Dodger ‘Opener’ Finds Strawberry Still Not ‘in Season’

Shirley Laughran Barnes sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” with fervor. Hit that high “free” with voice to spare.

When the singer handles the national anthem at Dodger Stadium, the afternoon is a success, even if everything else goes wrong.

Everything else went wrong. The Dodgers lost to the Philadelphia Phillies, 7-3.

They were never in it. Tim Belcher gave up five runs in the first inning. In later innings the Dodgers loaded the bases three times but got only three runs.

All this is ancient history. It was the Mother’s Day game, but for me it was the season opener. The opener is the first game I get out to.

My older son, Curt, took me and his two sons, Casey and Trevor. My wife stayed home to iron my shirts.

The weather was idyllic. Sunny, with a light cool breeze. The grass had been mowed crisscross, like a basket. The base paths were tan, the track and the pitcher’s mound red dirt. Palm trees and eucalyptus rose above patches of lavender in the hills beyond the park.

A day at the ballpark is still one of the most reassuring of events in American culture. For a couple of hours, at least, all’s right with the world. Crime and inhumanity are suspended. The worst thing that can happen is that the home team loses.

We arrived 45 minutes early. I like to see batting practice. Then, even more than in the game, we see what athletes ballplayers are. They field and throw with lazy, consummate grace, like creatures of another species.

Gradually the crowd came in and the stands were transformed from bright orange and blue to confetti.

We sent the boys to bring us food. They bought pizzas for themselves, but my son and I had hot dogs. We had not been corrupted by novel ideas. We know that at a baseball park the proper fare is hot dogs--with mustard, relish and onions. No gourmet feast can match it.

Tim Belcher took the mound for the Dodgers. He did not have what you might call a good inning. Six of the first seven Philly batters singled. With four runs in, two out and runners on first and third, Belcher was yanked. The ritual was familiar. Ron Perranoski, the pitching coach, headed slowly for the mound, head down. The catcher and the second baseman joined the little party. Belcher headed straight for the dugout. The others parleyed for a minute while the relief pitcher strolled out. What they say in those summits remains a secret of the sport.

Tim Crews allowed another single and a fifth run before he got the third out on a fly to center. It was 5-0 and the Dodgers were never to catch up.

Meanwhile, the two boys were punching holes in cards. They were ballots for the All-Star game. You punched a hole by the names of the players you wanted to play. The boys kept going out and coming back with more cards.

“What are they doing?” I asked my son.

“They’re stuffing the ballot box,” he said. “They get the ballots from the ushers.”

“That’s crooked,” I said.

I asked to see one of Casey’s ballots. He hadn’t picked Darryl Strawberry. The Dodgers were paying the former New York Mets outfielder millions. I remembered when Sandy Koufax had held out for $125,000. Now the bat boys made that much.

“How come you didn’t pick Strawberry?” I asked.

“He’s not doing so good,” he answered without compassion.

I kept my eye on Strawberry.

In the bottom of the fifth, Brett Butler raced to second when the catcher dropped a third strike. Juan Samuel walked. Strawberry was up with two on. I had a premonition he was going to belt one out. The crowd was charged up. They stomped their feet. The organ played “Charge!”

Strawberry took a ball. Two balls. Three balls. He took a called strike. He walked. Well, better than striking out.

After the top of the seventh, the organ played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and almost everyone stood to sing. It was a testament to the baseball fan’s amiability, tractability and reverence for tradition.

In the bottom of the seventh, Samuel doubled down the third-base line. Strawberry was up again with a chance to drive in two. He singled into short left. All right! A third run in.

In the eighth, a foul ball whizzed by us to the left. It cracked into a wall and bounced back into the seats. Half a dozen men scrambled for it. It dropped at the feet of a woman in a blue print dress. She picked it up with studied nonchalance.

Strawberry had one more chance. With two out he went down on a called strike. It looked low to me.

Don’t despair, Darryl. I voted for you.