A Little About the World Series

I’ve been too busy to be a dedicated baseball fan up until this World Series. I was eight years old when the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. That’s perfect timing being just old enough to appreciate the sport. They brought with them announcer Vin Scully who was my connection to the game.

I’ve been a music fan ever since, with Vinny’s voice being the first music to ever float me away to rapturous notes, lyrics, and melodies. My folks thought I was tucked away for the night, but my little transistor radio treated me to Vinny and the action. The radio was about the size of a pack of cigarettes with gold chrome trim. I held it by my ear under the covers and my folks marveled at my knowledge of last night’s game that was played while I was sound asleep.

I was fortunate to live on a block with lots of young families. We would get together and play touch football in Charlie Langmuir’s front yard. Their little privet hedge got pretty ragged from the diving catches and tackles. Charlie’s family had a history of Nobel Prizes for various science research. They also had a Willys Jeep Utility Wagon, the first SUV.

A few years ago, I looked up Charlie. He was a professor at Harvard studying volcanoes. I gave him a call. He answered. He told me about his trip to Chile. He and a buddy had hiked up a broad valley. It was time to set up camp for the night, and they decided to sleep a ways up out of the bottom of the valley. As it turned out, there was a thunderstorm that night that created such a torrent on the valley floor that it rolled boulders. Charlie was a smart guy.

Once, Chip Rhinehart threw me a “bullet” pass right over Charlie’s driveway behind the Jeep. It knocked the wind outta me and I thought I was gonna die. But I’m still here. I’ve always been skinny and uncoordinated. (I’ve actually grown a Western-World-Diet potbelly now, though.) So I preferred baseball. Still do.

That era with Koufax, Drysdale (a pitcher who could hit), and the rest was magical to me. Maury Wills played shortstop, and everyone thought he was too small. But he was like Dusty on our Hansell Redlegs team. His slight frame helped make him fast.

Dad took me to Dodger Stadium once, and we were behind 4 to 2. We left in the 9th inning to “beat the traffic.” As we walked through the parking lot we heard, “Maury Wills, the batter.” Then CRACK, and the cheers drowned out the announcer. We heard the Dodgers come from behind and win on the car radio. A couple years ago, I posthumously forgave Dad.

I’ve enjoyed being a Cubs fan as well since moving to Iowa. Rooting for the underdog is my default position, maybe because of my appreciation for the secessionists of 1776. We would take the kids to Wrigley each summer and even haul the neighbor boys along. I’ll never forget seeing a little kid outside the park after the game playing drums and singing Sweet Home Chicago; and the Gyro and cold Old Style we caught in Dubuque on the way home.

Although they won the Series, the Dodgers disappointed me. The Blue Jays were fired up. The Dodgers won it on high-priced talent, not spunk. The Blue Jays can be proud without the trophy because everyone knows they possessed the fire that makes baseball a beautiful thing. Two diving catches in game 7, sprinting to first on an easy fly ball just in case, and the over-the-top celebrations in the dugout epitomized that. For this series, at least, the Blue Jays won me over.

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