#81

When you're a season ticket holder of a baseball team, it's a very sad number.  Every year, I sort my tickets into clean white envelopes and mark the game number on the front in sequential order. 

#81 is always the last one.  There are that many home games.  And, unfortunately, in 2012, there are no more for the Dodgers. 

One may be the loneliest number.  Eighty-one, for me, is always the most depressing.

For several months every year, I plan my life around these envelopes.  #1 is Opening Day and promise.  #81 is the end and, if there are no other tickets, despair.  In between, there is exhileration and anguish, giddiness and torture, smiles and frowns.  All of the above emotions are always punctuated with one overriding sensation.

Enjoyment. 

There is no better place for me in Los Angeles than Dodger Stadium.  On the Loge Level.  Aisle 120, Row L (for Len, natch), Seat 1 and 2.  Scorebook on my lap.  My clear plastic tote bag at my side.  Binoculars around my neck so I can always see who the Dodgers are warming up in the bullpen.  My season ticket lanyard draped over my chest in the event I want to roam the ballpark.  My Coke Zero in a big souvenir cup nestled in my drink holder. 

And, spread out in front of me, the mountain vistas, the scoreboard, a manicured carpet of green, and ultimate beauty. 

Buddhists chant.  Yoga fans meditate on mats.  Me?  I calm myself by sitting in my seats at the ballpark.

I had tickets for #81 on Wednesday, October 3, 2012.  The only trouble is the Dodgers had been eliminated from playoff qualification at the end of #80 on Tuesday, October 2, 2012.  The pendulum had swung for game importance.  #81 had gone from hope to ambivalence.

But I went anyway.  I've been to games that don't count before.  Hey, I was a Met fan at Shea Stadium where the team was frequently mathematically eliminated by Memorial Day.  But, after all, baseball is baseball.  Each game a short story crafted by the most creative author of all, the fates.  Regardless of the day or the game or the importance, you always have the possibility of seeing something that has never happened before.  At this particular contest, I saw rookie Alex Castellanos hit his first major league home run.  A big moment for this young man.  And I was there to share in it.

I got to see Clayton Kershaw pitch another masterpiece and there are now enough of them to populate an extension to the Louvre.  We got to cheer.  We got to boo the Giants and that never gets old.   I get one last big laugh from the crowd when Pedro Sandoval, one of the hated ones from up north, strikes out and I yell, "Sit down, Tubby!"  I enjoy one more Cool-A-Coo.  One last seventh-inning-stretch with Nancy Bea playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."  One final wave from Vin Scully and I wonder if he's available for dinner with me at any time during the offseason.

Yes, I suppose a baseball season does need to end.  There must be some down time for stadium personnel to recharge.  Fix some cracks in the steps.  Repair a concession stand soda machine.  Perhaps even modernize the bathrooms.    After all, this fine lady is 50 years old.  Time takes another toll.

Fans around me say "have a nice winter," as if those months are tough ones to endure in Southern California.  Nancy Bea plays "I'll Be Seeing You" and yes, you will again.  At the end of the victory, the team lingers a bit longer on the field and the fans do the same in the stands.  Manager Don Mattingly removes his jersey and tosses it to a child behind the dugout.  He'll have another one to wear next spring.  Come the new baseball season, it will be new all over again.

Goodbye to ushers Richard and Sid.  Stay well.  So long to Chuck and the other folks working at the Stadium Club.  Maybe I'll see you at the Staples Center.  There are other familiar faces, some with names and most without.  You hope to see them again next April.   After all, they're all part of this unique experience.

As I begin my last ascent up Aisle 120, I perform a ritual that I started as a kid with my Saturday seats at Shea Stadium.  I tap both my seats.  A pat on their backs.  Be good, guys, until we meet again. 

Which will be in 2013.  Monday, April 1.  #1.  Again.

Dinner last night: Soup and salad.