Four years ago I wrote an article about what I love most about baseball. In case you have forgotten, or – more likely – in case you never read it, what I love most about baseball is the two-strike pitch.

And if that is my favorite aspect of the game, then boy-oh-boy did I get the motherlode on Saturday night. If, for some reason, you missed what happened in the top of the ninth inning of Game 6 of the ALCS, let me give you a brief recap:

With Astros leading 4-2, three outs away from the pennant, Gia Urshela lined the third pitch he saw from Roberto Osuna into left field, thus bringing the tying run to the plate. Brett Gardner followed and struck out on four pitches. But that turned the lineup over, and the Yankees’ best hitter came to the plate. It is at this moment that I said the following: “I see a two-run homer in our future.” (True story; I have witnesses.)

When I was in high school I had a coach who was studying to get his PhD in Psychology. He used his team, a bunch of tenth graders, as his guinea pigs, and tried all sorts of psychological tricks on us. I once asked him: “Bart, which would you want up in a clutch situation? The guy who is 0-4 or the guy who is 4-4?” True to form, he responded: “I would prefer the guy who has the most confidence.” Yeah, thanks for nothing, Bart!

On Saturday night, we got to see Bart’s concept put to the test. DJ LeMahieu hit .327 this year – his second best season ever – with a career-high 33 homeruns. He was hitting .320 in the ALCS when he stepped to the plate representing the tying run. But he was also 0-4 in Game 6. So, Bart, did we want this guy at the plate or not?

As a Yankee-hater, I certainly did not. He looked confident to me.

Osuna was able to get ahead of LeMahieu 1-2, setting up the pinnacle of baseball situations: the two-strike pitch. A slider away and the count was even. DJ then fouled back four straight pitches. But how about this: he fouled off two 97+ MPH fastballs, then an 85 MPH change-up, and then a 98.7 MPH fastball. How does one do that, on that stage, in that situation. Maybe Bart was right; maybe you want the guy with confidence. LeMahieu then took a 98+ MPH up and in to push the count full. For those of you counting at home (I sure was), that was six straight two-strike pitches. An embarrassment of riches.

And as Osuna checked the sign from Martín Maldonado, my thoughts went in a different direction. I said to a friend of mine: “This guy’s parents are just a few years older than us, and they are sitting in that ballpark watching this. Imagine how they feel?!”

As we all know, DJ hit the tenth offering – the seventh two-strike pitch – into the bleachers in right field to tie the game. Unbelievable!

As we also all know, the homerun that could have gone down in history as an all-timer may soon be forgotten, as José Altuve hit a game-deciding, series-ending, pennant-clinching, walk-off two-run dinger with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning. The only downside: he did it with one strike.

But we as baseball fans can never allow ourselves to forget the two-strike pitch, or the seven of them that DJ LeMahieu saw on Saturday night. If that at bat didn’t get your heart pumping, nothing ever can, nothing ever will.

One last note: I called Altuve’s homerun, but not like Gerrit Cole. From The Athletic:

“Man, if he throws anything down and in, it’s going out,” Cole said.

“It’s going out to right,” Miley replied.

Cole was having none of it.

“It’s not going out to right. It’s going out to left. And it’s going deep,” he said.

I called that homerun two years too early. With the Dodgers trailing 12-11 with two outs in the top of the ninth inning of Game 5 of the 2017 World Series, Austin Barnes was on second base representing the tying run. As I stood in the stands behind the Dodgers’ on deck circle in Minute Maid Park, I turned to the Astros fans next to me and said that Chris Taylor was going to get a hit to tie the game just so Altuve could walk it off in the bottom of the ninth. Sure enough, Taylor got that hit. But…Altuve flew out to lead off the bottom of the ninth. My career as a prognosticator seemed to be over. I guess I am just ahead of my time!

The Fall Classic begins tomorrow. Scherzer v. Cole; Strasburg v. Verlander. Before we even get to Greinke v. Corbin, we will witness four potential Hall of Fame pitchers starting the first two games of the World Series. Those guys have a total of 8,729 career strike outs between them, including 1,120 this season. I feel pretty confident we will see plenty of two-strike pitches.

PLAY BALL!!

When we decided to send our youngest to sleepaway camp in Wisconsin four years ago, I didn’t appreciate that it would require me to make two trips to the Midwest each summer. Of course, there is always the possibility that she could fly alone, but insofar as she was seven years old her first time, we thought it best to actually drop her off at the bus.

