FATHER’S DAY

Disobedient Dodger Dog Tries to Foil Family Outing

Trials, tribulations, and lasting memories at a Dodger game

It was a beautiful, cool Southern California night for a baseball game.

There we sat, relaxed in the sixth inning. My 23-year-old son Bryce, 18-year-old daughter Brenna and myself at scenic Dodger Stadium for an early Father’s Day celebration.

Fifteen rows from the right-field wall at Dodger Stadium enjoying half of a Dodger Dog and sharing a large order of chili-cheese nachos in a plastic Dodger helmet.

Wait!

Half a Dodger Dog?

Let’s rewind and start at the beginning.

LAX to Dodger Stadium (19.9 miles)

My wife was flying out to visit family at 9 p.m. at LAX, which was 19.9 miles from Dodger Stadium — 21 minutes if minimal traffic. LOL.

We drop off my wife at LAX at 6 p.m, three hours early for her flight, so we have plenty of time to get to the Dodger game on time.

“Oh, an hour and ten minutes until the game,” she said. “You’ll make it in plenty of time.”

Oh, no she didn’t! She did. She just jinxed us.

Google Maps promised traffic was mild and that we would arrive at 6:50 p.m. at Dodger Stadium for the 7:10 p.m. start.

Bam! Bam!

The 105 Freeway is a breeze, as Boston, Journey, Styx, and the Rolling Stones play on the radio, then we hope on the 110 Freeway North and a giant gooey bird poop plops the windshield.

More than that hit.

Bumper to bumper as far as the eye can see. A sea of cars. Bam! One accident pops up on Google Maps. The estimated arrival time is now 6:55 p.m. Bam! Another one. Now it’s 6:59 p.m.

I feel like Keanu Reeves in the movie Speed minus any speed. A better analogy might be Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.

It’s going to be a race. A turtle race.

Suddenly, my dear friend Google Maps assures us there is a new faster route. A shortcut. It’s a major breakthrough, as “A Whole New World” plays in my head.

Tortoise not the hare

But the turtle’s pace turns to a snail’s pace. I try to remain optimistic as the lyrics “Alright think we’re going to make it” by Christopher Cross sail into my head.

Those lyrics are quickly squashed by the car next to us blaring their bouncy, booming, annoying rap music.

We finally exit the freeway and the ETA has leaped to 7:15 p.m. and mere minutes later to 7:20 p.m. Fittingly — no joke — “Jeopardy” by the Greg Kihn Band plays on the 80s station on SiriusXM radio.

Out of the (Dodger) blue, Bryce chimes out, “Oh, this is why you wanted to go to a Dodger game when Mom had her flight — to kill two birds with one stone.”

Um, Bryce, I’m pretty sure one of the birds got away and is halfway to Florida.

The first inning is complete. Dodgers 0, Angels 0.

New ETA: 7:25 p.m.

The hills are alive with the smell of hot dogs

While in more bumper-to-bumper traffic by Echo Park known for Swan pedal boats and its homeless population, someone has their grill going full throttle.

“Damn, those hot dogs smell good,” Bryce remarks. “Can’t wait to get one at Dodger Stadium.”

Several blocks later, it took everything in my power not to hop out of the vehicle and grab a cold beer at a little watering hole filled with Dodger fans just a short — or so I thought — few minutes from the stadium —as the new arrival time darts to 7:32 p.m.

The second inning is completed as Dodger pitcher Tony Gonsolin strikes out all three Angels, but it’s still 0–0.

Potty language

Waiting impatiently in the final very, very, very, long-ass winding line with all sorts of brand-new invented cuss words created in my mind. The ETA has rocketed to 7:37 p.m. No Rocketman by Elton John didn’t play on the radio.

“Fuck you, Google Maps!” I shout out unable to contain myself any longer.

“Get my homey some soap,” Bryce jokes.

Brenna continues with no expression texting on her phone.

I immediately apologize to both of my children.

Uh, oh, it’s magic

Magically and mysteriously like something out of Lord of the Rings, the baseball gods have accepted my apology as well, and the new ETA has returned to 7:32 p.m.

Finally, at 7:38 p.m. the truck is crookedly parked far, far away in a galaxy, not so near the left-field entrance. Yep, we have seats on the right-field side.

The third inning is completed and there is still no score.

A fast-paced pitcher’s duel. Great!

“Cheers!” I say to Bryce as we crack open a beer from the cooler in the trunk and celebrate our late — but successful — arrival.

Brenna is in the back texting away at breakneck speed, either telling her friends about her foul-mouthed father, or my beer chugging.

Burp!

