I was 8. Some would say too young to understand. Others would wonder what took so long. I remember the smells, the sounds, the faces. Equally frightening and liberating. I was changed forever.
And that time has come for my daughters.
Time for Dodger baseball. Time for that pilgrimage to the Church of Chavez Ravine, the Holy Land of Hot Dogs, the temple of blue steel and gray concrete that is Dodger Stadium. The House that O'Malley Built, the Valle de Valenzuela, the land of Lasorda, the …well …you get the idea. We took Thing 1 and Thing 2 to their first Dodger game.
I remember my first time, sitting on the third-base line, my dad helping me memorize the players: Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey, Yeager ...The infield clay a mirror reflecting the sun, the manicured grass an emerald checkerboard. I remember the line-drive foul ball striking that unsuspecting fan in the gut. Lucky fan.