And then the light bulb went off. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that camp drop-off and pick-up in Chicago gave me ample opportunities to visit some beautiful stadiums and see some great games.

That first year, I just dipped my toe, going to Wrigley Field for a Saturday matinee.

The second year I realized that there are two ends to the summer, and baseball could be had on both. So, for drop-off, we took a trip to the Southside, and saw the White Sox play at Guaranteed Rate Field (by far the worst name in the sport). But for pick-up, we forwent Chicago and took the Milwaukee option. That gave me a chance to visit Miller Park. That place is splendid – many parks could learn A LOT from what they do and how they do it in Brew City (aka Cream City). If you have never been, I highly recommend The Selig Experience (which, ostensibly is an homage to Bud Selig, but is actually a multimedia presentation that tells the story of major league baseball in Milwaukee) and the frozen custard (which needs no explanation).

Year three brought all sorts of new adventures. The Cubs were in town when I dropped my daughter, but I didn’t need another game in the Friendly Confines. Especially when Chicago is just a short flight from Minneapolis, where the Twins were taking on the Rays. So, after saying “goodbye,” I raced to O’Hare to catch a flight to the land of a thousand lakes. I walked through the gate a few minutes before the National Anthem and enjoyed the hell out of Target Field. They have a vast array of beers on offer, fantastic food, and the Bat & Barrel – a restaurant-bar with indoor-outdoor seating – has walls and furniture full of relics from Twins’ seasons and players past. It is the most casual team hall of fame I have ever seen.

One unsung feature of the park: In the Town Ball Tavern in the left field corner, they have the original parquet floor from the Minneapolis Armory that George Mikan and the Lakers used to play on.

When it came time to pick up from camp, I decided to be ambitious. Did you know that if you take an 8am flight from LA, you can be in Dallas by 1pm, and in Globe Life Park by the second inning? Neither did I, until I did. Sure, a day game in North Texas in mid-August ain’t a day at the beach (and is the primary reason they are about to unveil a domed stadium next year), but that is totally beside the point. The park will be closing soon, and this was my opportunity to visit. That park had a lot of cool features, including a right field porch that allows you to feel if not in the action, at least on top of it. Few ballparks still have this design (most notably, the former Tiger Stadium), and soon the Rangers won’t either. Now, if you have been to Dallas once, it is my humble belief you can check that box and move on with your life. So move on I did.

I took leave of the Rangers and Mariners after eight innings, headed to the airport, and found myself in the BBQ capital of the world a short while later. I was in the parking lot of Kauffman Stadium when the last notes of the National Anthem rang out, and had a seat behind home plate and a beer in my hand before the end of the first inning. The Royals took the wood to the Cubbies that night (I could not escape the Cubs); I ate barbequed pork and ice cream (not together), and had myself a hell of a night. The crew at “The K” could not have been friendlier, the Royals Hall of Fame was terrific, and I see how their kids’ area became the inspiration for many current stadium upgrades. The next morning I caught a quick flight to Chicago, and was there long before the camp bus pulled up.

This year I elected not to go to a game at drop-off. I took my other daughter with me, and we had lunch downtown and saw Hamilton in the old CIBC Theater. It was a great diversion; I was plenty “Satisfied” and was willing to “Wait for It.”

But, since I skipped a game on the front side, I needed to spruce things up on the back. And this year, my son would be traveling with me. As you can tell, I have hit a lot of parks in and around the Chicago-land area. At this point, I need to get creative. And, remember, the timing of all of it – flights, distance from the airport, and most importantly, games being played – has to be precise. The planning of this is not for the faint of heart. When the MLB schedule came out last spring, I overlaid that against the camp schedule. I perused all day games within a couple hour flight of Chicago, and then start checking the airlines. It took some imagination and some willingness to miss a few pitches, but it was doable.

And that is how I found myself waking up Wednesday morning at 3:45, to catch a 5:45 flight to Detroit. The plane landed a few minutes before 1pm local time, and we were in the park by the top of the second inning. (Note: Showing up a little late makes buying a single ticket from a scalper extremely reasonable ($15).)

Comerica Park is terrific. The ushers were unbelievably helpful (they came down before every inning to see how we were doing and if we needed anything). The Tigers have an awesome row of statues in left center field that give you a taste of their history; and they have displays along the concourse celebrating each decade of their existence (I was preferable to the Trammel-Whitaker-Evans-Gibby ‘80s teams, but your mileage may vary).