Off to see the wizard…

We finally reach the great Oz, er, Dodger Stadium. I feel a sense of relief, splashed with sheer jubilee. I want to do a John Travolta Saturday Night Fever disco dance, but instead, I lovingly and embarrassingly hug both kids.

“We made it! I am so excited to be with my two awesome kids,” I announce with a gust of big energy and hug them both proudly.

“How much did you drink?” My daughter asks.

“Just one.”

“Is that a story?” Bryce asks.

This is their new running joke. Anytime something halfway amusing occurs, I pronounce ‘this would be a great story for Medium,’ and they roll their eyes and laugh.

Food… glorious food

It’s almost 8 p.m. and we are all starving.

Before going to our lower-level $70 seats we stop for Dodger Dogs, nachos, a pretzel, two more beers, and water for Brenna.

I joke how the story is how damn long it took to get here.

Brenna says, “The story is your cussing. I bet you “twenty bucks you can’t go the rest of the evening not cussing.”

No deal.

Cheering erupts from Dodger Stadium as the Dodgers take a 1–0 lead on an infield single by Trea Turner, and walks to Freddie Freeman, Will Smith, and Justin Turner with the bases loaded.

At least we were there to see it live — sort of — on the tiny TV screen by the concession stands, which of course featured yet another long, flipping (no cussing) line.

After dodging swarms and swarms of people and traveling down three flights of stairs, we finally make it to the very end of the stadium. Section 54.

I clutch tightly to the cardboard tray holding the giant nachos, pretzel, and two precious grilled Dodger Dogs.

We made it. Row O. Finally.

It was the top of the fifth inning.

“Excuse me, sir, we need to get into seats 9, 10, and 11.”

Then it happened

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

My delicious, mustard-covered grilled Dodger Dog with gobs of relish rolled off the cardboard container and landed — like an Olympic gymnast — upside down on the concrete aisle. Plop! Sadly, a perfect landing. Leaving a thick, giant mustard stain on the ground. And the evening.

Bryce immediately grabbed it.

I was fuming. Embarrassed. Frustrated. Annoyed. Angry.

I didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

We sat down.

“Do you still want it, dude?” Bryce asks.

Five-second rule?

“Are you freaking kidding me? Oh, ship, no. Ain’t no such thing as a five-second rule at the ballpark.”

I sit quietly for half an inning. Stewing. Pouting in my Duke Snider Dodger jersey with a brand new mustard stain.

“Here, Dad,” Bryce says. “You can have half my Dodger Dog.”

“I can’t eat all these nachos, Dad,” Brenna says. “Please have some. We can share.”

I say thank you to both, and dig in.

Look over there, it’s a bird, it’s a plane …

Then I notice Brenna pointing at the far side of the stadium by first base, and Bryce is laughing.

“Dude, the wave!” Bryce says.

“Dad, you surfing on the wave?” Brenna jokes.

“Fuck, yeah!” I respond and hand her a $20.

Eagerly we wait, then all three of us excitedly leap to our feet as people before and after us also excitedly jump out of their seats and fully extend their arms and hands, cheering loudly as the rousing, rolling human wave circles through section 54.

“Here let’s get a picture together,” I say.

Disastrous Dodger Dog or Rocky-like comeback?

“So what’s the story, Dad?” Bryce asks sarcastically. “The doomed and disastrous Dodger Dog?”

“Nah, Bryce. It’s a Rocky-type tale. One where the protagonist underdogs have to overcome adversities like a jinxing mom, nightmarish traffic, shoddy shortcuts, and a deathwish, dirty Dodger Dog but still end up having a winning time at the ballpark.”

Later in the eighth inning, Dodger Mookie Betts blasts a 390-foot home run to deep left-center field, and even non-baseball fan Brenna soars out of her seat to applause as the Dodgers get their final run in a 2–0 victory.

‘We are family’

I can’t contain my emotions, my smile, or my complete happiness. For the Dodgers, yes, but more for getting to spend quality time with my grown-up kids, who are inching closer and closer to starting their own lives and families.

Cherishing every moment. Every second.

Even if they do enjoy making fun of me and “my stories.”

Fans are still clapping loudly as Betts rounds the bases. I holler over to Brenna and Bryce.

“Family.”

They both have confused looks on their faces like I’m from Planet of the Apes.

“What did you say?” Bryce asks.

“The story is about family.”

Thanks for reading my story.

Scot Butwell, Deborah Camp, Scot Butwell, Sreese, Klara Jane Holloway, Susan Wheelock, Jane Kelley, MarkfromBoston 🌻Ukraine, Cliff Hightower, Evon, The Sober Vegan Yogi, Ginger Cook, Lu Skerdoo, Gerald Sturgill, PJ Kaplan, Kirby Workes.

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