Dodgertown Glides Down the 5 - A Photo Essay

On the day before a major holiday, I usually hunker down and don't drive anywhere further down the super market. Not last Friday. Not on July 3, 2009. Nope, I joined the assholes who hit the freeways on an exit out of town.

Manny Ramirez was returning to action in San Diego and I couldn't resist. Not that I condone his probable steroid use. But, these days, no one's indiscretion surprises me anymore. I am growing more and more immune to guilty pleas. Besides, I had always wanted to visit Petco Park when the Dodgers were there and this seemed to be as good a day as ever. And I reasoned that, on the Friday before Independence Day, most people were off from work and already at their non-Los Angeles-based barbecues.

Wrong.

We were smart to leave about five hours before gametime for the two-and-a-half-hour drive down the 5 Freeway. (Okay, the Golden State Freeway, Bibster) Smart move, since we arrived just 45 minutes before game time, thanks to some extra pokey traffic around San Juan Capistrano. The swallows came and went twice in the time that it took us to get through that town. Because of the lengthy drive and an ill-timed Diet Snapple, I had to pull off and pee in a San Clemente gas station. I consider this my homage to Richard Nixon.

Headed down the freeway, I noticed that my vehicle was not the only one sporting a Dodger license plate. I sensed a religious revival in the making as if Billy Graham had beckoned us all to come forward and proclaim our eternal faith in Tommy Lasorda. As slow as we were all moving, I sensed that this was a Dodger wagon train and that Ward Bond was riding in the lead car.

The road to San Diego is scenic and ugly, sometimes all at once. There are beautiful flowers lining the highway at some points. The ocean is frequently at your right. Also, on the passenger car, you might find some nuclear power plants and power lines that define the truest sense of the expression "cancer cluster." At one point, there was a huge field of wood slats coming out of the crowd. How clever, I thought. Somebody is growing broomsticks for the Swifter company. Indeed, we eventually knew some sort of vegetable was involved when we spotted busloads of Mexican lettuce pickers getting transported out after their 17-hour work day.

I had purchased game tickets on Stubhub so I really was schlepping 130 miles for some mystery seats. All I knew was that we were seated in the Toyota Terrace. I was driving a Toyota there so I appreciated all the symmetry. When we slid into downtown San Diego, I followed the crowd to parking and found up in some lot about six blocks from the ballpark. I then pulled off a move that I had not seen since the days of my grandfather. The Diet Coke I had bought in the San Clemente gas station was now backed up and I actually peed in a corner near my parking spot. But, I was comfortable. As I looked around, we were in a sea of Dodger blue. Did the Padres have any fans going to this game?

Apparently not. This was an invasion akin to the Allies landing on Normandy. "Let's Go Dodgers" chants started on the escalator ascending the stadium and did not stop for hours. We had no idea how the ballpark worked, but figured the Toyota Terrace had to be someplace in the vicinity.

Indeed, we had scored the first home run of the game. Because the Toyota Terrace is a pretty exclusive area of seats on the same level as the press box and the luxury seats. While not a suite, there is waiter service for your hot dogs, burgers, etc.. A good thing because there are not a lot of concession stands on our level, although there is a tribute to the former Padre pitcher with the "Randy Jones BBQ" stand. We skipped that and settled into our seats. And the view was astounding as we surveyed all the wonderment of Petco Park.

This was our vantage point. You will notice to the left of the pitching mound the Padres' mascot, a Friar with a big head. It ain't the Chicken, I assure you. The Friar tries to get a frenzy going, but that's tough to pull when two thirds of the fans in attendance are rooting against the Padres. I am guessing most of the Padres' fan base had scalped their seats on Stubhub and headed off to the Zoo or Sea World.

Petco Park was built around this 100-year-old building that once housed the Western Metal Supply Company. They've turned it into a bunch of luxury suites but what isn't a luxury suite at Petco. They've crammed so much stuff in this place that there's hardly an inch of space that isn't occupied by people, food, or people ingesting food. Oddly enough, throughout our travels around the stadium, there is a minimum of souvenir stands. I did not see one. So just where did the twelve Padre fans in attendance buy their Adrian Gonzalez jerseys? A mystery for the ages. Or perhaps the Padres just don't deal in commerce for anything that's not eventually edible?

On the other side of the centerfield wall, there is a family section where you sit on the grass and watch the game. But, given the number of toddlers running around there, I doubt any adult here saw a single pitch thrown. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure the last Padre these folks saw swing a bat was Nate Colbert. Are there no neighborhood playgrounds in San Diego?

The post-game stories said that the reaction to Manny on his first at-bat were mixed. I now conclude that most of those reporters are deaf. There were a lot more cheers than boos. Perhaps they were too busy enjoying their pulled pork sandwich from the Randy Jones BBQ.

And the cheers did not subside on his last at-bat for the evening. By then, the Dodgers were comfortably ahead for the night. The only Padre threat was upended, with a tip of the baseball cap to poetic justice, by a spectacular catch from Manny's defensive replacement, Juan Pierre.

Since the Dodgers put this one away early, I used the down time to wander. And, unlike most places in America, you can do that at Petco Park pretty much unaccosted. There is no worry for terrorists there. Just walk around and see if one of the many 80-year-old ushers will stop you. The Padres obviously hire the elderly. There are probably assisted living complexes all over San Diego that are virtually empty for 81 days during every baseball season.

Here I am, literally standing next to the KCAL home plate cameraman and right under Vin Scully's press box window. Vin was just about six feet above me. I have no idea why my attention is diverted to the side. It's not like I was worried about an usher wheeling himself over to chase me. My God, my eyes look like one of those Jerry Mahoney dummies.

But the ability to get so close to Vin came me an idea. How about a picture of the two of us together? I'd be happy to autograph this for you, Mr. Scully.

As it turned out, we were awash with celebrity sightings. About twenty feet in the other direction, we saw the luxury suite of partial Padre owner and former Dallas Cowboy quarterback Troy Aikmann. That is him in the picture, although with the lighting, it just as well could be Jermaine Jackson.

There was a post-game fireworks show that also seemed to be dominated by Dodger fan still savoring their win. The pyrotechnics were impressive, but resulted in huge clouds of smoke. It was like I was 10 years old and this was the living room where my mom was chainsmoking through an episode of the Merv Griffin Show. If dolphins at Sea World were coughing on Saturday morning, I know why.

The Dodger caravan started its return trip up the 5. This time around, there was no traffic. Nestled into the car pool lane, I did 80 mph all the way up, Officer, and got back to LA in less than two hours.

And I did not have to stop and pee in San Clemente.

Dinner last night: Pork chops and sweet potato pancakes.