Coming “Home” — Kindling Kindship

This summer we found ourselves back at Dodger Stadium.

Back at the place where we both first fell in love with the game many years ago.

Him, as a little boy, trips with his dad to Dodger Stadium to cheer for the boys in blue.

Me, a little later, with my family, with my girlfriends, cheering for the hometown team.

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But this summer, this summer was different.

The bright lights, the towering stands, the perfectly green grass emblazoned with our dear “LA,” were just as we had left them. The dodger dogs were as tasty as ever and the energy still palpable as the city gathered for the game at Chavez Ravine. And while our beloved “Think Blue” hilltop sign was removed years ago, the sentiment surely remained.

And still, this time, it was all different. For this time, we were walking into a baseball stadium together, sitting side-by-side, cheering for our hometown team— rather than for his employer.

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My husband played and coached professional baseball for seven years. I was along on the ride for five. We spent every summer night of those years in some minor-league ballpark, somewhere east of the Mississippi. Cheering with the fans, stretching in the seventh, and mostly, living out of a suitcase. Baseball was his dream, but also, it was his job.

He decided to make a change last winter, to walk away from working for the game that was for so long his childhood dream. And so now, now, we are learning to fall in love with baseball in a whole new way.

Perhaps, like most relationships, as we grow and change, our love looks different, even though it remains.

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This summer we entered our hometown baseball stadium, having lived the behind-the-scenes of America’s great game. Knowing ever-so-personally the high of donning the jersey and taking the field. The excitement of new cities and of new people. The warmth of signing a ball for a little leaguer- of seeing the dream in his eye reflected back in yours. The elation of the come-from-behind win. The joy of celebrating the big call-up for our friends.

We entered the stadium now, having lived the grind of the minor leagues. Having lived the politics and the money-ball and the business of baseball.

We entered the stadium now, knowing so many of the stories behind the game; players, of course, but stories of the coaches and staff and stadium employees, too.

And so even though he had never played in this stadium, we entered the stadium, now a home of sorts, cheering for all of the players (and for their wives, girlfriends, and children in the stands and back at home), a family of sorts, smiling at the staff, with a familiarity of sorts.

This summer, we entered the stadium certainly different people than when we last left it.

And I think, it was a bit like returning to a childhood home. Walking the rooms that seem smaller now, somehow, and you can’t quite tell if it’s because you’ve grown or because your memory has faded. Realizing that the stairs do creak and that the roof does slope, and yet, knowing that it’s all still quite perfect. For nostalgia may have built up a bit of the grandeur, but your heart can’t help but swell because you know that these walls helped ground you and these halls hold your laughter and this ground caught your tears, and this place, well, it will always be a part of you.

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These stadiums will forever be a part of you.

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A stadium, some might say. But the city’s heart is more like it. For as the organ plays “Take me out to the Ball Game” for the second time, the song of the fans become inseparable from the heartbeat of the city, pulsing life once more into the streets.

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And I wonder what it is about this sport that draws us in? That keeps us returning summer after summer. That unites us under a team name. Packing us in to cheer for something far larger than ourselves.

Perhaps it’s about the athletic talent, marveling at individuals at the peak of their craft. Maybe it’s the festive environment; passing an evening under the stars, with a hot dog in hand and good company is undeniably fun. But I have an inkling that, maybe, it’s a bit more about the fact that anything can happen- and that you could be a part of it. That you could be there when the grand slam is hit, when the no-hitter is thrown, when the eighteenth-inning walk-off wins it all- when your team makes history.

I have a feeling it’s about little boys dreaming of winning the championship, and little girls planning to be the first to do so. It’s about being a part of the breath of your city, and the heartbeat of your home. It’s a little bit about being fully alive.

And so it was here, this summer, at Dodger Stadium, that we fell in love with baseball all over again. That we felt a bit more fully alive.

For while we know that Dodger fans are notorious for not making it to their seats until the third inning (this is LA after all). And that the stadium is always speckled with fans of the opposing team as it seems that most of this city moved here at some point in their adult life- some chasing dreams, maybe aiming for stardom, perhaps settling for stardust (this is LA after all). We also know that this is the city of angels, and that among heavenly hosts, anything is possible (welcome to LA).

And so maybe we aren’t great at finding our seats on time, and maybe our stadium isn’t always a sea of pure blue, but us Angelenos are really good at dreaming, really good at knowing that the impossible can happen, and really great at believing that it will.

And as we round third and head home on the 2018 season, we can’t help but believe in a World Series pennant as we sing along: