I was born in Los Angeles, California in 1972. My dad is buried on a hill that faces Dodgers Stadium. My first sports event memory in person is going to the stadium and getting $2 seats in the bleachers in left field staring at the back of Dusty Baker for nine innings.
My first broken heart was when I was just five years old and Reggie Jackson owned us in the first World Series I can remember. He was Mr. October to the world, but to me he was that asshole who broke my heart.
Growing up there was one not-so-unspoken rule in my dad’s house: don’t interrupt dad when he’s watching the Dodgers on TV.
What if I’m dead?
I’ll be sad, but you’re body will keep for a couple of hours.
I made that up, sure, but it’s not very far from the truth.
In September of 1980 I was a month away from turning eight years old. That’s when the Dodgers brought up some Mexican kid to pitch relief for the last few string of games. He had beautiful brown skin and spoke no English. That …
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