The Best Seat in the House

I love a Game 7. 

5:24 p.m. – I started last night’s version between the Brewers and Dodgers 15 minutes late. I wasn’t tardy or stuck in traffic on Lomita Boulevard. I was mopping the floor, watering the grass, and taking a shower.

I zipped through two minutes of commercials in time for Joc Pederson to ground the first pitch for an out. I listened to John Smoltz’s keys to the game and Joe Buck lament about the lack of home runs in this series.

I wondered why Marlin’s Man was absent from his usual spot behind home plate. But then there he was next to his score-keeping lady friend as Justin Turner rolled into a tailor-made double play. Two more minutes of commercials were erased thanks to the greatest invention in the history of sports watching: the ability to record and pause live TV.

Marlin’s Man might have been sitting in the front row, but I had the best seat in the house. With my feet up, I saw Christian Yelich sneak a homer over the wall. I was a mere 10 steps from the restroom. Add a few more strides and I was in the kitchen. I had chips and salsa and a cold beverage that didn’t require a loan from my credit union. From my cushy couch, I could grade papers and fold laundry. Baseball was made for multitasking. 

I went to four MLB games this season, two at Dodger Stadium and two in Anaheim. I paid for two of the games and the other two were gifts. Each time I went with dear friends, from a best buddy of 25 years to a date with Beautiful Karla. 

I’ve had a love affair with baseball since my first game of catch with my dad. I’ve seen games in 16 of the 18 states that have teams. I’ve had two baseball vacations. The MLB Network is my channel of choice. So this might sound crazy, but I don’t know if I’ll ever need to go to a regular-season game again. 

The LA traffic and the exorbitant prices of tickets, parking, and food are serious turn-offs. I grew up going to games at Tiger Stadium. I parked for free. Tickets were cheaper than a movie. A hotdog and Coke were easy to cover with my lawn-mowing allowance. Yes, times have changed. But baseball is going the way of the NFL and first-class air travel. Somebody has to pay for Albert Pujols’ 27 million dollar salary. As Renee Zellweger said in Jerry Maguire, “It used to be a better meal. Now it’s a better life.” Something in my baseball heart dies over this. 

Of course I could only go when somebody gives me tickets. And I could eat at home. I could even try to leave early enough to not get delayed by traffic. But who wants to leave at noon for a 7:00 pm start time?

6:07 p.m. -- It was time to go to Beautiful Karla’s house. I sped up the delayed feed, going live only when there’s some action. 

6:32 p.m. -- I caught up to the live action and asked Karla to pause the feed at her house.

7:00 p.m. – I took my seat in the front row of Karla’s den, surrounded by Legos and cushy beanbag chairs. 

7:18 p.m. -- I learned from Statcast that Chris Taylor covered 85 feet of grass to make his diving, run-saving catch on the warning track. You can’t get tidbits like that at the game. I’ve reached the mid-point of the action, when fast forwarding is most crucial because of mound visits and pitching changes. 

Mound visits and pitching changes are two other killers to live attendance. The games are too stinking long. Walks are up, strikeouts are up, batters work the count causing pitchers to throw more pitches which leads to more pitching changes. There’s more dead time than a night at the mortuary. 

7:24 p.m. -- Yasiel Puig broke open the game with an impressive three-run homer. 

8:04 p.m. – I caught up to live action again in the top of the 9^th. Number of commercial skipped: priceless.

Then there are the people. This summer I sat in front of a guy who talked to his buddy throughout the whole game. Granted they were discussing the game, but this guy sounded like Tim McCarver and Vin Scully combined. He thought he knew everything. Half of the time he was wrong. I found myself getting up and walking around the concourse to get a break from him. 

At the second Dodger game this year, Beautiful Karla and I arrived from getting some food to find a family of three in our seats. We asked the dad to move and it was as if we were asking for the blood of his firstborn. He got snippy with Karla and I nearly had to break out my best kickboxing moves. Later on, a group of teens wandered down and sat behind us. They talked loudly, F-bombed, goofed off, and played on their phones so much that we had to move seats. That doesn’t happen at home (or in Orange County). 

I feel like, at 50 years old, my baseball-loving self has morphed into Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino geezer. Instead of, “Get off my lawn” I growl, “Shut up and watch the game.”

8:20 p.m. -- Clayton Kershaw took the mound to close things out. The Dodgers are going to the World Series.

Postseason baseball is a special experience. The adrenaline and pressure of a close game is akin to being at a concert. If the Angels were to reverse their mediocre ways and play in October, I just might consider braving the crowds and paying the prices. 

The World Series starts on Tuesday. My calendar is cleared. I’ll be watching every minute. 

If you want, please join me. You can even bring your Legos.  

Redsox in 5.