What Mom doesn’t know ...
It’s not really spring till we spill Coke on our sneakers and get mustard in our cuticles. So with pockets full of money, we head out to Dodger Stadium, L.A.’s cathedral in the clouds.
“Take me out to the ballgame,
Take me out to the bank ... “
Much like L.A. itself, everything’s too expensive here. Things that should cost $5, such as parking, cost $10. Things that should be simple to do, such as parking, seem needlessly difficult. Dodger Stadium is the world’s worst traffic circle. Forty-five minutes after leaving the freeway, we are finally through the lousy parking gate.
“Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
“I don’t care if I have heart attacks ... “
Sure enough, we eat the kind of food that will show up in an angiogram four years from now. Of course, if you eat enough foods with nitrates and other preservatives, it’s bound to keep you somewhat preserved. At least, that’s my theory. If I’m wrong, I’m happily wrong.
“Here, try this,” I tell the toddler.
“What?”
“Dodger Dog,” I say. “You might like it.”
He does indeed. It is his first Dodger Dog, at his very first Dodger game, and so far he likes everything he sees. The lights. The food. The drunk passed out by the entrance. Oh, by the way, there’s some sort of game going on down there on the grass. He likes that too.
“Don’t tell Mom I gave him a sip of Coke,” I tell the little girl.
“OK, Dad,” she says.
It’s just four of us here on an April evening: me, the toddler, the little girl and her friend, Olivia. The toddler sits beside me, his Chicago Cubs cap making his ears go funny-wide. He’s munching his hot dog and following the beach balls bouncing all around us. He likes his dogs plain. His nachos, the same way. He’s mostly a simple man. I’d probably compare him to Truman.
“Are the Cubs a baseball team?” Olivia asks, noticing his Cubs cap.
“Not technically,” I say.
“Yes, they are Dad,” says the little girl.
Poor thing. Chicago courses swiftly through her young veins. She can’t deny her heritage, which is part Irish, part Italian and part Wrigley Field misfit. It’s sort of like having had notorious bank robbers in your distant family. You never quite forget it.
“The Cubs ... they’re more like a social organization,” I tell her.
“They are?”
“Eventually, you’ll see,” I say.
“OK, Dad,” she says, and takes a hard drag on a soft drink.
Out on the field, the Dodgers are leading. Then they’re not. The skanky Angels are up from Disneyland for an exhibition. They play harder, faster and more aggressively. The Dodgers behave like ruined Southern aristocracy. Proud but passive. As if the game has passed them by.
In the fourth inning, ex-Dodger Steve Finley, last year’s favorite son, clubs a double to center. Now an Angel, he gets booed and cheered. That’s a son for you, the center of controversy.
“For it’s root-root-root for the Dodgers,
“They play as if they’re in pain ... “
Forget kindergarten, everything you really need to know in life can be learned at a ballpark. Patience. Simple addition. The glories of greed. It’s all right there, in life’s greatest classroom.
Patience: Forty-five minutes to get in the door, 20 minutes in line to buy food. Yet, L.A. remains the friendliest major city in America. If you need any evidence of this, see how polite people are while being jostled at the overburdened condiment line. Then try that in Detroit.
Simple addition: Four hot dogs plus three drinks equal 28 bucks. The guy in the next seat accidentally spilling beer down your leg: priceless.
The glories of greed: The dear folks in the expensive seats have waiters to bring them refreshments. The working-class guys in the bleachers are prohibited from buying beer. That’s right, no beer in the cheap seats. If you need any more lessons in class dynamics, reread your Upton Sinclair.
In the meantime, we’re having a heck of a time up here in Row H, Aisle 4. While the Dodgers muff simple defensive plays, the toddler nibbles sunflower shells that have dropped to the ground.
“Don’t tell Mom I caught him eating stuff from the ground,” I tell the little girl.
“OK, Dad,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“Dad?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t tell Mom I gave him cotton candy,” she says.
In my experience, it’s the little lies that are the best. And the little people too. The ones without cleats. The ones without contracts. My daughter at my side, hugging a soft drink. The baby on the other side, clutching a blanket and thinking that the bugs he’s seeing high in the spring air must be some version of angels.
As the Dodgers fade, so does the crowd, scrambling up the aisles with every new out, the way Dodger fans often do.
Not us. We paid our money. Pass the peanuts, kid. We’re staying for the summer.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
