like a late September sunset over the hills of Griffith Park.

And Vin. Let’s don’t forget about Vin.

Shea became an Angels fan during his college years. He and his two best men were season ticket holders. They have tail-gating under the A down to a science. He was at that World Series game in 2002—you know the one, Game Six when the Angels were trailing 5-0 to the Giants going into the 7th inning. They rallied to win, forcing a Game 7. Which they won.

I don’t mind telling that story since, it’s about the Giants. I’m sad to say that we have Giants fans in the family. Every family has a burden to carry and this is ours. We married into them, but still. Shameful.

Before I would agree to Shea’s proposal, I protected myself. Our pre-nuptial agreement concerned one issue—team loyalty. We agreed that our male children could be Angels fans and the females would wear Dodger Blue.  That technically puts me up 5-2, if we count the four-legged females (and we do).

After a few years, we amended the agreement to include the rule that there could be no quoting of statistics over breakfast. No late night discussions on the strength of the NL West vs the AL West. No usurping of football games for baseball games unless it was a playoff situation. We do not rush home from anywhere for a baseball game and HGTV trumps baseball every time.

If either team ever made the World Series again, we would go.

If both teams made the World Series at the same time, we would legally separate for the duration of the Series and only reunite after a renegotiation of the terms of the agreement.

Every year at this time, we revisit the rules of our mixed marriage. Because almost every year, both teams hover on the edge of the playoff picture, forcing us to consider our options.

We also have a football conflict. I am a NY Jets fan. Shea is a Buffalo Bills fan. These teams play in the Same. Dang. Division. So two Sundays a year, we invoke the pre-nup for football.

This is a less stressful situation because neither of our teams have been any good for a long time.

I am sharing our story so that others know it can be done. Marriages can survive rivalries. Children of these marriages can grow up to be normal, functioning sports fans. It is even possible to sit in a rival team’s stadium and enjoy a game for the sake of your spouse. I always wear my Dodger Blue when I go to Angels stadium.

Once, a guy bought Shea beer out of sympathy.

Sometimes, you have to take one for the team.