Day 040: They Did It. The Fucking Dodgers Did it.

I’ve had 8 years to write this in my head. I had so many impassioned opening paragraphs ready to go that I had to delete and save for next year. I was always saving it for next year. Next year. It became my mantra. Always hoping, never fully believing. After 25+ years of Lions and Chargers fandom, I’ve grown accustomed to the idea that miracles never happen and the sports gods don’t care about you. Dreams are for suckers. All of that pessimistic crap that goes into the endless fallacy of sports worshiping. But there’s no next year. Like literally, there might not be a next year, but I also don’t have to wait until next year. It finally happened. The dream came true. And after sleeping restfully for the first time in a month, I still don’t know how to start.

So I’ll start at the beginning.

It started with a fight. Or rather an argument. An argument about a fight. Hovered over lukewarm beers at Mulholland’s, Joe and PK argued for hours about who was at fault in the Zack Greinke/Carlos Quentin fight that happened the night before. I can’t remember who was on what side, but I remember that it lasted for hours. I went home and watched the game in question. Although I didn’t pick a side, I did become enamored by the cadence of the Dodger’s broadcaster. I bookmarked that in my drunken brain and saved it for later.

Baseball was brand new to me in 2013. I had just drafted my first fantasy team and still had no relative idea what I was doing. By heritage, I considered myself a Tigers fan and it was a good time to be one. I knew that I hated the Giants, as they had just swept the Tigers in the World Series. I also hated the Yankees because I quickly discovered how obnoxious their fans were. But my work schedule didn’t permit me to be a Tigers fan, as I got home at 10 every night, just as the game was ending. So I started baseball roulette, watching a different west coast team every night. I gravitated to the Mariners and Padres, as that’s where my childhood allegiances lied [Griffey and Gwynn, duh]. I watched a bit of the Diamondbacks because the broadcasters were total buffoons. I had the Rockies closer on my fantasy team, so I always caught the end of their games. The A’s were also a generally fun team to watch that year, as I had Josh Donaldson, Bartolo Colon and Coco Crisp on my team.

But after a while, I would get bored with whatever game I was watching and flip to the Dodgers, just so I could listen to Vin Scully. I clung onto every word he said. He could make any story sound like something out of an NFL Films highlight reel. I was hooked on him. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the game and he always had a good story to tell, whether it be about the upbringing of Didi Gregorious or World War II. His voice became the soundtrack of my summer as I realized what I was missing all of these years.

One rainy night in June, Joe and I sought refuge in an empty Famous Dave’s BBQ. We were looking over our fantasy teams. Joe lamented that he needed a new outfielder. As he said that, I read something on the ESPN Bottom Line: “Dodgers to call up outfielder, Y. Puig, tomorrow”. “Y. Puig! Y. Puig!”, I excitedly exclaimed to him. It was the first time I found my finger on the pulse of the fantasy world and it was a moment I was damn proud of. I was glued to the TV for his first game. He went 2 for 4, but the true moment of bliss was in the top of the 9th. With one out and a man on first, Kyle Blanks hit a deep fly ball to Puig. He made the catch and then threw an absolute laser to Adrian Gonzalez to get the man out at first. Game over. The next day, he hit two home runs and the rest was history.

In an instant, the Dodgers became must-see-TV. When Yasiel Puig debuted, the Dodgers were a pedestrian 24-32, well on their way to a forgotten season. His sizzling heroics lit a fire under the team and they rallied like hell, eventually winning the division at 92-70. And I watched nearly every game. Less than a year before, I could care less about baseball. In the course of a few months, it became the only thing I could think about. And I owe a good portion of it to Vin Scully and Yasiel Puig. In the NLDS against the Braves, Hanley Ramirez was on fire. He batted .500 with an OPS of 1.618. By the time game 5 of the NLCS came around, he had cooled off considerably, but he still drew the ire of Cardinals pitcher, Joe Kelly. He hurled a fastball that went way too far inside and it broke Hanley’s ribs. That was the nail in the coffin. By the same time the next day, the series was over and the Dodgers went out with a whimper. I had definitely felt heartbreak in sports before, but this felt different. I felt like I had become a part of the team. It hurt way worse than the Tigers or Chargers losing. I watched this team rise from the ashes and actually become a contender, only to fizzle out like it never mattered. That was when my mantra started. Next year. Next year…

I ended up saying next year, well, every year. The Dodgers season always ended in similar fashion. They dominate all year, win the division and then the postseason always ended with Clayton Kershaw getting his tits lit and the bats going cold when it mattered most. Those Octobers would drive me insane. But then every February, I was ready to be hurt again. I was, after all, in love. And then 2017 surely felt like “The Year”. All the pieces were in place. They faced the Cubs for the second straight year in the ALCS. I rushed home to catch the ending of Game 2 on the radio. As my roommate sat disinterested, I regaled him about how that day marked the 28 year anniversary of the Kirk Gibson home run. Seconds after I told him the story, it happened again. The impossible happened.

My roommates’ jaw dropped. My hair stood on end for the rest of the night. After that, they coasted their way to a World Series berth to face the Astros. You all know what happened there. History repeated itself in 2018, except they were totally outmatched by the Red Sox. By the time 2019 came around, I felt like the sports gods were mocking me. I felt partially responsible for their failures. Every team I root for ends up being cursed. But surely, 2019 would be different! That would be The Year. The team broke records left and right, finishing 106-56, 21 games ahead of second place. They were by far the best team in baseball. And then…well…Clayton Kershaw got his tits lit and the bats went cold when it mattered most. They were laughed out of the NLDS and every Dodger fan faced a major existential crisis. What could they possibly do to get a championship? They did everything right, what more can they do?

