(It almost didn't happen. Roz and I had tickets for Game 6 of the World Series -- thank you, Roz, for buying those season tickets for so long and sharing the wealth with so many of us. ANYWAY, we had the Game 6 tickets, and Dodger Stadium emailed everyone before the World Series to say, hey, MLB is taking over the Stadium Club during the World Series, so it's hot dogs out of a cardbox box on your lap for everyone. But then, just a couple days ago, we got ANOTHER email that said, hey, turns out MLB doesn't need the Stadium Club for Game 6 after all. It was, like, fate.) The game starts at 5:20; we get pre-game reservations for 2:00.
Getting there was a bit exciting, because we were also told the gates to the parking lot opened at 2:00 (and that they'd only hold the Stadium Club reservation for ten minutes) but we joined the impressive queue of cars outside Dodger Stadium, and they actually let us in closer to 1:30, and when all was said and done, we were parked, through security, and standing in line for the Stadium Club at 1:57.
We are shown to our table out on the patio. (Pause here. When we were told the Stadium Club was available for Game 6, they said "but not the patio." They seated us on the patio anyway. I'm tellin' y'all: Fate.) We had a lovely table (reserved just for us for two whole hours) on the covered patio from which we could watch batting practice, stuff ourselves senseless from the yummy buffet (from shrimp and crab cocktail to carved lamb and ending rather happily on some Halloween brownie thing with an upside-down chocolate cone on it like a witch's hat), use the much nicer bathrooms, take many pictures, and get super excited about the fact that HOLY CRAP, WE'RE AT THE WORLD SERIES!!!
Yeah, y'all don't care about our fine dining experience. "Move on to what it's like to be at the World Series," you say.
What it's like to be at the World Series:
Everybody cares.
Look. You go to a regular season game and they are trying to get you to care about the baseball game. (Hell, they're very likely giving you a free hat or a bobblehead or something just as a "thank you" for showing up.) There's people in the crowd batting around beach balls, or doing the wave, or doing whatever else has caught their attention other than paying attention to the baseball that's going on. They're buying food or going back to the bar for another beer and easily missing an inning or two when they're up at the concession stands because the food and the beer are a vital part of the Dodger Stadium Experience and they're here to enjoy that as much as (or more than) the game. There are annoyingly cheerful "pre-game hosts" encouraging you to post shit on social media and trying to get the crowd excited about the baseball that's going to happen. And during the game, the organist and the giganto DodgerVision screen are regularly encouraging you to clap or cheer or chant "Let's Go Dodgers" or just to Make Some Noise.
And at the World Series everyone cares about the BASEBALL. Not just scoring runs. Not just making outs. EVERYONE cares about EVERY PITCH. You hang on it. You cheer the strikes against the other team. You cheer the balls when the Dodgers are at bat. DodgerVision plays its usual "Make Some Noise" prompts, but it is generally behind the curve on this one, because we are already, organically, making quite a great deal of noise. Everyone knows who Kenley Jansen is. (And most everyone wonders if Dave Roberts is putting him in too early. He wasn't.) Hell, everyone knows who Yuli Gurriel is. (And enthusiastically expresses their disappointment in him.)
But what attending the World Series is, when you get right down to it, is watching a game with 50,000 people who, like you, are holding their breath on every pitch.
Everyone is so happy to be there, they're super friendly. When we sat down for the game, a peanut landed in my lap. I'm looking around for the Peanut Fairy, and some guy about 8 rows back yells, "It was me." He was aiming for his father, who was sitting two rows in front of me. I aim the peanut at the father and hit him square in the back (I'm actually proud that I successfully executed that) but I fail to get his attention. Later in the game, a foul ball comes flying into our section and the father catches it. At the breaks between the action, he passes it around (someone immediately says, "yup, feels slicker" -- and I smile, because it's like we're sharing an inside joke with the whole section) and lets some kids take selfies with the World Series Baseball Actually Pitched By A World Series Pitcher and Struck By A World Series Bat.
There are some Astros fans two rows in front of us. They're cheering their team -- whenever they get a hit, they High Five the Astros fans across the aisle. We generally leave them to it, no fightin' words or anything, but when they try a "Let's Go, Altuve!" chant, we drown it out with "Let's Go, Dodgers!" (We have the numbers; it isn't hard.)
The Astros were ahead by 1, but I wasn't worried. Not in what had been a pretty high-scoring series to this point. (Watching sports, I often have a thought ending with, "... then they deserve to lose." At this game, it began with, "If the Dodgers can't manage to score one damn run, ....") And, bless 'em, the Dodgers tied it up and got ahead with a rally in the sixth which had us standing, swinging those rally towels, and cheering till we were hoarse. But it wasn't until the seventh when I thought, "We might actually win this thing 3-1."
I was so into the game -- so into how very much I wanted us to win this game -- I kinda forgot it was Game 6 of the World Series and that we were down three games to two. Which is to say that the game, the MOMENT, felt so important itself, I forgot that it was actually a must-win situation or the Dodgers would be second-place finishers this year. And right around when I remembered it, we were six outs away, and it seemed doable. (And Jansen got three outs in the 8th on something like 8 pitches, and I thought, holy shit, just three more easily accomplishable outs and this thing goes to seven games!)
And they did it. And it wasn't pandemonium -- that, I assume, comes if they win tomorrow -- but it was JOY. Strangers high-fiving all over the place. Everyone running into the aisle to try to get a picture with "Dodgers Win!" or "1 Game to Go!" on the ribbon screens behind them. (Most of us failing, because the damn things were too bright.)
The Astros fans were muted, but good sports. "Good win," I heard one say, "It'll be a great game tomorrow."
I bet it will.
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