In my peripheral vision, I saw what looked like a ball rolling along the concourse, where my dad, Liam, and I were walking as we avoided the rain that was falling on the field before the game. Before I knew it, a man and his teenage son were asking if we had lost a ball. These people were wearing enemy uniforms, so I hastily said, "No ... but thanks," and kept on walking. Five minutes later, they were back again. This time, I looked more closely. Considering the fact that they were Braves fans looking at a family wearing Dodger blue, there was a certain kindness.
"Are you sure you don't want this?" they asked. "Somebody must have dropped it and didn't even realize it."
"Um, sure. Thanks," I replied, thinking it'd be a nice, if somewhat generic, souvenir for Liam. I took the ball and glanced at it through the clear plastic packaging. It was only then that I realized what I had been given: a Rawlings Official Game Ball. Someone must have purchased it, thinking they'd get an autograph. I turned it over and my eyes grew wide. The familiar Dodgers logo stared me in the face. Even though the rain continued to fall, I knew things were looking up.
I'm asked all the time how I became a Dodgers fan, and, as Liam is following in my footsteps, I imagine he'll be answering the same question. So it's a story I want him to know. My dad grew up in Jonesboro, North Carolina, which doesn't really even exist anymore. My dad was a huge baseball fan, but all of his peers rooted for the perennial champion Yankees. What fun was that, cheering for the same victors that everyone else did? In those days, a boy could pick up Red Barber radio broadcasts of the Brooklyn Dodgers -- and a lifelong fan was born, following the exploits of Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, and of course, Jackie Robinson with an almost-religious fervor.
Almost two decades of Dodgers devotion went by before my dad found himself in New Haven, Connecticut, doing family therapy work as part of his graduate program at Yale. The leader of the group was a beautiful, humble, professional woman named Rachel. Perhaps a year into working with this remarkable woman, some mention was made of Rachel’s husband Jackie. My father, dumbfounded, turned to a colleague and asked, "You mean that Rachel is married to Jackie Robinson?”
In 1972, after Jackie had passed away, my parents were invited to a party of sorts at the Robinson home, as Rachel needed to hand over some of the philanthropic work Jackie had been doing. My parents, as usual, were the first to arrive. Rachel greeted them and said, "Joe, you might like to see Jackie's game room." She led my dad downstairs to a room full of bats and balls and gloves. Hundreds of photographs adorned the walls of Jackie and every world leader you can imagine. My dad just shook his head in awe. Somehow, a backwoods Dodgers fan who grew up listening to games on the radio down in Jonesboro, North Carolina had found himself in the eighth wonder of the world: Jackie Robinson’s game room.
After an experience like that, is it any wonder that he passed down his love for the Dodgers to his only child? The Dodgers were one of the things that most connected my dad and me. I still remember him letting me stay up to watch game 1 of the 1988 World Series, where my beloved Dodgers were David to the Goliath Oakland Athletics. When Kirk Gibson belted the greatest walk-off homerun ever, I saw it all on the black and white tv in my bedroom, leaping up and down on my bed and screaming with joy. Many years later, I gave a speech in an adult public speaking class on the moments that led up to that fateful home run. My genius plan was to create a dramatic build-up with my speech, and then hit play on the video recording of the home run to get a sure-fire A+. What I didn't anticipate was choking up just trying to tell the story. I got my A+ all right, but more for the “real emotion” I conveyed in my speech (my professor's words) than the content.
The Dodger blood runs true blue in the Mann family. So, when Liam was born, there really wasn't any question. He had to be a Dodger fan. His room and closet are full of Dodgers-related goodies, many of which are sent to me by one of my high school friends, who now covers sports for the LA Times. (As a die-hard Braves fan, he has no use for all the Dodgers swag that comes his way. But he knows just who does.)
"The Dodgers…trying to catch lightning now"*
Back at the game, the rain subsided, and we headed to our section. Dad, recently retired, had sprung for the best seats I have ever had at an MLB game, right along the first base side. So far, Liam's birthday weekend in the ATL was going fantastically well, but what if the rain came back? What if the Dodgers lost? This summer Liam and I attended four minor league games and one Yankees/Braves game ... none of which were won by the team he was rooting for. One only needs to read the post about his meltdown at losing at Monopoly to understand that Liam is the poster child for the "agony of defeat."
Although the seats were still damp, some of the pre-game festivities were getting going following batting practice. We hadn't realized it beforehand, but it was the annual MLB Civil Rights game, where certain civil rights heroes are honored. We watched as legendary Dodgers pitcher and key to their 1955 World Series title, Don "Newk" Newcombe, waved from a convertible circling the field. [Note: until Justin Verlander did it in 2011, Newcombe was the only baseball player to have won the Rookie of the Year, Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards in his career.] And who was that, taking in the festivities alongside MLB commissioner Bud Selig? Rachel Robinson, of course.
"High fly ball into right field, she i-i-i-is... gone!!!"*
Then, the game started. Uh-oh. Aaron Harang, he of mediocre stuff, was on the mound for the Bums and walked Michael Bourne. (Even at the ripe age of eight, Liam understands the dangers of walking the leadoff man, particularly when he's a speedster like Bourne.) Martin Prado then blasted an RBI double. And just like that, the Braves were leading 1-0. Liam was starting to fidget with anxiety of the "oh no, not again" variety. To the top of the 2nd inning we went ... and then came HanRam. (He had only been with the Dodgers for a matter of weeks, but we call him HanRam like he's family.) Hanley clobbered a 418 foot shot, dead center. And the Mann clan came alive. We didn't have to wait long for more fireworks, as Ramirez, James Loney, and Luis Cruz hit consecutive homers in a span of four pitches.
Back-to-back-to-back. Even if the Dodgers wound up blowing this game, we had seen a rare feat, and all was right in the world.
"In a year that has been so improbable... the impossible has happened!"*
The 3-1 lead held into the top of the 6th, and HanRam approached the plate once more. I glanced at Liam, who sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes glued to his new hero. The bat hit the ball -- and as soon as I heard it, I knew. I shot up as I watched him circle the bases, my arms raised high, just as exhilarated as the kid who jumped on his bed watching the '88 world series.
The Dodgers had four hits the entire game -- and they were all homeruns. My voice grew hoarse as I cheered, flanked on one side by my father, and on the other by my son. Three generations of Manns in our Dodgers blue.
What a way to spend an eighth birthday.
*Quotes above are from Vin Scully's famous call of Kirk Gibson's walk-off homerun to win game 1 of the 1988 World Series. Watch the entire bottom of the 9th here: http://www.dailymotion.com/
(or, for the quick version, click here.)
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1 comment:
That. Was beautiful. Elicited tears from a casual baseball observer. Well done, well done.
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