And thanks to the MLB Foodfest that came through LA earlier this year, we knew to eat the chicken shawarma nachos. They didn’t disappoint. Unfortunately, Miguel Cabrera (0-4), and the hometown team, did. The White Sox (what is it with these Chicago teams stalking me?) whacked them around. But if you ever find yourself in the Motor City, I highly recommend taking in a ballgame. Unfortunately, we had to leave after eight innings to make it to the airport for our 5:54pm flight to the Steel City, but we certainly got the flavor of the place.

The next plane landed right before the first pitch of the Pirates-Brewers game, and – despite some shaky Lyft driving – we were in the park by the second inning. Again, arriving late gives you incredible leverage with the few scalpers still hanging around (second row down the left field line, $20). PNC Park lives up to the hype. It truly does have the best press box view in the game (see above). It has a homey feel – like someone stretched a minor league stadium into major league size. The steel (fittingly) is exposed. The people are warm and convivial. The site lines are great. And the food is delicious (where else can you get a pulled pork and pierogi sandwich?). My one beef is that the game went by too quickly. I wanted a slugfest that lasted four-plus hours; I wanted a 15-inning marathon; I wanted an excuse to stay there longer. Alas, it was not meant to be. Continuing the theme of the day, the home team lost, but that at least afforded us a  full nine innings. While we didn’t get to see Christian Yelich play, I did get to meet Travis Shaw and the Pirate Parrot under the stands. All in all, it was a phenomenal experience.

There are tons of hotels around PNC Park, but I intentionally chose one on the opposite side of the Clemente Bridge. When planning this out, I wanted to make sure we walked across that famous bridge, got a view of the park above the Alleghany, and had one last moment to take in the day. It was the perfect capstone.

When we laid our heads on our pillows in Pittsburgh Wednesday night, we had traveled over 2,000 miles in the air and nearly 100 miles on the ground; we had been in three major cities, seen two baseball games, eaten way too much food; and we had memories for a lifetime.

The next morning we flew to Chicago to pick up my daughter from her camp bus. It was the least we could do. It really is amazing what we do for our kids!

PLAY BALL!!

Last weekend, in what turned out to be his final act as a member of the Cleveland Indians, Trevor Bauer hurled a ball from the pitcher’s mound into the batter’s eye beyond the center field fence – some 375 feet away. It was a moment of pique. It was, in Bauer’s words, “unbecoming, childish, and unprofessional.” And his manager, Terry Francona, who has been around professional baseball his entire life (he was born during his father Tito’s 4^th season in the Bigs), upon reaching the mound to take the vanished baseball from his starter’s hand, had the same reaction that most of us did:

Here's Terry Francona asking Trevor Bauer, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" (h/t u/efitz11) pic.twitter.com/XelIkIgMVV

— Brendan Campbell (@brendan_camp) July 28, 2019

Bauer knew, immediately, he had done wrong. He was immature and did an act that we would never accept from our children. What made this all the more glaring is that it happened on the field, in the full view of everyone in the park and on television. But these things happen every…single…day in ballparks across our great land (which, to be sure, includes Baltimore). The difference is that most of the time these outbursts occur in the tunnel or in the clubhouse. We might hear about them later – like when a pitcher breaks his hand punching a wall, or we may never. Existential question: Does our ignorance make these actions okay? If a player destroys a urinal with a 34 oz. bat, but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Did it happen?

All of this led me to another question: Who cleans up the mess? Who pays for the damage?

Two nights ago, after another horrible outing, Red Sox pitcher Rick Porcello took out his frustration on two television monitors above the tunnel. He smacked them on his way to the showers (after surrendering 6 runs…again), shattering them both.

I could not get a feed of last night’s game, but I feel certain that those monitors were replaced. Some AV guy in the organization worked late Wednesday night, or came in early Thursday morning, to make sure that the evidence of Porcello’s temper tantrum was wiped away. Was Porcello charged for the cost of the monitors? Did they dock his paycheck for the AV guy’s overtime?

In fairness, Porcello did apologize (sort of): “I kind of wish I did that without cameras being on me…I apologize to everyone that had to see that.” So, I guess, had he smashed some monitors in the video room, his behavior would have been acceptable?

