Inside the party in the Dodgers’ clubhouse

I’m wet and I’m sticky and I’m cold in this press box, wishing for one night I covered a good losing team. Or a very quotable one.

It’s well after 1 a.m. The Dodgers clinched their division title hours ago, sprinted around the entire stadium track high-fiving fans, spraying a few as “I Love L.A.” blared over the loudspeakers.

They jumped around a lot, men being giddy boys, a few doing a couple of TV interviews before everyone headed into the clubhouse, where the real chaos took place.

The clubhouse staff did a remarkable job trying to prepare for this, taking out every single piece of furniture, completely covering every locker, not to mention the numerous TVs hanging from the ceiling, with plastic.

They couldn’t do anything about the carpet, though. That poor carpet. Not having a pool to celebrate in at Dodger Stadium, the players seem determined to try to create one in the clubhouse. Champagne and beer was sprayed everywhere. There would be a slight pause, and it’d start again.

There were tubs of the bubbly in the middle of the clubhouse. They were meant less for drinking than for spraying and pouring over someone’s head.

I was talking to A.J. Ellis, asking him a really, really important question when Clayton Kershaw walked up and said, “Will you stop talking to him and let him come celebrate?”

A guy gets a triple and all of a sudden he’s a big shot. I squeezed between bodies and found General Manager Ned Colletti with a manageable scrum of media around him, politely waited my turn, and then asked my really, really important question.

Just as Colletti started to answer I felt this wet, carbonated, flagrant beverage being poured over my head. I might as well been trapped under a waterfall. I turned and it was Yasiel Puig. He wasn’t getting back at me because I wrote the Dodgers should sit him a couple of weeks ago, he was just the biggest kid in the room.

Carl Crawford was standing a couple feet way, filled with admiration of Puig’s handiwork.

“Man, he got you good,” Crawford said.

Apparently one of the drawbacks to growing old is, if you’re wearing glasses in one of these celebrations and get drenched, you can no longer see a lick.

Over in a corner, fairly safe from the center of activity, Manager Don Mattingly was answering questions for a throng of media. In the foyer just outside the clubhouse, Dodgers co-owner Peter Guber stood watching the merriment. He’s the only owner I saw there. I never saw team President Stan Kasten the entire night (it was Rosh Hashanah).

The celebration was toned down somewhat from when the Dodgers won the division last year and made their legendary jump into the Chase Field pool, but they were still determined to enjoy the moment.

I circled back to Ellis to make another attempt at my super-important question when, of course, Mr. Triple walked by again. Ellis was talking about the postseason and didn’t miss a beat.

“We want to take that next step. We know we’re close, we’re a good squad,” he said. “Hopefully we can get a better start out of Clayton Kershaw. Today only eight innings? I mean, seriously.”

Somebody was spraying champagne again and my digital recorder got it good. Now when I play it back, everyone sounds strangely like they’re under water. Guess I’ll send the bill to Guber, although I think Colletti might sound better.

Things began to calm down. A couple players took selfies. More serious interviews were given. Mr. Triple even gave a few. Adrian Gonzalez was aghast the bubbly has run out. They could always just wring a couple bottles out of my shirt.

Now I’m upstairs, my shirt growing cold, reeking of champagne, cranky and grateful all at the same time.