In Order to See the First Pitch, ‘Operation: Parking Space’ Begins

We took the kids to a Dodger game and we went by a way that was so sneaky and traffic-free that I’m not even going to mention it. As we were scooting through the entrance kiosk, we congratulated ourselves on achieving, at long last, tension-free travel. And then we hit the parking lot.

At 4:45 last Sunday, spread out beneath the slight rise of the Elysian Park entrance, the parking lot of Dodger Stadium glittered menacingly. This is anthropomorphism of the most unrestrained kind--a parking lot is not capable of any action, much less one with intent. But that is what it did. It glittered. Menacingly.

Up one row and down the other, windshields and windows shone flat silver like the bellies of a thousand anchovies washed up on the beach, and the symbolic portent was just about the same. Something evil was rising, something we thought we could outrun, outthink, outmaneuver. But, of course, we could not. We were going to have to face down the inevitable specter of Parking Lot Anxiety.

For me it begins as a churning drop in the stomach, followed by a breathlessness that makes me gulp for air a bit like a goldfish eating and causes my remarks to come in tommy-gun, declarative bursts that include a lot of direct appeals to the Almighty. I quickly realize we are never going to find a parking space, that if we get out of this alive it will be more than we deserve, that we were fools, fools, to ever think we could go to a Dodger game/Disneyland/Costco/the state fair when clearly we should have stayed at home playing endless games of Candy Land and Red Light/Green Light like families are supposed to.

Then I notice that it’s not just cars that fill this parking lot, it’s also people. Strings of people, many of them hand-holding families and all headed in the same direction. Now my skin starts to itch, and the top of my head heats up so I can visualize the air above it shimmering. I’m an American, I pay taxes, I bought my ticket, I can certainly take my children to a baseball game/theme park/seasonal event with everyone else if I want to.

But we had better hurry the heck up and find a parking space or all the good stuff--the seats and churros, short lines and commemorative pins, not to mention the lifetime supply of money and medical supplies and the free passes to heaven--are going to be gone.

This is about the time I begin giving urgent, pointed advice to my husband if he is driving, or to the cars around me if I am driving. You can imagine how pleasant that is for everyone involved.

When we at last find a parking space, I spring into action like a blood-frenzied panther. In one motion, I turn off the car, get out of the car, lean into the car and get the kids out of the car while my husband is still unlatching his seat belt. I grab the diaper bag and the stroller and the sweatshirts and the hats, thrust small feet into shoes, find naked baby dolls and propel the whole mess ever forward as if there were alarms sounding while the boat listed starboard and men in oilskin sou’westers lowered the lifeboats into the icy sea.

All around me people surge past and cars add themselves to the grid and my mouth fills with the brackish taste of dread. We will get there just as the man who guards the gate of the ballpark/zoo/Irish Fair--who in my mind’s eye resembles the man with the green furry hat who tried to turn Dorothy away from seeing the wizard--is drawing it closed, and slapping a “SOLD OUT, GO AWAY, YOU” sign on it.

Meanwhile, my husband is working up that small frown he gets whenever he is about to ask me if I’ve eaten anything today. (When I was pregnant, he used to carry packages of crackers in his pockets the way people in the ‘80s carried Valium.) But by then we are moving, and I can begin to relax. The car is parked, and if there are hundreds of people ahead of us, there are even more behind us. We will get there, enjoy ourselves and all will be well.

Until, of course, it’s time to leave.

Mary McNamara can be reached at mary.mcnamara@latimes.com.