How many times have we seen a player destroy a water cooler after a strikeout? Those cost real money. It may not be significant money to a player making millions of dollars, but that is beside the point.

How about the time David Ortiz – the beloved Big Papi – took his lumber to the bullpen phone at Camden Yards? This was a player committing an act of vandalism right before our eyes. Was he charged with a crime? Was he charged at all? My guess is no, insofar as the Orioles gifted the carcass of that phone to Papi when retired in 2016.

Have you seen the clip of Brett Gardner chucking his helmet into the bat rack, only to have it fly back in his face, lacerating his lower lip. That eruption required six stitches. Who paid for those medical expenses? For the broken helmet?

Remember cult hero Chris Sale, going Edward Scissorhands to the White Sox throwback jerseys because he didn’t want to pitch in a collared uniform? He destroyed all of them, got sent home, and was suspended for five games. I guess that counts as paying the piper – but tell that to the clubhouse guy who had to scramble to outfit the team; the guy who utilized part of his budget to procure the jerseys; the guy who cleans, presses, and hangs Sale’s clothes – just right – each and every day. Sale apologized for his actions, but to whom? I sure hope he pulled that clubbie aside and said, “Hey pal, this was not your fault, and I hope I didn’t ruin your day. Here’s a Benjamin, have a meal on me.”

The point is, we allow athletes to get away with shit we would never accept from our kids. And, to make matters worse, there (seems to be) no repercussions for their bad acts. Just once I want to hear that a clubhouse remodel was paid for by the millionaire who took out his frustrations on a handful of inanimate objects. I would love to hear that Player X bought the entire organization a round of drinks for crushing a Gatorade cooler.

Truth be told, some of this may be handled internally, in kangaroo courts and in payroll departments league-wide. But we as fans are left in the dark. We as parents have to try to either justify the player’s actions (John Farrell said this of Chris Sale: “That’s a fiercely intense competitor”), or tell our kids “just because they do it doesn’t mean you can.”

But, contrary to Charles Barkley’s famous refrain, these guys are role models. And it would be great for us to learn the ramifications of their actions…and be able to communicate that to our kids.

In the case of Bauer, it was easy: he was traded two days later. I guess some actions do have consequences.

Now let’s see what the Indians do with The Wild Horse.

PLAY BALL!!

About eight months ago my son decided he would do a summer program at the University of Texas. This would be an opportunity for him – while still in high school – to live in a dorm, experience college life, and be on his own for a few weeks. It would be an opportunity for me – while still clinging to my kids’ childhoods – to get ready to say goodbye, let go, and lose control. This would be educational indeed.

As the drop-off day approached, as the knot in the parental rope got looser, the knot in my parental stomach got tighter. I felt, not adrift, but an acknowledgement that time is racing by; and, like it or not, he would be heading off to college before I know it. It’s not like he was sprinting away from home like some modern-day Jack Keurouac, saying, “see ya, old man.” To the contrary. But the day is coming. And I sensed it.

After we paid the deposit for this program, we immediately pulled up the MLB schedule to see if either the Rangers or the Astros would be in town around drop-off. Sure enough, the Astros answered our call.

Over the years I have attended ballgames with many different people in my life – and sometimes alone – and each offers a different experience. As I have previously written, taking my father to the World Series will go down as one of my all-time moments. Enjoying a game with my wife, who allows me to educate her about the game, and never seems by bored by my/its minutiae, is always a pleasure. Sitting in the stands with my buddies, drinking a beer while allowing our frenetic lives to slow to and with the pace of the game may be better than yoga. But going to a game with my son will always hold a special place in my heart. Baseball is my eternal gift to him; and he has grabbed it with both arms and has simply internalized it. So visiting Minute Maid Park with him on the same weekend that we began our long (2+ years) goodbye had a certain resonance.

We got to the stadium and took a few laps around. This was my third trip to MMP, but the last time I was there I didn’t get to enjoy the environs – I stood in one spot for hours as the Dodgers and Astros played one of the most epic World Series games of all time. This time I wanted to tour the park with my son, taking in everything it had to offer. I wanted to eat Texas BBQ, drink a Shiner, and enjoy “Deep in the Heart of Texas” during the seventh inning stretch.

After eating, walking, and visiting all the nooks and crannies, around the fourth inning my son and I took our seats behind the Mariners dugout. There were all sorts of baseball fans around us – young and old, near and far, Astros and Mariners. Sitting over my right shoulder was a father and son, both sporting matching Astros jerseys. The boy could not have been more than two or three. This was me, fifteen years and fifteen hundred miles ago. The kid was adorable, and the conversation between dad and boy couldn’t have been more sweet.

