It's hot. It's August 27. Los Angeles is unknowingly on the brink of a record setting heat wave, and I'm sitting in the sun at Dodger Stadium.
All season, Dad and I have been watching games together, just like we have every year for what seems like my entire life. Sitting in the living room of our little yellow house, the nights where we both manage to be home and fed by 7:10 are my favorite unspoken summer tradition. Making the trek to the stadium doesn't happen often, partially because of the 110/10 interchange, but also because I don't think Dad has fully forgiven the Dodgers for the Time Warner blackout.
Here, in the blazing sun, I wonder inwardly if and when the sun will reach our seats. A season ticket holder in the row behind me answers my silent question-- "you'll be in the sun about 1:40. It hits me at 1:30" There are no charts that tell you precisely at what moment the sun hits Reserve Section 6, Row H at Dodger Stadium, but there are season ticket holders. I smile and thank him, unfazed by his apparently psychic ability.
We don't get beer until the third inning. I don't ask why, but I know it's because we're finally in the shade, and so are our cup holders. Even with the degree altering cover of the shade, it's warm enough that the beer feels cooler and crisper, just like this season feels bigger and better given what came before it.
My eleven year old cousin marvels at the peanut man as he throws bags across five and up two rows of people. My Dad’s girlfriend, who I know has never watched baseball of her own accord, seems genuinely interested in the game. A 20 something behind me dragged to the game by two of his friends thinks we're playing the Pacers and doesn't know what a foul ball is. The mind reading season ticket holder chimes in now and again with commentary directed at the players but meant for our benefit.
"Come on Loggie Bear, take away some of my hurt!"
"Wake up them bats, boys, come on!"
For a moment, we are all together. Drawn from the furthest reaches of the sprawling metropolis that is Los Angeles, we're all here, for 9 innings, 27 outs, the national anthem and the seventh inning stretch. This, to me, is the magic of baseball.
The Dodgers lose, but it's fine. I know they'll be back tomorrow. And so will we.
About the Author: Lauren is a born and raised Angeleno and as such knows that Los Angeles only has one baseball team.