Drama on the Diamond and in the Stands

So we’re back at Dodger Stadium, L.A.’s longest-running live show, longer running than the “The Lion King” or that “Vagina Monologues.” Guess live theater isn’t what it used to be. About 7, the curtain goes up. “Please rise for the national anthem,” a voice says.

“O Canada ... “ the guy next to me sings.

“O what?” says the little girl.

“The true north strong and free,” sings the Montreal fan.

“O what?” asks the little girl again, astonished that no one else has noticed that our national anthem has been replaced.

She can’t believe everyone’s just standing there, pretending that this is normal, to sing another country’s fight song.

“When did this happen?” she wonders. “Shouldn’t there be some sort of outcry?”

“O, say can you see ... “ the stadium singer begins, the second part of her overture.

“Thank goodness,” the little girl sighs.

Yep, we’re back at Dodger Stadium, back in the hard blue seats that never change--fortunately--back into a timeless world of baseball.

“That’s $39.50,” says the woman behind the snack counter.

OK, some stuff changes. The prices go up and up and up. And, unbelievably, the snack bar lines are shorter.

Yes, fans no longer need to stand in line for an inning just to hand over 10 bucks for a hot dog and a Coke. It took 40 years to work out some of the kinks, but Dodger Stadium is now running at full speed.

Of course, the beer still tastes as if it’s been strained through a Clydesdale. The condiment areas are still elbow-to-elbow-to-elbow.

Even before a first pitch, the relish tray is nearly empty.

And those ketchup dispensers? Still not as usable as the old pump-action models. Bring back the old dispensers, the real fans plead. Bring back the onion grinders, too.

In the meantime, the snack stand lines are shorter. It’s a start.

“I’ve never seen the lines this short,” I tell my friend Steve.

“Yeah, the lines seem better this year,” he says.

But are the Dodgers themselves? We’re here to find out.

“Who’s that?” asks the little girl. “Karros,” I say.

“Go, Karros!” she says.

Exactly. Go, Karros. Go into retirement and free first base for someone who doesn’t ground to shortstop every time there’s a runner at first.

“Go, Karros!” yells the little girl, exhibiting the kind of loyalty only the very young can offer.

Meanwhile, the lowly Montreal Expos get off to a fast start, with home runs in the second and the fourth.

The Dodgers respond with all they’ve got. Nothing. The pitching staff has been promising this season, but the Dodger hitters stand at the plate as if waiting for a batting tee.

Pitch after pitch, the Montreal hurler fools the Dodgers with breaking stuff. I guess that’s what you do against a struggling lineup.

Bury them in breaking stuff and self-doubt.

“Strike 3,” signals the ump.

O, Canada.

Over in Aisle 6, a balloon dances lightly on the Chavez Ravine wind.

Only, it may not be a real balloon. On second glance, it appears to be one of those health aids that wise guys blow up at frat parties.

This one bounces like a tiny Latex dirigible from row to row as squeamish wives look up, gasp, then have their husbands tap the “balloon” out of their immediate view.

Soon, it floats over the rail and down into the orange seats, off to disturb and entertain others.

In the other direction, over near Aisle 2, some young man is trying to start “the wave.”

“Everyone ready? OK, go!” he yells, then waves his arms like a demented conductor.

You’ve got to admire guys with a devotion to the wave. It shows a certain amount of innate leadership ability.

“OK, let’s try that again,” he yells as his first wave attempt sputters.

Down behind the plate, meanwhile, catcher Paul Lo Duca, has taken a foul tip in the most private of private places.

“Foul ball!” screams the umpire, the understatement of the night.

“What happened?” asks the little girl, a scrappy catcher herself.

“He got hit,” I say.

“Ouch,” her little friend says.

“Fortunately, you’ll never really know,” I say.

They say men never appreciate the pain of childbirth. Well, women never appreciate the agony of a foul tip to the private place--a surgeon’s stitch to your soul.

“Ouch,” moans my friend Steve. “Ouch,” I say.

In the sixth inning, the Dodgers muster a run, then fall back to sleep.

So I start to think about what my wife said the other night about “The Philadelphia Story,” her favorite movie, in which Jimmy Stewart steals Kate Hepburn from her stuffy fiance while Cary Grant sits by and makes smart remarks.

Great movie, Hepburn throwing her best curves. My wife says it should be remade, with Hugh Grant, George Clooney and Debra Messing (of “Will & Grace”). Not bad, as casting goes. On the field, the Dodger batters surrender without a fight.

In the eighth, half the fans have abandoned their Dodgers, and I start noticing that my No. 2 molar on the right side is tasting funny and I should have it looked at soon.

In the ninth, the Dodgers make a last-ditch effort to win as the theater audience dwindles even more. The little girl puts her head on my shoulder, glad anyway to be back at the ballpark, glad for the good food and the company of strangers, 42,000 strong.

It is inherently human to try to find joy where there otherwise might be none. Tonight, the little girl finds joy on my fleshy shoulder at Dodger Stadium.

“For a catcher, you smell pretty good,” I say as I whiff her ketchuped hair.

“Thanks,” she says. “You smell good, too.”

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