I am a Dodgers fan. I also live in San Francisco. Life isn’t easy.
About three years ago I moved to the city by the bay. Prior to that, I had been living in Santa Barbara. Life was great. Every day was sunny and 65, the beach was a block away at all times, and most importantly, summer nights always began in a bar with a familiar voice telling me that it was “Time for Dodger’s baseball”.
Times are certainly different. Most days it is impossible to tell what season it is as the fog slowly envelops the city. There is a beach, yes, but between the chill and the wind torrents, it is a little harder to enjoy. And instead of the local cable station airing the classic voice of someone who has been broadcasting for 65 years, I have to listen to someone call players “meat”, while surrounded by a crowd wearing their Friday Orange jerseys.
This is my way of connecting with the fan base that I left behind. I love the Dodgers, but most importantly, I love talking with Dodgers’ fans who care about the team as much as I do. I want to be able to dissect the Dodgers, without the thinly veiled Northern bias, the simple head nod at the end of a conversation that says “Yeah I heard you, but LA sucks”.
So, please enjoy. And while the team got its name from the lucky fans who “dodged” trolleys to see a game at Ebbet’s, I have carried on that tradition to the West Coast; Nimbly avoiding the N Judah in front of AT&T every time the Dodgers come to town.