Los Angeles: Dodger Stadium
Finding your way in L.A.
Take a few steps, click the button and listen very closely. Nothing. A few more steps. Click the button again. Did I hear something? No, that’s not it.
Maybe I’m headed the wrong way. Double back, click the button. Still nothing. Don’t panic, you’ll be fine. It’s only a matter of time. Time I don’t have much of. Keep walking. Click the button. Listen.
The longer it takes, the easier it should get. At some point, the answer will be obvious. Walk. Click. Listen.
This shouldn’t be taking so long. I’m a smart guy, I can figure this out. Walk. Click. Listen.
What’s the worst possible outcome? I’m stuck here? Walk. Click. Listen.
Are those people laughing at me? C’mon, focus. Walk. Click. Listen.
Walk. Click. Listen.
Walk. Click. Listen.
Erin said she wanted sushi. Given, that was a couple days ago, but I had filed that mental note with a little neon yellow tab on it. As I sat in the laundromat on Chapman Ave. drinking my two canned cold brew coffees I bought at 7-Eleven, I looked up the best options in Little Tokyo. The place I wanted to go, Hama Sushi, famous for their “NO TEMPURA. NO TERYAKI. NO NOODLES.” disclaimer, would’ve been fine for the two of us, but Scott and Mindy were coming along too. The four of us would’ve taken up approximately 20% of the seating, and there was no guarantee we could even all get in at the same time.
Instead, I directed us to Sushi Tsujita in Sawtelle for an omakase lunch since we were still committed to living a lifestyle befitting people in the upper echelons of the music industry. It takes about an hour to get to Sawtelle from Anaheim, which is pretty close to the exact amount of time it takes an edible to really kick in for me. I had no doubt lunch was going to be spectacular, but I decided to take the insurance just in case.
I wish I could tell you that was a great idea. I wish I could tell you virtually anything about the meal itself besides a guess at the number of times I said “oh my fucking god” after taking a bite. I wish I could tell you that I didn’t at one point go on a weird tangent about mortality that wasn’t related to anything that anyone at the table was talking about. I wish I could tell you which of the spectacular courses was my favorite. Actually, that I can do: it was the Wagyu beef. I wish I could tell you that I reminded Scott to go put money in the meter to avoid getting a parking ticket. But I got high instead.
After our two-hour omakase experience, we drove over to Santa Monica Pier to walk off our lunch — and my buzz — on a textbook California Monday afternoon. The place was teeming with beachgoers, fitness freaks and day trippers.1 I’m certainly not a member of the “no one wants to work anymore” chorus, but do these folks actually have jobs? I mean, I’m sure a lot of them are students on summer break. More than a few had to be service industry professionals, for whom Monday is their Saturday. Factor in a fair number of tourists at a well-known tourist trap and I suppose the math works out.
As much as soaking up rays at the beach is a quintessential Los Angeles experience, so is allotting an hour and a half in traffic to go 17 miles from the beach to downtown. Our path along the surface streets2 took us past 2121 Avenue of the Stars — aka “Nakatomi Plaza” from Die Hard — as well as the La Brea Tar Pits. No Hans Gruber sightings at the former, no Bugs Bunny sightings at the latter.
Many of my friends and family have left the Midwest and Rust Belt in favor of southern California, whether to try their hands in the entertainment industry or just to get a reprieve from grey skies and oppressive winters. Some are still there, but some have moved back east, broken down by the high cost of chasing a dream and the tyranny of relentless sunshine.
We met up before the Dodgers game at Short Stop on Sunset Boulevard with my cousin Leo, a film director/producer, and my friends Vic and Charlie, whom I met through rock band stuff.3 After some catching up — and reuniting Vic and Charlie, whose bands had played together way, way back in the day — we made our way up the hill to Dodger Stadium, quickly sneaking into the parking lot through the under-the-radar Scott Avenue gate.
The third oldest ballpark in the majors, Dodger Stadium opened in 1962 as a mid-century modern shrine to baseball, built atop a neighborhood snatched from Mexican-American residents through eminent domain. The initial plan for the land was to erect public housing, but a public referendum and conservative city leadership nixed that idea, instead giving the land to the baseball team to build their new home. It’s hard to reconcile the awe and reverence that Dodger Stadium commands with the manner in which the land it sits on was acquired. In fact, parts of the Chavez Ravine neighborhood weren’t even demolished: they were simply buried under earth to flatten the topography for ease of paving giant parking lots.
But still, Dodger Stadium evokes a feeling that most newer ballparks fail to achieve. There’s a wistfulness in the mid-mod features that matches the attitude of the millions who have moved to Los Angeles — much like the Dodgers did themselves — in search of success in paradise. There’s a respect for the game embodied in the open concourse design, uncluttered by food and beverage kiosks blocking the view of on-field action. Even through several rounds of renovations to bring modern amenities to the park like an outfield social pavilion and state-of-the-art video boards, Dodger Stadium still feels like an authentic mid-century ballpark. Almost stuck in time, the park honors not only the more than six decades of Dodgers baseball, but also the golden age of Hollywood and the glitz and glamor commonly associated with L.A.
In this Monday night tilt, Dodger fans gave a long standing ovation to their first baseman, Freddie Freeman, who was making his first start in over a week after leaving the team to tend to his son who suffers from Guillain-Barré syndrome. The visiting Philadelphia Phillies jumped out to 2-0 lead in the second inning against Dodger starter Tyler Glasnow. The home nine would quickly rally back, scoring four runs in the bottom of the third, capped by a Teoscar Hernandez home run.4 This offensive outburst would prove to be all the Dodgers would need, as Glasnow mostly silenced the Phillies’ bats for six innings before turning the game over to L.A.’s lockdown bullpen. Final score: Dodgers win 5-3.5
Because we got to the park shortly before first pitch, I didn’t get a chance to do my normal lap to check everything out, opting instead to watch the majority of the game from our top deck seats, continue catching up with the group of L.A. residents and only duck out to refresh my beer and grab a famous Dodger Dog. Still, it’s hard not to be charmed by this iconic ballpark, even if all you see of it is the diamond, the grass and the gorgeous Elysian Park and San Gabriel Mountain scape beyond center field.
