Oddly enough, like my passion for baseball, this event had its roots with...my father. And, gee, doesn't every kid's love of the game begin with his dad? Maybe simply by having a catch in the driveway. Oh, we did that. And, as buttery as my fingers could be, I can hear his voice to this very day.
"Use two hands!"
Squinting at the huge Dodger Stadium around me last Monday, there were many reasons why my dad popped into my mind. For instance...
My very, very, very first baseball game. At Yankee Stadium. My father's cousin owned an oil burner company that had a season box. Since I had been home from school for about a week with an ear infection, I was not the ideal participant in this fun. But, my father, who had been a lifelong Yankee fan, wasn't going to miss this opportunity to introduce his son to baseball.
Cotton balls were thrown in my ears and a Yankee hat was plopped onto my head. I was good to go. Retrosheet reminds me that Mickey Mantle hit a homerun that afternoon. I could have cared less. I was too busy making myself a nuisance by yelling into that Yankee megaphone which had been my popcorn holder.
For me, baseball was still something that pre-empted my late afternoon cartoons on WPIX Channel 11. What caused me to become a fan?
I got the German measles.
Cooped up again in the house for a week the following May, I was bored out of my mind. Having watched all the sitcom reruns I could in the morning, I sat in front of the TV set and turned the channel knob. Yes, folks, no remote control. I surveyed what was available on the six or seven channels. Yes, folks, only six or seven channels. I stumbled upon a New York Met day game being telecast from spanking new Shea Stadium. Hmmm. If nothing else, this would tide me over until the Popeye Show with Captain Jack McCarthy.
Staring at the black and white screen and listening to this guy named Lindsey Nelson, I started to pay attention to the action. I remember immediately being engaged when the Mets got two runs in the bottom of the first inning when somebody hit a homerun. Retrosheet tells me that it was Tim Harkness.
Gee, I'd only been following this sport for ten minutes and already my team was winning. How cool was that?
Ultimately, on that day, the Mets won 3-2 over the Cincinnati Reds. I had hung in for all nine innings. By myself. And I started to understand what was going on. That afternoon, the Popeye cartoons were even sweeter. I had myself a baseball team. I couldn't wait to tell my father.
Yankee fan Dad was nonplussed.
"You want to root for the Mets?? You know they stink."
Huh? They had just won.
"They're the worst team in baseball."
Huh? I liked them.
"Don't you want to go to another Yankee game?"
Huh?
Er, no, Dad, I don't. I'm a Met fan.
I thought about that at the Lexus Dugout Club as a full-blown Los Angeles Dodger fan now. A season ticket holder, to boot, with two of the best seats on the loge level at my disposal. But, on this one night, I was in exclusive seats. And, again, it was Dad who got me there.
As a season ticket holder, I am given several membership cards to share. I give two of them to my partners who share the seats. I put one of my two cards in my name. Stuck for how to name my second card, I decide to pop my dad's name on it. I do it mostly for a gag. Isn't it funny that my father is recognized as a season ticket holder for a team in a state he never ever set foot in? After all, what's the harm with this joke? The card is basically just going to be used for 25% off at all souvenir stands.
But, this year, the Dodgers install a small kiosk where you can scan your membership cards upon entry to the ball park. So, every time I showed up, I would do so. And it would say that my name and my dad's name are entered into that day's drawing.
I never gave it a second thought until two Sundays ago when, around the fifth inning, I get an email that is for me, but not really me.
"Dear Harold, you are today's winner. Please come to the club level by 330PM to retrieve your prize."
Now I'm thinking the prize is some promotional item they have in the back stock room. A tote bag. An umbrella. An Adrian Gonzalez bobblehead.
I arrive at the club level and immediately explain why my dad is unavailable to claim his prize. I tell them he has been unavailable since February, 1991. They understand and then focus in on me as the main prize winner. The first thing they do is shove a W-9 tax form under my nose. Why?
"Well, because the cash value of the prize is over $600."
What???
Well, it turns out that the cost of two Lexus Dugout Club seats for an upcoming game is $350 each.
I thank Dad again for his generosity. I decide to take my childhood best bud Leo to the game because he actually did know my father. And we are treated to opulence personified at least for one game.
An enormous all-you-can-eat pre-game buffet, complete with a dessert bar. Everything is free from sodas to peanuts to snacks. The only thing that is not on the arm is alcohol. I hear Dad's voice again.
"Don't buy the liquor. It's always marked up."
We go out to our seats and drink it all in.
I look around me and I realize my dad is there in another way. His cynicism which is embedded in me to this day. I see the other fans in the ultra-expensive seats that I certainly couldn't afford on my own. There are Hispanic families with kids. Others who I would kindly refer to as...well...slobs. How the hell could they be here? I look at a couple of discount ticket sites. Even there, a seat in these parts will cost you at least two hundred bucks. My father would wonder where they got the money. And so do I.
But my thoughts meander back to the fun. The magic of one evening. And the sheer luck that my father's name was pulled out of a hat at Dodger Stadium.
It doesn't get any better than this. Or that.
Dinner last night: Chinese pork and chicken.
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