By LAUGHING MATTERS BY JACK NEWORTH
In case you were lucky enough to miss it, the Dodgers were swept by the Mets in the playoffs. I predicted they would lose, but I was hoping I’d be wrong. I wasn’t going out on much of a limb. The Dodgers had only won one postseason game in the last 18 years.
It’s still one. It was definitely a bad omen in game one, when two Dodgers got thrown out at home on the same play! It’s a first in playoff history. Not exactly the way you want to make history. Throughout the series, there was never much hope for the Dodgers. And baseball is about hope. It starts in the spring, when hope is in the air.
As a kid, I would take these types of defeats very hard. I’d turn into an ostrich, albeit in a baseball cap. I’d avoid the sports page, flip the channel when the TV news turned to sports and not even mention it with friends and family. Today, I’m considerably — okay, slightly — more mature.
Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for the thrills this year. In one week alone, Nomar Garciaparra hit two walk-off home runs. But against the Mets, he could barely run to first. It’s a shame the season ended on such a sour note, especially after the fans set an attendance record of more than four million. It seemed like one minute, we celebrated making the playoffs, and in a New York minute, we were shown the door.
During the season, I noticed many women are big Dodger fans. In my apartment building’s gym, often it’s women who turn on the TV to the Dodgers game. My pretty workout friend, Maria, is a total jock. In five minutes, she gives me the rundown of scores and highlights. She’s a walking ESPN, though with a much nicer voice than Chris Berman. Of course, a leaky car muffler sounds nicer than Chris Berman.
Twenty years ago, women didn’t seem to take sports so seriously, though my Aunt Amelia was an exception. A divorcee in the mold of “Auntie Mame,” she loved the Dodgers, and the Rams even more. For my 12th birthday, she bought Rams season tickets. We went to the Coliseum every Sunday there was a home game. But Aunt Amelia took the losses hard, too. Maybe it’s genetic, She often bantered back and forth with fans rooting for the opposing team. Mortified, I shrunk in my seat.
Leaving the parking lot could be even more embarrassing. Listening to the post-game show, on occasion Amelia inadvertently tapped the bumper of the car in front. No damage, but the unexpected tap usually led to blaring car horns. Amelia would shout back, “If only your brain worked as well as your horn!”
One time, Amelia tapped the bumper of a brand new ’57 T-Bird. The owner was huge, and with his veins bulging from anger, I wondered if he was going to have a stroke. As he rushed over, I rolled up the window. But Amelia could charm any man. She had some kind of feminine magic. And sure enough, within minutes, he went from fuming to fawning. After he walked meekly back to his car, Amelia turned to me, “He seemed like a nice man don’t, you think?” I nodded and rolled down the window.
In 1995, the Rams moved to St. Louis. I don’t know why, but all these years later, I still root for them. It’s probably for Amelia. I know this. Leaving the parking lot after a game, I’m always careful in the bumper to bumper traffic.
If I watch the rest of the baseball playoffs, it will be with pangs of what might have been.
As a boy, when the baseball season ended in heartbreak, my father comforted me, “Wait until next year.” But my father is gone. And the older I get, the faster the years seems to go by. On the other hand, maybe spring training will seem to get here that much faster.
One thing about spring, hope is in the air. Of course, so is pollen.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on October 13, 2006. Read the original PDF.