End of the beginning
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As the Dodgers embark on their final series of the regular season, let us revisit the last series where both the Dodgers won and Shohei Ohtani had an RBI, which happened to be with my mother in Denver.
We’ve had a lot of fun this year, and the campaign flew by.
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Before I knew it, it was over. I’m so glad you stopped to smell the pine tar with me along the way.
As an aside, Mom and a friend of mine from law school will be joining us for the penultimate game of the year.
Rocky Mountain High
Denver was the first stop on my second circuit around the league. Ultimately, a lot of people sleep on Denver, and they really shouldn’t, as it’s a lovely ballpark. The tour of the facilities confirmed that.
Also, on the Tour, I learned that the visiting team does not have a kitchen and thus has to order all meals while playing. Afterward, the Rockies pick up and pay for the orders, and get reimbursed once the visiting team leaves. Coors Field is surrounded by restaurants with its own plaza and hotel across the street from left field.
The main delicacy of Coors Field is the Rocky Mountain Oyster, a deep-fried, breaded bull’s testicle. I meant to try it during this visit, but I found my stomach was not agreeing with me after trying some of the local restaurants. For once, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
Now, did Hunter Feduccia become ill during Game 2 of the series because he had a Rocky Mountain Oyster or had a bad reaction to Denver takeout? I have no earthly idea; sadly, I’m not a credentialed reporter, so the big questions like this one get unanswered while everyone focuses on why Kyle Tucker dropped that fly ball.
Considering the follies that arose from our choice of hotel in Los Angeles in 2025, Mom finally listened to me and was willing to split and splurge on The Rally Hotel at McGregor Square.
The hotel was quite nice, and the service was excellent, but it was a little pricey for my budget. Yes, the convenience of just walking out the left field gate only to be right at the hotel is amazing when the weather is muggy and/or you are surrounded by fans.
The Mountain Ranch Bar and Grille is an interesting option if you want to eat at a buffet in the ballpark, overlooking batting practice. Again, best views are the effectively closed-off areas of the ballpark that open up two hours before first pitch.
Mom enjoyed herself both at the games and on the tour. Sometimes there is the temptation to try and make more of experiences than what they were at face value.
Sometimes a ballgame is just that, and I continue to remain grateful for the company.
But there are times one has to admit a personal truth, and if you are indifferent to me venturing into foul territory for a bit, you can stop right here.
No longer walking the line
I need to make a confession. For five years, I have steadfastly said that I walk that line between serious journalist and hardcore fan. But that sentence isn’t true anymore.
The cost of experience is wonder. At some point, I learned too much, experienced too much, and I somehow became more journalist than fan. I don’t know when it happened, but I do know when I realized it happened; the fact that this change did happen is noteworthy.
For most of my life, you could define a significant portion of my personality by my fandom of the Dodgers.
26 years ago, I attended a summer program at UCLA for business students. I had no desire to go into business, but I needed to do something to pad out my transcript as an underachieving A-student from a rural Central Valley town that I was desperate to get away from.
The highlight of the program was an outing at Dodger Stadium on July 20, 2000, where the Dodgers were set to face the Colorado Rockies. Before the game, I had cornered some Fox/Dodger executive, and I was peppering him with questions as I was genuinely thrilled to be there.
I fully admit that I have an awkward social manner, and it was much worse when I was younger. And maybe he was having a bad day. I think his last name was Chase, but I wouldn’t testify to it. Anyway, he blew his stack at me loudly, wondering why I didn’t just grow up, and finished his rant by saying, “It’s just a job, man. Grow up.”
I felt like I had been slapped. I must have looked crestfallen. The room went quiet. I apologized meekly, went to finish my dinner, and the silence of the room was broken up by Gary Sheffield hitting a first-inning homer.
Who says that my life lacks poetry? But the moment was transformative, as public humiliation often is. In some ways, I grew up.
17-year-old me would be appalled at that sentence. 43-year-old me, who has literally been around the world to cover this team and to every MLB ballpark to watch this team, would think I’m being ridiculous.
I’m not bona fide. And that’s okay.
Apart from some of the sponsored posts (…don’t stop, I need the money…), I have been proud of everything I have created during these five seasons.
I try not to revel in being right, because when I’m wrong, oh Lord, do I miss the mark.
As I described above, when I realized I was more journalist than fan at this point was when I told Melissa Myer of the podcast Talk Dodgers to Me that at some point, I became an actual journalist and columnist by feeling vindication about being right about the Dodgers’ handling of Ohtani. She was moderately appalled at my vindication.
Ms. Myer is adamant that she is always fans first, and her podcast with Jaclyn Ruiz reflects that approach. The lineup of people who have gone on, including players, broadcasters, and other luminaries, is impressive. It’s hard not to feel a little envy when I have to kick and scream to be noticed on even minor topics. You won’t see hard topics on that podcast, but if you want to indulge your inner fan, have at it.
I realized I know too much. I have spent too much time on the figurative slaughterhouse floor watching how the sausage gets made. I have no problem calling things as they are, including any health code violations in this metaphor, and having a Greek salad afterward.
When Eric Stephen hired me five years ago, he gave me one directive: write about the interesting stuff.
I had it in my head that somehow finishing the circuit and finishing five seasons would somehow confer clout or status on me. As if the heavens would part, and there would be some deeper meaning to all this with Stephen Nelson and Orel Hershiser saying “attaboy.”
It didn’t. At least, not yet, which may not help with the deflating delusions of grandeur.
More folks say hello to me when I’m on the road, which is both neat and confusing.
Dad’s final words to me were that he loved me and a request to have fun. He never got to see Ohtani as a Dodger, or Ohtani’s Perfect Day in Miami, or The Fifth Inning, or my madcap romp to Toronto last year. As I said at the beginning of the year, when you literally experience a high that cannot be topped, one either has to come to terms with it or go mad seeking a repeat.
I got to goof on the road with people I like, respect, or both. I was an accidental witness to some of the best moments in recent Dodger history. I had fun. Originally, this essay was going to be an “Adric’s Retiring” post, but he’s not. I still have four more Guide entries to write, and he’s featured in all of them. Plus, the first question from Mom would be “Where’s Adric?” if I kept him at home.
It’s not the end, even though no one is guaranteed a tomorrow; it’s just the end of the beginning. For this next act, there will likely be more of me, rather than our unofficial mascot. It’s scary, but it’s good and, in some ways, long overdue. That’s the fun part about the second trip around the circuit; there’s absolutely no rush to complete it in a hurry.
So until next time, once more into the breach, my friends.