I.T.F.D.B.

Some may call me a fair weather fan. Despite the fact that I played baseball for eight years I hardly pay attention to the goings on of the MLB. I find it hard to devote myself to a relationship that gives me nothing but merchandise for hire in return. I shuffle and float around a bar in Los Angeles that of course plays the major sporting events, but could be categorized like myself, fair weather. Our signage changes with season and circumstance. Patrons will ask for volume to which I’ll rebut with “yeah, yeah, I’ll turn the noise on soon.” That’s the way I interpret it, noise, not even background music. Whilst I do my job, sometimes on autopilot, I can’t afford to pay any mind to the sport. I see the fans as minions, the players as bots, and the game as a franchise. It has no home plate in my heart.

That is of course until the crowd goes wild. The enthusiasm is infectious, like with the hot prick of a wasp, I start to swell inside, bigger, and bigger with the thunderous outcries of support. The stadium jumps out of their seats with fervor, and the bar follows in flow with a 20 second live TV delay, and the roar sends a seismic shock throughout the city. My eyes well up with tears as I feel the surge of emotion come over us like a tsunami no man can escape. Without a moment’s notice it all comes flooding back in. I see and feel the game. The operatic movement, the pause between the crescendo. America’s pastime, my passed time. The intricate dance, the boys in blues’ broadcasted ballet.

My mind curiously in shock searches for the source of this feeling, this union, this camaraderie, and its power to consume me wholly. I question its derivative. Where could this have come from inside of me? It couldn’t be just my awareness of the game, knowledge of its rules, or my long and lost relationship with first base. It dawns on me, illuminating the swell that grew from nothing within a moment. It’s pride. The proud parent watching from the sidelines. The stress ridden 10 year old in center field as he stares into the piercing blue sky, mit above face praying to catch his first pop fly. The glory of jumping over a crouched catcher, soaring into the air and scoring the game winning run. The crowd goes wild. As spectators I feel that is how we must all envision our cities players. You’re either mom, dad, nana, or grandpa sitting on the stadium sidelines, or you’re actually out there in center field waiting for that catch, waiting for your moment to shine like the baseball diamond you are.  Waiting for someone to feel proud of you. Overwhelmingly proud. And that is a universal feeling that we as a society don’t give each other enough of. Pride, pride in one another. So be from your hometown, show your support, and love. Be proud of who you are, and where you come from. There seems not to be a more contagious surge of unity than that in organized sports, so join in. Root, root, root for the home team. I will always hail from Los Angeles, I will always be an Angeleno, but today I am a proud Dodgers fan. It’s the World Series baby, and today I bleed blue. Hands in, Ooh-Rah!

         I.T.F.D.B.=IT’S.TIME.FOR.DODGER.BASEBALL.-Vin scully

Written by Jena Corbin

Image courtesy of Jerome G Favre IG@phoolio

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