With baseballs flying out of ballparks at a record clip this year, we have come to expect fireworks. Hell, the Yankees and the Red Sox combined for 50 runs in two games last weekend in London. But on Friday night in Houston, for nearly three hours, all we got was a measly third inning solo homerun by Mariners rookie Austin Nola (first of his career). In short, there was not much to cheer about.

But then, with two out in the bottom of the eighth, Josh Reddick hit a towering fly ball that landed about five rows deep in the right field seats, tying the game.

The Houston crowd went crazy as the right fielder circled the bases. With all the hoopla – and how loud it gets in a dome – the father and son behind me caught my attention…and my ear. I heard the dad explaining the game as follows: “You see, he ran to first base, and then to second base, and then to third base, and all the way home. That is called a homerun.” And with that, the boy’s eyes lit up, he may have hopped a bit, and he began to cheer anew. I looked to my left, to my son. And then it hit me.

That is what this is all about. We pontificate about contracts and free agency; we worry about our team’s shaky bullpen or failure to hit with men on base; we lament ticket prices and television blackouts. We call in to radio shows and write blogs about the sport. But when you step back and remind yourself of the how and why we love baseball, this is it. A father and son. At the yard on a Friday night. Learning the most basic elements of the game. Root, root, root for the home team. Is there anything more pure? Is there anything more American? Is there anything more special than that?

I have been to countless games in countless parks with my son. And in the years to come, I certainly hope he does the same with his. As I look to the next few years, when he leaves for college – for real – and he doesn’t need me quite as much, and the ties that bind become ever looser, I will know that, whatever else, we have baseball. That bond will never be broken. And when I see a dad explaining the most basic aspects of the game, and a son discovering its inherent beauty, I know this tradition will carry on.

Happy 4^th.

PLAY BALL!!

Since 2001, the Dodgers have drawn more than three million fans every year, save for 2011, when they fell 65,000 short. Not only are they on pace to hit the mark again this year, they might set their all-time record (2007’s 3.85 million is the number to beat). To paraphrase an Iowan ghost, if you build it, no matter how bad it is, they will come.

And yet, no matter how many fans do come, it has become increasingly clear that the Dodgers don’t care about them. I am not sure when I first started to notice that, but I know I wrote about it in 2016. It may have been…

• When they allowed the failed and hated owner Frank McCourt to retain ownership of the parking lots, and then jacked up prices, and made it more difficult than ever to navigate.
• When I noticed a beer line filled with surly customers backed into the single children’s play area on the upper deck.
• When they essentially gave up on making their games available to 75% of their local television audience.
• Each time I have tried to get something decent to eat.
• When they decided to make the walking space between the outfield pavilions a veritable lung cancer PSA, forcing non-smokers who want to travel from right field to left to suffer the gauntlet of a hundred yards of blue cigarette haze.
• When I finally took a good look at the “batter’s eye” (more about that below).

That said, I do know when I was certain that the Dodgers flat out do not care about their fans: It was around 8pm on Friday, October 26, 2018. It was at that time – the ninth inning of Game 3 of the 2018 World Series, with the score tied 1-1, that the Dodgers closed their concession stands. That is when I knew for sure. To be fair, this is common practice at Dodger Stadium. It is a well-known fact that you cannot get a beer after the seventh inning (a league-wide rule) and cannot get a crappy Dodger Dog after the eighth.

But this was the World Series. This was not the typical Dodger crowd, when half (more?) of those in attendance head to their cars while the last notes of Take Me Out to the Ballgame are still reverberating around the stands. The official head count for Game 3 was 53,114, and the vast majority of them were still there in the ninth inning that Friday night. But the concessionaires were not. The peanut vendors were not. The candy hawkers were not.

If you know me, you know that I will happily climb a soapbox and wax incessantly on the failure of Dodger Stadium concessions. This has become my stock in trade. But, my standard misgivings aside, what we witnessed that night was incredible. Nothing was available for nearly ten innings – for nearly four hours. Think about that for a moment.

