We’d go almost every night there was a home game in Los
Angeles (we rarely missed an evening in the summer). Sometimes, when our
beloved Dodgers were on the road, we’d even drive down to hell (Anaheim) to
watch the deplorable Angeles play.
The routine was
pretty much the same most nights, after spending the day working, or at
school or at the beach honing my wide
riding skills, me and a couple of buddies (Steve and Rob Lurie, Steve and Chuck
Price) would hop into my red ’72 pinto and jam to the Commodores as we drove
eastbound on THE 10 towards Chavez Ravine. We’d cruise through Echo Park and
turn up Scott Ave to climb one of the steepest residential hills in Los Angeles
before driving past Elysian Park. We were too cheap (the little money we had
would be better spent on hot dogs) to pull into the parking lot and pay, so in
the early years I parked on a hill outside the stadium and we’d all walk up to
the ball park. The last year I did this, I went to 56 home games. Often times
in the later years I’d drive down by myself or with Julie (my wife to be), but
would almost always run into guys I knew like Jimmy Pettersen, Jay Belshaw or
Harold Katz.
The interesting thing is that in all the years we attended
games at Dodger stadium, we never paid for a ticket. Never. We were among a
small legion of dedicated ticket “moochers,” and we were proud. In the early
years we’d stand just outside the entrance to the Field Box level on the first
base side. If there were more than two or three of us we’d usually spread out,
lean on one of the light-blue bollards that protected the turn-style entrance
and the crusty old vendors selling programs yelling “you can’t see the ballgame
without a program.” As the sea of fans would approach the entrance to the stadium,
the line was always the same. “Have any extra tickets?”
Sometimes people would stop, open an envelope they’d pulled
off a bulletin board at work and notice they indeed had four corporate owned
tickets when they only needed two. The ticket price on those yellow and white
field box tickets (the best in the house) was $4.50, and there was always some
rookie fan that expected you to pay them at least face value for the ticket. We’d
usually just respond with “sorry…don’t have any money…just want to see the
game.”
Once in a while someone would even hand you a ticket and say
something like “here you go kid…you can buy me a hot dog inside.” We never even
blinked…before saying no. We had a code…and there was nothing lower than
actually paying for a ticket in any manner. We were there to get in for free…and
we never failed…even at World Series games (that’s a more involved story). We
even believed there was some karma associated with the practice, and part of
the moocher’s oath was to never resell or look to profit from the practice. We
were there to cheer on a team we loved, night after night…and you never wanted
to risk our good fortune by unethically selling a ticket we’d obtained for
nothing.
There were a lot of occasions where
someone would hand you more than a couple of blue Reserved Level tickets and we’d
quickly hand them back saying something like “no thank you…we don’t sit way up
there.” On many evenings we’d get more tickets than we needed, and found
ourselves either having to eat them or look for other kids to hand them to. We
enter the stadium and usually sit a few rows back on the first base side
between home and first base…right behind the visitors’ dugout. We such snobs
that we often wouldn’t even sit in the seats we’d mooched. We just used them to
gain access to the prime Field Box level and then find open seats that
notoriously late-arriving fans would make available. On the best nights the
ticket holders would never show…or better yet, we’d actually mooch great seats
and comfortably sit there all evening. We’d even roll our eyes in disgust when
some affluent family would arrive late and look at us with this confused look
on their faces as to why their seats were occupied. We always just hopped up
and moved to another open seat…unless it was a really big game, then we’d move
to the seats we’d actually mooched.
We’d sit there in ecstasy.
Rooting for Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, Davey Lopes, Billy Russell, Joe Ferguson,
Steve Yaeger, Rick Monday, Dusty Baker, Don Sutton, Reggie Smith, and Manny
Mota. We’d listen to Vin Scully on our transitor radios, eat a couple of Dodger
dogs (never did figure out how to mooch those) and look out onto the manicured
field and palm trees swaying behind the out field bleachers. We weren’t in Iowa…but
we were in heaven…and we knew it.
What’s the point of all this? If
you know, use the comment section and fill me in. Could be that I’m feeling
nostalgic this morning…could have something to do with recognizing that the
best things in life are often pretty simple…and don’t need to cost a whole lot.
Have a wonderful weekend, and if you can, try to take some time out of the busy
world to do something you enjoy. You may even decide to take in a baseball
game. If you do, bring your kid or grandkid and you might just get in for free.
And by the way...take two minutes and four seconds to listen to this morning's song. While you do, close your eyes and remember.
Like most days…no time to proof
this even once. It’s probably horrific…so I do apologize.
No comments:
Post a Comment