It’s a smooth ride, until trip home
I decide to Uber to Dodger Stadium for the home opener, letting someone else do the driving, the way we hipsters prefer. The hipsters’ credo is to shun responsibility in any form — children, jobs, cars — anything with the stench of adult behavior. That’s perfect for me.
So I Uber over. The 10mile trip costs me nothing because I use the promo code LADODGERS, which gives me a $15 credit that covers the $14 fare. That’s perfect for me, because like most hipsters, I’m borderline employed. I exist on the fringes. I dance with the disenfranchised.
Getting home? Well, I don’t want to blow the ending, but getting home was an adventure — an expensive one.
In a perfect world, Dodgers fans would park geographically. In Lot 3, the South Bay. In Lot 7, Highland Park. That way, when a game ended, you could head to the proper parking lot to bum a ride home. Now, that would be true ride sharing, a Utopian ideal.
So what if a few fans go missing? I assure you the vast majority would get home just fine.
There’s nothing better than bouncing around the old ballyard on the week of the home opener. I like how the Dodgers, two years ago, tore down the gates separating the outfield pavilions, allowing fans to move, to mingle, to lap the joint.
It’s still easier to move laterally than up and down. The escalators don’t go high enough, and the elevators are a joke. But Janet Marie Smith, who looks after the fan experience, says she and other Dodgers executives are looking into adding elevators at the far corners.
Till then, the new bar areas in the top deck are another terrific touch in Smith’s respectful revamp of the old place.
I suggest she develop a True-Blue IPA, a craft brew made exclusively for Dodger Stadium. From what I can glean, fans really enjoy the occasional beverage.
I slither into a suite where the Scully family is partying. Though invited, I feel like I’ve infiltrated the royal family. I used to be Irish too, so they look at me like I might be a black-sheep cousin. Or maybe the guy bringing more ice.
I’m dressed as nice as possible, a sports coat and faux leather shoes, spats. It’s the home opener, after all.
I quickly find the queen of this krewe, Vinny’s wife, Sandra, surrounded by the Scully grandchildren and great-grandchildren, some 20 in all.
The lovely Sandra holds this operation together. In her lap is the baseball they just gave her famous husband. Signed by a dozen Dodgers greats, it might be worth more than my 401(k).
Nice gesture. Fans have suggested the Dodgers ought to gift Scully with a small chunk of the team. That would be a nice gesture as well.
What’s on the agenda for next year? Nothing, Sandra says. She and Vin have done their share of traveling, and after this rock-star send-off, just staying home seems the most appealing activity.
Sandra tells how, in San Diego recently, fans mobbed their moving car, shoving baseballs through the window for autographs.
“I was so worried someone was going to get hurt,” she says.
Three filmmakers have approached Scully about a possible documentary, Sandra says. There are still no plans for a memoir.
Please, Vin, a book — fat as the Old Testament and full of your marvelous stories. A book to fill a long summer night.
Back dancing with the disenfranchised, I run into veteran writer Bill Peterson in the press box, where being disenfranchised is almost a prerequisite.
I bring up L.A.’s uncanny connection to baseball. Peterson cites a study he did two seasons ago that found that Southern California produced more major league players than any entire state, including Texas. By Peterson’s count, our region produced 110 active players, compared to 100 from Texas and 79 from Florida.
Yes, I eventually got home. The Uber pickup spot, in Lot 12, was like a bad day at Disneyland. As with so much lately, no one seemed in charge. Credit my driver, Carlos, for snaking his way through outgoing traffic to find me. One day, I would like to gift him a small chunk of the ballclub.
The tab? I was charged more than double, under Uber’s “surge-pricing” policy, boosting the 10-mile trip home to $31.90. For that, I may as well as have hopped into a waiting taxi.
Uber was great for getting to the game, but not for getting home. As with all things — seasons, too — it really is how you finish.