Again, to be fair, in the sixteenth inning they did open a dessert window at Aisle 46. The line grew so long, so quick, in multiple directions, that a fan feared he or she might miss a magical baseball moment waiting for an overpriced sundae. I know, because I was one of them. As I have previously written, I took my father to this game, and he and I were famished by 11pm. So I went alookin’ for sustenance, and found myself in line for ice cream. But after a full half inning with no movement, I surrendered, afraid of missing the Dodgers turn at bat in the bottom of the 16^th. I am certain people were still in that line when Max Muncy ended the game in the 18^th – I just wasn’t going to be one of them.

From a business standpoint, I cannot even begin to calculate how much money the Dodgers (and their concession partner, Levy) left on the table between innings 9 and 18. From a marketing perspective, I cannot even imagine how someone within the organization didn’t stop to think – maybe in the 11^th or 12^th inning – “we probably have a lot of hungry fans sitting there…hell, there may be some really cranky kids who haven’t eaten in hours.”

Now this is where some team official tells me that union rules don’t allow the concessions to remain open past a certain inning. Fair. Unreasonable, crazy, unacceptable, but fair. To which I would reply that a fan relations person should have then grabbed some colleagues and some ushers, and started chucking bags of peanuts and boxes of Cracker Jacks up and down the aisles. Make it a communal experience. Have Todd Leitz announce:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now amongst the longest World Series games ever, so the Dodgers would like to reward everyone still in their seats with some snacks – but if you are lucky enough to catch a bag or a box, be sure to share with your neighbors.”

What a great story that would be. In a battle of wills, with East vs. West, as the clock ticked past midnight, Chavez Ravine would have metamorphosed into a Don Draper Americana ad. Walls would have come down; friendships would have been made; stomachs would have been filled.

Instead, we sat there hungry and tired. So when the ball left the yard at 12:29 a.m., we collectively barely had the energy to hoot and holler. Sure, we did it, because that was what adrenaline and the moment called for. But the minutes and hours preceding Muncy’s heroics called for an organization to care about its fans; not to take its three million trips through the turnstile for granted. Simply put, the Dodgers had ten innings and four hours to prove that they give a shit about their fans. They failed.

Why am I writing about this now, seven months later? I have been to Dodger Stadium five times this season – twice this past week. I cannot say I am shocked, but I am at least stunned, at what I have seen. Two consecutive World Series appearances have done nothing for the Dodgers’ affection for their fans. They still don’t give a shit.

I will grant you, in advance, some of this is petty. But I ask you, shouldn’t the organization want to make its best showing; wouldn’t you expect that going into the season, that the ballpark would be gussied up and looking good? Haven’t we, as fans, earned that respect?

Apparently not.

To begin, as you enter the park in left or right field, you need to plot a course around construction zones. Was there not time to do this over the winter?

During opening week, I saw a sign at the entrance with paint peeling off. Huh?

This season the Dodgers moved Tommy’s Trattoria out of the pavilion and into the concourse. But you wouldn’t know that from the signage, which points you in the wrong direction towards its former location. How can this happen? Who is not looking or who is overlooking these details?

I caution you that what I am about to write will change your viewing experience at Dodger Stadium forever. Once you read these words, you will look and never be able to unsee. You have been warned. Take a look at center field – beyond the wall. You will see a stanchion of speakers. They may be an eyesore, but they do serve a purpose (we can debate the quality another time). Now glance slightly to the left. There you will find an elevated camera well. Every ballpark needs a center field camera – no argument there. But do you see the janky, torn, faded black table cloth/tarp that they use to as part of the batter’s eye to cover the scaffolding? Are we to believe that, in a town as flashy as Los Angeles, with a team as wealthy as the Dodgers, with a ballpark that sells itself on its vistas, that they cannot do better than this? If you have not noticed this before, you may be scoffing now…but just you wait.

There is a rumor – and some leaked sketches – that the Dodgers plan to overhaul center field ahead of the 2020 All Star game. Well, they better get cracking, because they have 13 months to turn a monstrosity into something worthy of the Mid-Summer Classic.

Yes, I am a hypocrite. I give them money, buy season tickets, and go to Dodger Stadium at least a dozen times per year. I could simply stop going. But I think my continued presence gives me standing to complain – I am not the one-time visitor from out of state who simply takes in the grandeur and the palm trees. I am a fan, with kids and disposable income; I am the fan the Dodgers should be trying to please. If, for no other reason, then to insure that I re-up my season tickets again next season.

But, when they are setting attendance records, they have more than three million reasons not to care.

PLAY BALL!!