I’m hungover and still wearing the ketchup-stained clothes I slept in, and I’m not a baseball fan. But dammit, my city and its baseball team need me, so I’ll power through this headache and stomach storm to deliver you my best recollection of how the City of Angels celebrated the Dodgers just a few days after their historic conquest — a hard-fought victory over their eternal enemies from the North.
I slogged through the quagmire of traffic heading into Dodger Stadium just as the boys in blue were exiting the stadium to attend the DTLA parade; they were met with an applause usually reserved for WWII heroes and recently landed astronauts. The air was thick with blue smoke, churro dust, and civic euphoria created by a surprisingly large number of fans who were able to take a Monday off on such short notice.
Somewhere between the honking horns and the smell of diesel exhaust, I remembered that line from Hunter S. Thompson — the good doctor of American madness — who once wrote, “There was madness in any direction, at any hour… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.” Standing among thousands of Angelenos half-drunk on victory, screaming for men in matching uniforms, I realized: this must’ve been what Thompson meant with those immortal words from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as he recounted those revolutionary days of San Francisco in the mid-1960s.
I’m new to the life of a starving journalist, so I decided to let this VIP experience go right to my head. I’m a man of words and wit and a wristband that lets me into exclusive areas at Dodger Stadium, so you bet your butt I’m gonna chow down on as many complimentary foot-longs and bags of chips as I can. DTLA Weekly’s name wasn’t on the media list for the primo Press Box seats, but that didn’t matter; there was enough space in the aisles of the box for me to catch some killer glimpses of the action, and there was more than enough space in the dining room.
With plenty of glizzies and popcorn on tap and several TVs to stay up to date on the goings-on, I was in my element here.
DJ Mustard — good idea naming yourself after a common ballpark condiment — took the stage to a roar of approval. The crowd erupted as if the mere sound of his name confirmed some divine cosmic truth. For a brief, shining moment, Dodger Stadium felt like a cathedral for the Church of the Blue Faithful. I may have been an atheist in that church, but I was more than willing to let my spirit be swept up in the local color.
I may have never seen a baseball game in my life up until that point, but I was a Dodger fan that day.
Anthony Anderson showed up, too, which was cool. I’m still haunted by his performance as a street philosopher in Scary Movie 3.
Then Ice Cube rolled in, cool as ever, in a vintage blue Cadillac. Apparently, he’s a hardcore Dodger fan (Compton is in L.A. County? Crazy!). Other than a single utterance of the word “ass,” Cube kept it surprisingly clean — maybe he’s mellowed with age into a PG-13 prophet of the people.
By my third foot-long, the hangover had begun to lift, replaced by a faint, sodium-driven euphoria. I texted my hardcore Dodger fan friend from the San Francisco Bay about my day, shoving every cobalt experience into his face. He was understandably jealous, but his next text dealt a chilling realization that hit with the force of a Mack truck: “So what’re you going to write?!”
And with that left hook, I suddenly remembered I was there on assignment, and not to cure my hangover with processed meats and sugar water.
The timing was perfect, too — the gladiatorial procession was beginning. I could hear the roar of the crowd as players began to take the stage, and I realized I had to write something about a sporting event I knew almost nothing about. Nurse, I need 500 cc’s of greasy ballpark weiner, STAT!
Flanked by his azure army, Dodgers owner Mark Walter followed Ice Cube’s passionate speech. Well, “followed” is a strong word — more like “said some words after Ice Cube.” I’m not insulting Walter; after all, Mr. Cube’s got a swagger that can move mountains, while Walter’s just a mortal man with a microphone.
Numerous players were then given the mic to make some rapturous statements. The speeches blurred together into one big victory monologue — promises of dynasties, legacies, and future wins. Meanwhile, I discovered the press table had complimentary croissants filled with caramel. “How international!” I thought, wiping crumbs onto my sweaty Deadpool t-shirt.
Then came Kike Hernández. If the rally had a pulse, he was the caffeine shot to its heart. First, he censored himself — sort of — yelling, “We’re a mother-effing dynasty, baby!” Nice save, Kike; there are kids here. Then, unable to contain his victory high, he went full McGregor: “I want to take this chance to apologize… to absolutely fucking nobody!” The crowd exploded. He dropped the mic and walked off like a man who’d just declared war on decency. Hopefully, that microphone wasn’t city property — we just climbed out of a billion-dollar deficit.
At that point, Dodger Stadium ceased being a ballpark and became a living, breathing organism. Beer cans flew. Grown men wept. A woman in a Mookie Betts jersey waved a foam finger like a sword. It was less a celebration than the aftermath of a campaign — the city’s victory feast following a glorious crusade against the northern barbarians. I swear someone baptized a Dodger Dog in Michelob Ultra. It wasn’t about baseball anymore — it was about collective delirium, the kind that makes strangers hug and convinces you the universe runs on teamwork and tequila.
Leaving the parking lot was its own odyssey. Horns blared like battle cries. Someone tried to sell me a rally towel for twenty bucks. Another man stood on a car roof conducting traffic like a symphony of chaos. I cracked open a warm Coke from the press bag and accepted my fate.
I didn’t learn much about baseball that day. But I did learn something about Los Angeles — this mad, beautiful, frustrating city that only truly unites when the lights are bright, the traffic is apocalyptic, and victory feels like a shared hallucination.
We may be divided by freeways and rent, but for one delirious afternoon under the blue glow of Dodger Stadium, we were all part of the same fever dream — hungover, hopeful, and screaming for the home team.
