They’re just not ready for the big leagues
SUMMER in Los Angeles is my favorite time of year. Longer days with seemingly endless sunshine, beaches littered with colorful umbrellas, jubilant children screaming in the waves, all my spare time happily spent outside. But without a doubt, the best part of my L.A. summer is baseball.
I’m a Dodger girl. I have as many ball caps as shoes, and most nights are spent with my boys in blue. Nowadays, evenings at Chavez Ravine are not simply hot dogs, beer and a ballgame -- they are uncanny measures of relationship compatibility.
A night at the ballpark as a boyfriend barometer? Count the ways.
Start with parking -- at Dodger Stadium, an excellent test of one’s patience. Will he stay cool as a cucumber or melt under pressure? One date (call him “Door Ding Guy”) was a fix-up. I thought the game would save me all of the blind-date discomfort. Not so. After parking in the most remote corner of my otherwise fantastic, right-by-the-stairs preferred lot, he circled his car to inspect it for dings, so he could check again after the game. When I cracked wise about putting hidden cameras on his side mirrors, he said, “Hey, I never thought of that!” You can overlook someone’s quirks to an extent, but after watching him walk around the car six times, I knew this guy wouldn’t even make it to the minor leagues.
Another date, “Panda Express Guy,” passed the parking lot test with flying colors, raising my hopes -- only to dash them when he said, “Don’t they have anything to eat here besides hot dogs and beer?” OK, so he’s not a hot dog guy, but c’mon, a teriyaki bowl at Dodger Stadium? That game was a shutout.
A third date excelled in Parking Patience 101, complimented me on my seat location, relished his hot dogs and beer (and didn’t make me go by myself to get them), stood for the national anthem and even removed his cap.
But when he turned to me and said, “So, how long is the game?” the cartoon fantasy bubble dancing over my head of our little lefty in a Dodger uniform burst. It’s not a prerequisite that my dates know baseball -- OK, I’m more sports-obsessed than most women -- but this fellow didn’t fake his baseball smarts very well.
Date No. 4 also failed the baseball knowledge test after calling Nomar Garciaparra “Momar.” However, he made me chuckle when he said, “Baseball players are like strippers; they get personalized introduction music.” He did look kind of cute with mustard all over his face, and he said Juan Pierre is his favorite player. Overall, this guy could be a contender for the wild card.
Of course, another ballpark buddy passed every single test. He sailed through Perilous Parking, excelled in his Stadium Food finals (except for the twinkling beer glass), blew me away with Advanced Cognitive Baseball and aced Ballpark Etiquette. When he mocked the wave and made fake stabbing motions at the ever-so-irritating floating beach ball, I felt butterflies in my stomach.
Unfortunately, this was no date; he’s a co-worker and happily coupled. But now the standard has been set. Needed: a player with those kind of skills -- who also happens to be a free agent.
Until one steps up to the plate, I’ll just take comfort in the smooth voice of Vin Scully, the perfect pitches of Roger the Peanut Guy and the sweet symmetry of baseball summers.
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