By the time we got back to Anaheim, I was actually just the slightest bit bummed that I didn’t get to explore Dodger Stadium the same way that I’ve been able to take in the 21 ballparks that I visited prior. I immediately started scheming how soon I could get back to L.A. to get the full experience.
As it turned out, soon was sooner than I would’ve expected. After our northern California adventure came to an end the following Sunday morning, I pointed the Mazda 3 southward to the City of Angels. The Dodgers were taking on the Pittsburgh Pirates that afternoon, and if I drove fast enough on the 5 freeway, I could make it by the second inning. I stopped at a Starbucks about 15 miles from the park, bought an iced coffee and snagged a single ticket off SeatGeek for $20.
Knowing that time was a factor, I decided to park the car in the enormous and expensive Dodger Stadium lots, rather than take a chance on missing the Dodger Express buses that run from Union Station. It’s borderline criminal that it costs $35 to park there, but what can you expect from a city that glamorizes car culture to the point of endless traffic congestion?
I quickly made my way from the car to the center field gate, hoping that there was still time to get one of the 40,000 Matt Kemp bobbleheads they were giving away. Alas, I was one of the last 10,000 people through the gates and would eventually leave empty handed.
The Dodger game we went to on Monday night was nearly perfect, weather-wise: 82 degrees and clear, with the setting sun to our back. On Sunday afternoon, however, it was blazing hot in the lower 90s, the radiant heat reflecting up off the asphalt and concrete. My seat offered a brief respite from the sunshine for the first two innings, but the shade provided by the deck above slowly crept up the stands, leaving me exposed and drenched in sweat.
I took this as an opportunity to explore, finding the museum exhibits on the club level, the well-stocked craft beer stands on the reserve level, the grilled, all-beef Dodger Dogs in the main concourse6, the Blue Heaven on Earth centerfield plaza, the Legends of Dodger Baseball plaques and so much more. I walked around for probably about half of the game, seeking out as much of Dodger history as I could find.
I settled into an empty seat in the shade toward the end of Tyler Glasnow’s seven innings of solid work, Dodgers up 4-2, the only blemish on his record being a two run homer by Pirates designated hitter Andrew McCutchen in the top of the third. The ageless Cutch — 37 years old, actually — hit another two run bomb off reliever Anthony Banda to knot the game at four runs a piece. That score would hold through nine innings; in the tenth frame, Pirates outfielder Bryan Reynolds hit an RBI single just out of the reach of the Dodger left fielder, giving Pittsburgh a 5-4 lead.
I was getting nervous. Not only because a Pittsburgh victory would snap the home team win streak I had running up to this point,7 but also because I had made a plan to leave the game and immediately drive the five or so hours to Phoenix. If the Dodgers tied the score and forced more free baseball, my departure would be summarily pushed back and my already long day would get even longer.
A double by Enrique Hernandez brought the placed runner around to score, tying the game 5-5, just as I had feared. A walk and two outs later, left fielder Teoscar Hernandez made up for his fielding miscue in the top of the frame by delivering a walk-off single to clinch victory for Los Angeles, 6-5.
I followed the crowds out to the parking lot, quickly realizing that in my haste to get in the gates, I did not make a note of where my car was. I had some vague directions in my head: go out the centerfield gate, walk past the giant blue foam finger, head toward the Academy Road exit. Lot 3, does that sound familiar? Lot 3 is roughly the size of four downtown city blocks. Lot 3 literally used to be four city blocks. There’s an elementary school buried beneath the asphalt.
Follow the lead of the other folks searching for their cars: get your keys out of your pocket, take a few steps, click the alarm button and listen very closely. It’s working for other people.
Walk. Click. Listen.
Walk. Click. Listen.
If I don’t find the car soon, it just means it’ll take even longer to get to Phoenix. I take my phone out of my pocket to look up how long that drive is. A notification is on the screen: “Computer left behind. This item is no longer detected near you. It was last seen near Academy Dr.”
There’s an Airtag in my laptop bag, just as there’s an Airtag on my keychain. I open the app and start walking until the two tags are on top of each other on the map, and there’s the Mazda 3, right where I left it. Yet another mini crisis averted.
NEXT GAMES:
Chicago White Sox at Oakland Athletics, Wednesday, Aug. 7, 12:37 p.m. PDT, Oakland Coliseum
Detroit Tigers at San Francisco Giants, Saturday, Aug. 10, 1:05 p.m. PDT, Oracle Park
Colorado Rockies at Arizona Diamondbacks, Monday, Aug. 12, 6:40 p.m. MST, Chase Field
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.
The 10 freeway was completely fucked as you could imagine at 4 p.m. on a Monday.
My old band played a few shows with Vic’s band from Buffalo, Patrons of Sweet. He’s now in a band in L.A. called Some Gifts. Charlie has been in the band Fox Japan with his brothers since forming in West Virginia back in the ‘00s. He was also one of the many, many bass players that played with us in The Kyle Sowashes.
As is my custom, I missed this homer because I was in the men’s room.
Home teams are now 11-12 on the tour.
Considerably better than the beef and pork version.
Whoops… spoiler alert, if you haven’t read the Oakland and San Francisco posts (that, as of this writing, I haven’t written yet.)
Okay, so maybe Airtags are more useful than I really realized.