After Mayor Bass speaks and the Dodgers continue down the parade route, blue and white confetti rains across the mass of fans gathered in front of two giant TV screens at Gloria Molina Grand Park. The voice of the late, great Vin Scully rises over the cheers from the fans, sounding as if it was a broadcast from the beyond, before the DJ drops in “It Was a Good Day.” The crowd sings along with the Ice Cube jam, filling in when the DJ scratches out the less family-friendly lyrics, although I doubt anyone here would complain about the content of the song. Thirty some-odd years later, everyone in L.A. knows that Kim can do it all night.
An estimated 250,000 people turned up in downtown Los Angeles for the Dodgers World Series victory parade on Friday morning. My husband and I were amongst them. The park was already pretty packed when we arrived at about 10 a.m. We were able to get close enough to see the buses moving beyond the trees at the edge of the park, but the people on those buses were hardly visible. Those jumbo screens came in handy. Still, I’m listening more than I’m watching.
For the past week, I’ve been following the siren call of the World Series, a sound so captivating that sucks you deeper and deeper into the game until, suddenly, all of your timelines, both online and IRL, are Dodger blue.
It’s a sound filled with a multitude of emotions. On the first night of the series, there was elation in the voices of the Dodgers fans I met while at the Grand Star in Chinatown for Underground’s Halloween party. They were at the game earlier that evening and one showed me video of the crowd’s reaction to Freddie Freeman’s walk-off grand slam. Another repeated in astonishment, “this is something we’ll tell our grandkids about.”
The following night, when I arrived in a residential neighborhood for the first of two Saturday night DJ gigs, a loud, collective groan let me know that something was amiss. I had no idea what had happened during the game until my brother mentioned in a text that Shohei Ohtani was injured. With little cell services, I couldn’t find more info, but the pop of fireworks that came sometime after 8 p.m. informed those of us away from the TV who won.
Even if I had wanted to escape the sound of the World Series, by Monday, that would have been impossible. Early in the evening, I sat at a Silver Lake bus stop across from 33 Taps, where a large crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk along Sunset Blvd. I hadn’t realized that the game started until I heard their roar of cheers and pulled out my phone to try to follow along. On the bus, a young guy near me watched the game on his phone. I’ve never been so happy to be sitting by the dude who didn’t bring earbuds.
I hopped off the bus next to a boisterous Buffalo Wild Wings, where a crowd formed on the corner of Broadway and Cesar Chavez, watching the big screen from the sidewalk. Right after I crossed the street, the crowd erupted into screams of “Let’s go Dodgers!” What the hell just happened? I peeped through a window at The Kroft, where the game also played, to try to find out. An older man passing by stopped and told me to just go inside, like he did on Saturday, to watch the game. I had to get home, though. He walked beside me for a block, lugging two wheelie suitcases and talking nonstop, first about baseball, then about war. I’m still not sure if the two subjects were related. I was just thinking about how I needed to get home and turn on the TV.
The sound of the World Series was giving me FOMO, a surprising development for someone who has never been hardcore about sports. But, I was born and raised in L.A. and an affinity for the Dodgers goes along with that. Every time I hear people shout “Let’s Go Dodgers” on the streets, I think of the excitement of going to the occasional baseball game as a kid and this childhood revelation that I lived in the best city in the world. (TBH, adult me agrees with kid me. L.A. is the best. Don’t @ me ‘cause IDGAF.)
When I got home, I parked my ass on the sofa and tuned into the game. Then I suggested to my husband that we go to Philippe’s for dinner because I was certain they’d have the game on there. (And they did.) The next day, I planned my errands so that I would be home in time for the first pitch. When those Yankees fans tried to mess with Mookie, my inner shit-talker emerged and I hurled insults at the TV screen. Then, on Wednesday, I somehow resisted the urge to change the channel despite a persistent feeling of dread while watching those first few innings.
Earlier on Wednesday, while running errands, I stopped by El Pueblo de Los Angeles to check out the Dia de los Muertos altars. A man remarked in Spanish that the altars were beautiful. I agreed with him— maybe in English, maybe in bad Spanish, I can’t recall— and he switched languages, telling me in English that there’s a Fernando Valenzuela altar on the other side of the plaza. This seemed kind of random, since I was wearing a David Bowie t-shirt and no Dodger apparel. Was I now just giving off sports vibes? Regardless, we talked about the previous night’s game. He was convinced the series would go on for all seven games. I was like, “y’know, I think the Dodgers are going to win it tonight.”
What was happening to me? I’m talking baseball with strangers. I’m getting so stressed about a game on TV that I consider dropping a few Hail Marys, but I can’t remember all the words. The call of the World Series is persistent. Only the most contrarian Angelenos can resist it and, even then, I think those folks are missing the point. This isn’t just about baseball. It’s about hometown pride.
If you do heed the siren call of the World Series, it will change you into the sort of person who actually sticks it out through the most brutal part of the game, who jumps out of your seat when the tide shifts in the fifth inning and starts cheering as your hometown team gets closer and closer to the prize. And then they win and the fireworks launch almost immediately. It’s the sound of victory, a series of celebratory blasts that ricochet across the neighborhood for a few hours, mixed with the occasional carload of screaming fans zipping down the streets.
At Grand Park on Friday, the DJ scratches out of “It Was a Good Day” and into the city’s unofficial anthem, “I Love L.A.” People toss their hands in the air, wave flags and scream. Adults turn their phones towards their faces as they sing, “From the South Bay to the Valley, From the Westside to the Eastside.”
Kids bounce on their parents shoulders. People of all ages dance and sing along with Randy Newman. One guy repeatedly throws L.A. fingers. Another is wearing Blue Demon mask and bobbing his head in time to the song. The confetti shower continues and the crowd chants.
“We love it!
We love it!
We love it!”
Liz O. is an L.A.-based writer and DJ. Read her recently published work and check out her upcoming gigs.
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