A rally cap with a bill bent forward are as rare as Halley’s Comet.
I was ten in 1988, the last time the Dodgers won the world series. I cried tears of joy.
The 2017 version of the boys in blue are currently threatening the all-time national league record for regular season victories. I’m going to start doing box jumps to train for the actual world series last-out moment when the team rushes the field, creating a dog-pile of millionaires on top of the mound. This will happen just moments before the championship hats and t-shirts are passed out, and a few hours before the equivalent hats and t-shirts for the losing team are shipped to the Ivory Coast. When players leap from the dugout I will jump up from the couch (or love seat) with such explosive intensity my head will leave a dent in the ceiling. I will have someone ready with their iphone to record my new PR in the vertical leap. Stayed tuned for the evidence.
Steve Sax rookie $117? Ebay is fucking high. Click on pic.
The very first pitch of that 1988 championship season was hit for a home run by my boyhood favorite, 2nd baseman Steve Sax. I recall attending games where young women held signs aloft that read “Sexy Sax”. I envied Sax for his athletic abilities, and he sort of reminded me of “face man” on the A-Team, who of course was also irresistible to all the foxy ladies. All the while I was a ten-year-old who couldn’t hit a curveball and had anxiety about dying a virgin.
All the hope and promise of a turd’s youth personified in one swing of the bat.
In 1988 when Kirk Gibson took Eckersley deep in game one of the series my father jumped so high he hit his head on our living room ceiling. Our ceiling wasn’t abnormally low, but my father had zero hops, which proves that the adrenaline needed to jump that high was a once in a lifetime moment for him. This is what concerns me.
I myself don’t need the dramatic wins to enjoy the thrill of victory, but recent precedent has me concerned that the Dodgers could fall flat in the post-season for a fifth straight year. I’m too jaded by the Frank McCourt (parking-lot attendant) years, and the Guggenheim Partners pulling broadcasts off of KCAL 9 and KTLA 5 to slap any stickers on my car, to fly a Dodgers flag on my porch, or to get a tattoo of their iconic LA logo on my taint. However, I’m not above a good rally cap from now until the last strike of the season. Some hope and optimism from my youth still springs eternal. I’m looking for one last gravity defying leap in my life.
Plus, I wish once again to cry tears of joy. Sure, everyone may be moved to tears by the birth of their children or winning a cheap domestic sedan from a fly-by-night drawing at the mall. Nevertheless, unbridled, vicarious joy is quite rare in my opinion. There’s something about that Gibson home run that does it for me. Perhaps it’s the reminder of childhood, when anything was possible. That bottom of the ninth game winner is still a catalyst for my emotions. As the Big Lebowski himself said, “Are you surprised by my tears, sir? Strong men also cry. Strong men also cry.”
And to make things perfectly clear, I am not one of those delusional fans who secretly hopes for the beginning of a dynasty that starts with a title run this season. I hoped for that back in 1989 when my dad took me to Chavez Ravine for a game against the Expos. We sat right behind the home dugout. Mike Scioscia charged the mound after getting beaned in the head by the famously jerri-curled Pascual Perez. The Blue Crew won that day 9-4, on their way to a 77-83 record. I can wait another twenty-nine years if they get it done this year. My tear ducts are slow to replenish.
Despite Scioscia’s titles as a player and manager, Perez’s curl-swag (and chin music) tips the scale in his favor.
The Basement of my Mind 