We got that answer on February 4th, 2020.

The answer was Mookie Betts.

The acquisition of the undisputed Second Best Player In Baseball caused an immediate culture change in the locker room. His work ethic was quickly made apparent and everyone followed suit. Even in Spring Training, you could tell that things were clicking. And then, of course, you know what happened. Covid happened. Duh. You were all there. What followed was months of the owners and players going back and forth, hemming and hawing, trying their hardest to make sure the season didn’t happen while still pretending to want the season to happen. And then at the zero hour, an agreement was made to start a 60 game season at the end of July. Before that season even started, the Dodgers signed Mookie to a 12 year contract. Apparently that handful of Spring Training games were enough to convince Mookie to play in LA for the rest of his life. It was a godsend to have that taken care of early instead of hanging the question mark all season.

They dominated yet again. It never felt so good to have baseball back, even with the weird rules and lack of fans. But as October loomed, I had to keep my cautious pessimism. And it was rightfully warranted. The Braves totally had their number in the NLCS. They had them pressed against the wall with a 3-1 lead going into game 5. And then miracle after miracle after miracle happened. Will Smith hit a homer off of Will Smith. Mookie was a living highlight reel. Kershaw didn’t get his tits lit. The bats were scorching hot when it mattered most. And Julio Urias tossed 3 no-hit innings to close game 7. This year. This is the fucking year.

Right?

I already lamented about Game 4. It was a crushing blow that previous Dodger teams wouldn’t have recovered from. But this team was different. They won an uncomfortably close Game 5 and then the stage was set for the Dodgers bullpen versus Blake Snell last night. I knew I should’ve requested the day off work. The second I walked in, I was thrown some crushing news. Some people would be working on the store after closing. I was going to be stuck there well after 11. “But don’t worry, the Dodgers will probably lose tonight and you’ll be home for game 7”, my boss [who is a filthy Braves fan] chuckled. But I wasn’t laughing. I was livid. The night that I waited 8 years for was in reach and I had no choice but watch it in my office.

At least I did it right. I streamed the game on the computer monitor and synched the radio broadcast into my headphones. It was seamless. It was perfect. It was…so much better than listening to Joe Buck. But it looked like my boss was right. In the first inning, registered Bad Man, Randy Arozarena took Tony Gonsolin way yard. After 1.2 innings, Tony was forced out of the game, even though the gameplan dictated that he go 5 or 6. On the other side, Blake Snell had the hitters baffled. He was having the game of his life and there was no end in sight. Going into the bottom of the 6th, he already had 9 strikeouts. The world couldn’t stop gushing about it. But then I looked up the box score to see that the Rays had struck out 12 times. It was still a 1-0 game. And with one out in the 6th, Austin Barnes hit a single off of Snell. Ray’s skipper, Kevin Cash, went up to the mound and in a moment that shocked everyone, he took the ball out of Snell’s hand. I audibly gasped. The radio broadcasters were utterly baffled. Mookie flashed a smile to the dugout. It’s time.

It’s time to win a motherfucking World Series.

The second that Mookie’s screamer down the line hit an awkward corner, the world knew that Kevin Cash had just made the biggest mistake of his life. Within 6 pitches, the Dodgers took the lead. The Rays could only muster one hit after that. By the time I was able to leave the store, it was already the 8th inning. While I waited for my cab, Mookie laid some icing on the cake:

I will forever be angry that I had to experience that moment on the radio, standing in the rain. And I knew what was coming. Everything has led up to this moment and I wasn’t going to be home to see it. I wanted so badly for the Dodgers to keep stretching out the inning or for my driver to go way faster. Neither of those things happened. The moment wouldn’t wait for me. It happened just as we exited the Battery Tunnel and shot down the BQE. Just like he did in Game 7, Julio Urias rolled. And he didn’t miss. It was the perfect moment in time. Even Joe Buck took a second to pay homage to Vin Scully. I won’t forget the at bat until long after I’m dead.

I’d like to say that it was the first time I cried in the backseat of a cab, but that’s far from the truth. When I got home, I opened a bottle of wine from 2013 and savored every drop of it. I sat in amazement and wonder. Clayton Kershaw finally rewrote his legacy. Dave Roberts saved his own job. Every winning pitcher in the postseason had been a Dodger for life. For the first time ever, a World Series game was won and saved by Mexican pitchers. Corey Seager got a Chevy Tahoe. Justin Turner got Covid [but that’s a story for another day]. Walker Buehler probably got laid. Max Muncy got a World Series ring and a promise for a bright future, a mere 3 years removed from being jobbed out of baseball altogether. Brusdar Graterol got to celebrate with his new best friends. Mookie Betts is hanging around for 12 more years. For once, everything worked out the way it was supposed to. The best team won and balance was restored to the sports universe.

Isn’t baseball fun?

This is why we love our sports teams. We do it in hopes that someday they can be immortal. It never comes easy. There’s going to be a lot of pain. You’re going to question your decisions an awful lot. But the payoff is like something you’ve never felt before. I realize that I stand before you a lucky man. I bandwagoned onto a team at the start of their reign of success. Many people reading this would agree that I should go fuck myself. But some day, I promise you it will happen. It might not be next year. It might not be in the next 10 years. But before it happens, it will be next year. All you have to do is keep the faith. Next year. Next year.

Next year.

– TeeCoZee