Bittersweet Taste of the Season’s Last Dodger Dogs

Time to slip into something more comfortable. Dodger Stadium. Our last home game of the year.

“The chef is really on tonight,” I tell the boy as we down our Dodger Dogs.

“Weelly?” he sputters through a mouthful of hot dog bun.

“Weelly,” I say.

Dodger Dogs and beer: the most important meal of the day, though the boy generally passes on the beer, what with school the next day.

These are great hot dogs, too, our last of the season.

“How many you want?” I asked the boy earlier as we stood in line for food.

“Two,” he said.

“How many for you?” I asked my friend Paul.

“One,” Paul said.

“One?”

“Yeah, I’m not that hungry,” he explained.

Right. And in a certain light, I look just like Val Kilmer. I know for a fact that Paul is never not hungry.

“Whatever you say,” I tell him.

“Maybe later,” he says, setting himself up for a Dodger Dog dessert.

And we headed to our seats: Aisle 4, Row H. Best table in the house.

“Nice night,” I say.

“Yeah, nice,” says the boy.

Nice night. Is there any other kind at Dodger Stadium?

Everywhere else in the world, there are signs of the apocalypse, signs of a long and difficult winter.

The other day, for example, Ernest Borgnine’s face showed up on the cover of the new phone book. Ernest Borgnine, fresh from his latest hit, “McHale’s Navy.”

And in our kitchen, 10 million ants have set up house. Argentine ants, tiny as a pinprick and ornery, too. Eat like your brother-in-law.

There are ants in our cupboards, ants in our drawers. Yes, there are even ants in our pants.

Exterminators come. Exterminators go. The ants stay, invading our very clothing. Even Napoleon didn’t fight on this many fronts.

So we come outside here where it is safe. There are no ants in sight at Dodger Stadium. Just Giants, those other pests you can never get rid of.

“Bonds, you suck!” yells the boy.

“Don’t say suck,” I tell him.

“Bonds, you stink!” he says.

Down on the field, the Los Angeles Dodgers are playing the San Francisco Giants, the bad neighbors to the north.

It is the next-to-last home game for the Dodgers, who are still in a pennant race except that they’re racing the wrong way. Mostly, they’ve been losing games.

Not tonight. In the sixth inning, the Dodgers send 13 batters to the plate. For 20 minutes, the House of Blue goes wild.

Dodger fans high-five the stranger sitting next to them and bounce in their seats, doing the fanny dance each time a new batter comes to the plate.

For a few precious minutes, everyone is doing the fanny dance.

“They never should’ve pitched to Kreuter,” my friend Paul says after the Dodger catcher singles.

“For once, you’re right,” I tell him, surely another small sign of the apocalypse.

We look around and savor this inning, this game, the mustard stains on our fingers and shoes.

That new John Irving novel sits on the night stand at home, beckoning me back, yet we happily wait out this game, glaring at the San Francisco fans, booing Barry Bonds, messing with his self-esteem.

“Look at that guy,” Paul says, nodding at someone 10 rows up.

“What?”

“Giant fan,” he says with contempt.

Up on the hill behind the stadium, the big THINK BLUE sign shines over the stadium. Once actually blue, the sun has bleached it nearly white.

Come November, they’ll probably send Lasorda up there with a gallon of Sears’ best latex to paint it Dodger blue again. Lo Duca will hold the ladder.

After Paul Lo Duca’s play this season, it’s pretty clear he’ll do anything for this club. Even hold the stepladder for Lasorda, which would have to be thankless and sweaty work.

The other guys, they can trade, though I’m hoping they’ll keep most of them. Green, of course, and Grudzielanek. Hansen. Herges. The guy who grills the Dodger Dogs over there near Aisle 4. He should stay. Tonight, he’s batting well over .400

“This might be the last time you see Sheffield,” I tell the boy.

“Weelly? he says through a mouthful of cotton candy.

“Weelly,” I say.

Far as I’m concerned--and I’m no great expert--Sheff can take a hike, as can Karros.

For Christmas, the Dodgers ought to give manager Jim Tracy a five-year contract and a bullpen, a quality leadoff man and a Partridge in a pear tree.

As an added bonus, they should deport agent Scott Boras to Mars. Not permanently. Just for the next 50 years.

“Tracy’s the best thing to happen to the Dodgers since the Piazza fiasco,” I tell the boy, though he doesn’t hear me. Bonds is at the plate again. The boos are deafening.

“Bonds, you stink!” yells the boy.

Bonds is facing Matt Herges, with two outs and first base open, the Dodgers up by 3.

To the delight of the fans, Herges throws strikes to Bonds, who hasn’t seen a decent pitch all night.

When Herges jams him inside, Bonds dribbles a gutter ball down the first base line and takes a few tentative steps toward first.

Will it stay fair? Who cares. Surely not Bonds. The slugger has no patience for 8-foot putts.

He moves toward first base like a guy with a case of killer hemorrhoids, running as if pained.

The Dodger catcher picks up the ball and tags him where it hurts.

“Yes!” says my friend Paul.

“Yes!” says the boy as the clock edges toward 11 on a late September evening, another fine baseball season coming to a close too soon.

Yes.

*

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