FanPost

Why I Still Bleed Dodger Blue This Morning

There is much gnashing of teeth in the Dodger World these days. The annual meltdown in St. Louis only magnifies the usual complaints: the continuing tawdriness of the McCourt divorce, the growing unease that seems to surround Ned Colletti at every trading deadline, the apparent decline of Manny Ramirez and Casey Blake, the head scratching that follows every questionable on-the-field decision of Matt Kemp or bad game on the mound. Moreover, there is the growing fear that the ship has sailed, that the promise that began with the so-called "Jacksonville Five" will ultimately prove false, lost in a Matt Stairs-induced haze. At times like these--and at age 52 I've experienced many times like these--I like to remind myself why I'm a Dodger fan in the first place.

In 1947, Jackie Robinson came to the big leagues. Who doesn't know that? That fall, the Dodgers took on the Yankees in the World Series, the first of those epic contests that were to define post-World War II baseball. A long way from New York City, in a small, unremarkable Virginia town called Elliston, the employees at the local meat-packing plant decided to have a World Series pool. But there was a problem--no one in that southern plant would put any money on the integrated Dodgers. Finally, the organizers approached the woman who would someday be my grandmother. Until that moment, she had never paid any attention to organized sports. But as her co-workers explained the situation, she found herself growing angry. And she finally exploded, saying in the polite vernacular of the times, "Good Lord! We don't let the colored people do anything else. Why can't we at least let them play baseball?" And with that she pulled a dollar out of her purse and placed it on the team from Brooklyn.

They lost, of course. They usually did lose to the Yankees. But over the years, she stayed with the Dodgers. It wasn't easy. She never told her son or her husband, worried about what they would think. But every year she followed them quietly, and every year she pulled out that dollar. The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles. She didn't care--as she said years later, she was never going to see Brooklyn or California, so it didn't matter to her. Along came other players who became her favorites--Roy Campanella, and then Sandy Koufax. In 1965, Koufax pitched the Dodgers to another World Series victory as she sat on her sofa, her grandson--me--at her side. "That's Sandy Koufax," she told me, "he's the greatest pitcher who's ever lived. And those are the Dodgers. That's my team." By the end of the series, as the Dodgers celebrated in Minnesota, they were my team too. I went out in the back yard and tried to become a lefthander.

Tough years followed. The Orioles swept the Dodgers in 1966, and then what I remember as the dark sports nights of my childhood's soul followed. My classmates teased me without mercy. But as I got to high school, something amazing happened--the Dodgers started winning. New names appeared in the box scores of the Roanoke Times: Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey, Ferguson, Yeager. Sports Illustrated called them "The Little Blue Bicycle," chasing down the Big Red Machine. Meanwhile, when it came to baseball, I was still my grandmother's confidant. For the next years we rode the roller coaster of feast and famine. I was at college when Reggie Jackson ended two dreams, but I was back at my grandmother's kitchen table keeping score when the Dodgers finally beat those Yankees in 1981. By 1988, I was away at grad school, trying to rock my son to sleep when Kirk Gibson hit that home run. The phone rang.

Four year later I was on the phone again. As much as I refused to admit it, she was dying. So we talked about the Dodgers prospects that year. She was not hopeful. It was the last real conversation we ever had.

Close to two decades later, I find myself shaking my head as the Cardinals come back to win. Another series lost. Fourth place. Broxton! And yet, there we are, I am a Dodger fan, there's no getting out of it, and sometimes that's how it goes. If the Dodgers can't boast twenty-seven pennants, the Yankees can't boast a place in American history textbooks. For me, the Dodgers have never been the hometown team, or the easy team to root for. Nor are they Frank McCourt's team. I know, it sounds pie-in-the-sky these days, but to me the Dodgers are still about Robinson and Rickey, Campy and Koufax, and a quiet woman's courage not only to say "enough" to the hatred of segregation, but to raise me to believe in justice too. That's my team.

This is a fan-written post that is in no way affiliated with or related to any of the authors or editors of True Blue LA. The opinions reflected in this post do not necessarily reflect those of True Blue LA, its authors or editors.