I Don't Care if I Never Get Back

Spring is almost here, and I just got excited about the thought of going to Dodgers games this season. Dodgers Stadium, the third oldest ballpark in the states now, teems with history, charm, and memories for me.

• day games (the sun, sweat, tees and less, growing shadows, warming tones. it's just a great day at the park)
• night games (the smell of fresh cut grass on a crisp cool night, jackets, big banks of stadium lights. no place better place to spend an LA summer evening)
• vin scully on the radio
• nancy bea on the organ
• the peanut guy in the aisles
• ice cold beer in my hand

We have an old family tradition at Chavez Ravine called The Flynn Sprint. My dad would take my two brothers and me [then Terence and me when Patrick moved away to college, then just a friend and me when Terence moved away to college] to catch a couple Dodger games every season. He'd get free tickets to The Club Level from work. My dad has always been determined to avoid traffic whenever possible, and Dodger games were no exception.

We'd get to the stadium before the first pitch of course, and he'd place his 1970 Chevy Malibu (that he still drives) in a strategic position - right by the exit gate - the furthest possible spot from the stadium, leaving a sea of empty parking spaces for us to cross on our way to the park. And then... there was the hallowed Flynn Sprint. No matter if the game was a nail biter or a blowout, we'd stay and watch all the way through the last out. In a town of fans who show up in the third inning and leave in the seventh, I appreciate this and I'm adamant about it myself, but this really defeated our other efforts to beat the crowd. Anyways, when there was one out in the last half inning, we'd get out of our seats and start this weird sideways shimmy towards the doors, watching the game intently, but also keeping an eye out for vendors, cement posts, and other fans who were making a b-line to the exit. Two outs, a couple strikes.. By this time, we'd be right at the doors. Then, boom, when the final strike was tossed or the last runner was thrown out, we'd make a mad dash for the Malibu, which was oh, so many strides away for my nine year old legs. And I swear to god, my dad was faster than Carl Lewis for the duration of each one of The Flynn Sprints. It took everything in me to keep up with him and my big brothers. We'd get to the car, huffing and puffing, laughing and smiling, pile into the back seat, turn on Vin Scully's post game wrap up, and edge into the already endless line of cars impatiently waiting to get out.