In Baseball, It’s One Big Communal Floor Show

Tonight it’s just us and 26,000 other Dodger assistant coaches, heading out to Chavez Ravine for dinner or a light snack. A little after 7, the floor show begins.

“Who’s on the hill?” I ask.

“Hershiser,” says the boy.

“Good,” I say.

We get our program, then head for our seats on this warm Monday evening, up the escalator and through the turnstiles, excited by the sight of the Dodger field. It never fails, this low-grade buzz I get from a whiff of ballpark grass.

“Look at Brito,” I tell the boy.

“Where?”

“Right there,” I say.

Who can miss Dodger scout Mike Brito, in a suit the color of a dollar bill, standing behind the backstop in his trademark hat?

Dodger ushers have done away with their hats, but not Brito. He looks like a Kentucky horse trainer. Or the mayor in a Meredith Willson musical.

He stands at the backstop with his radar gun and pitching book. Every once in a while, someone stops by for a picture. Like a good politician, he obliges.

“Look at Brito,” the boy says, as he poses with a pretty fan.

“He’s like the mayor,” I say.

“Really?” the boy asks.

“Mayor Brito,” I say.

*

And look at us, finally making it out to Dodger Stadium for only the second time this season. A slow start. Embarrassing, really. Only two games by late June. Somewhere along the line, our priorities got all messed up.

“Who’s pitching?” my wife asks.

“Hershiser,” the boy says again.

“Is he good?” the little girl asks.

“Very good,” I say.

Not tonight. In the second frame, things fall quickly apart. There’s a walk. Then a home run. A couple more walks. A single. A wild pitch. A hit batter. Another walk.

By the time the second inning is over, Orel Hershiser, Dodger icon, has given up eight runs. You could almost cry for the guy.

“Look at him,” I tell my wife as he walks from the field with his head down, like a guy suffering from cluster headaches.

“Poor Orel,” says my wife.

Then a remarkable thing happens. The Dodger fans begin to applaud. As Hershiser heads to the dugout, the fans rise out of their seats--something Dodger fans are not prone to do--and give him an ovation. Not for tonight. For all those other nights, when everyone was younger and the right arm had some snap to it and the Dodgers traveled the country like the young gods of baseball. For that, they applaud.

“That’s pretty classy,” I tell the boy.

“What?”

“The way they’re applauding him,” I say. “That’s pretty classy.”

“Sure, Dad,” he says.

Down 8-1 in the third inning, we eat a little, then sit back and enjoy the sideshows.

*

There are always good sideshows at Dodger games. Funny hats. Beach balls. Unmercifully large tattoos. Young women with older men. Married couples. Unmarried couples. Vendors with pinkeye. Young toughs on dates. Church groups.

One big, rollicking Dodger family, soaking up a summer evening.

Out on the field, things are pretty relaxed as well. The Dodgers are playing defense like they don’t want to get their uniforms dirty, like they have to go home after the game and wash them themselves.

The guy sitting next to me has more dirt on him. I guess he plays to win.

“How’d you get so dirty?” I ask the boy.

“I fell,” he says.

“Where?”

“In my nacho dish,” he says, wiping cheese from his nose and elbow.

He’s a gamer, this kid. An eater and a gamer.

So I tell him about some of the great food-related feats I have seen at Dodger Stadium.

*

I tell them all about how my friend Irving once set a Dodger Stadium record by eating two Dodger Dogs in the course of one Raul Mondesi strikeout.

Four pitches, two hot dogs. The second was a slider. Not the hot dog, the pitch. About 85 mph, it gave Irving time to swallow the first Dodger Dog and pick up the second one.

“To this day, it’s the most amazing athletic feat I’ve ever seen,” I tell the kids.

“Wow,” says the little girl.

“Did he burp?” the boy asks.

“All through the next inning,” I say.

“Wow,” says the little girl.

“And when he did, three people in front of us died,” I say.

“Really?” asks the little girl.

“Wow,” says the boy.

Out on the field, another Dodger hitter strikes out, taking a wild whack at what would’ve been ball four. A good walk spoiled.

“You think we’re going to win?” asks the little girl.

“Sure,” I say.

By the 8th inning, the floor show is almost over. Of 26,000 people who showed up to watch the slumping Dodgers, only a few are left.

*

We sit in our seats, listening to a Billy Joel song being played on the stadium organ--just us and Brito and a few thousand others. There’s no quit in Brito. You have to admire that.

“Look, there’s Vin Scully,” I tell the little girl, pointing to the press box.

“Is he the announcer?” she asks.

“I think so,” I say.

“He’s doing a good job,” she says.

In the 9th, the Dodgers load the bases. Shawn Gilbert, a sturdy young man batting .063, comes to the plate.

*

He lofts a 2-1 pitch into the evening air, a loopy little hit that lands like a sparrow between the center fielder and his neighbor. Two runs score. The night, once again, is alive.

“I think we’re going to win,” says the little girl, as the Dodgers pull within striking distance.

“No more beer for you,” I say.

“I don’t drink beer,” she says.

“Thank goodness for that,” I say.

And with that, the last Dodger lines out.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.