Dodger Blue

By Vickie Wippel

          “Dad, did you know 267,624,000 people already sat in these seats? Can I have a Dodger Dog?” 
          “Did you just do that in your head, Ace?” This would not have surprised Ace’s dad, Heat. Heat’s name was Jeremy, but everyone called him by a nickname from his pitching days.
          “No, Dad. I did it in the car on your phone. Dodger Stadium was built in 1962. They have 81 home games a year. And there are 56,000 seats in the stadium.” He squinted in the afternoon sun, looking up for his dad’s approval.
          “Good math, but you should have been here in 20 years ago. Your seat was probably empty.” Heat handed him a hotdog he bought at the gas station on the way in. “Of course, the Dodgers were pretty terrible back then.” Heat felt relieved to find scalped tickets at half the face value for today’s game-- $35 for Pavilion level. When Heat was a kid, the same tickets were $8. 
          The Dodgers took the field against the Cardinals, and the crowd thundered. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon for baseball- blue skies made a perfect backdrop for the silhouette of palm trees just beyond the outfield. 
          “Who’s up first, kid?”
          “Chris Taylor. He is hitting a measly .230.” Ace took a big bite of hotdog and leaned forward in his seat. He wore the Dodger cap Heat gave him for Christmas. “I hope he hits a home run.” Ace looked a lot like his mom, his dad thought-- brown eyes that were almost black, a dusting of freckles and a nose that came to a tiny, irresistible point.
          “A homerun would be a great way to start the game.” Heat took a nip of the miniature Jim Beam hidden in his pocket and leaned back in his seat. He had another hidden in his sweatshirt. By his math, he was saving $30 on drinks alone. The truth was, the Dodgers were on a losing streak, and so was he. Heat didn’t want to think about the overtime he’d have to work to pay for the afternoon with his son.
          At the top of the third inning, Chris Taylor was up again. It was a full count, and the crowd was hungry for a hit. “Dad, do you think you could’ve struck Chris Taylor out?”
          “I don’t know, kid.” Heat shifted in his seat, looking at the scoreboard, the bullpen, anywhere but his son. 
          “In 2008, you were named Rookie Prospect of the Year for the Double A Birmingham Barons.” Ace looked up at his dad again, waiting for a reaction. “Dad, in 2012, your ERA was 2.95. That’s better than Clayton Kershaw, and he’s an All Star.”
          “That was a long time ago, Ace.” Heat had to think hard for a happy memory from Birmingham. “And how’d you know all this stuff?”
          “I looked it up and wrote it all down. Wanna see?” Ace pulled a Velcro wallet out of his sweatshirt pocket and took out a handmade baseball card of his dad-- a colored drawing of a pitcher with the name “Jeremy ‘Heat’ Anderson” written in caps across the front.
          “That’s real neat, Ace. I didn’t know you knew all that.” Heat never cried but wanted to now- both because he loved his boy and because it was the only baseball card he’d ever seen with his name on it.
The pitcher walked Taylor. Heat asked his son, “Who’s up next?” Another nip of whiskey.
           “Max Muncy, that funky Muncy.” Saying this always made Ace laugh. 
           Heat knew Muncy, vaguely, from the minors. Back then, Muncy struggled, too. Almost everyone struggled in the minors, propelled forward by big league dreams, ice wraps, and pain killers. Heat didn’t tell Ace that he and Muncy both played for the Stockton Ports for a short time in 2013. Heat lasted half an inning his last game and quit baseball soon after. His arm just couldn’t do it anymore. Now, Heat was in the cheap seats while fans wore jerseys with Muncy’s name on the back.
          Ace pointed out two 99-Cent Store beachballs bouncing above the crowd. He and his dad loved that about Dodger games; Ace didn’t know why fans only brought the ones from the 99-Cent Store and asked his dad to look it up. They both laughed watching security chase the balls down-- big guys with walkie talkies hitching up their pants as they raced up and down the stairs, grasping at air like trying to catch a butterfly. When the guard finally nabbed the contraband, popping it with a stab of his ballpoint pen in retaliation for the humiliation of the chase, Ace and Heat joined in the crowd’s chorus of boos.
          They shared a Carnation chocolate malt during the seventh inning stretch, and soon the game was over. Thank god the Dodgers won, Heat thought to himself, navigating taillights leading up to the exit. Just like always, Ace fell asleep on the way home, eyes closed before they even made it out of the parking lot traffic jam. He woke up as the car slowed down on the freeway offramp.
          “We’re already home, Dad? I don’t want today to be over,` yet.” Ace rubbed his sleepy eyes.
          “Me neither, kid. Me neither.” Heat pulled into the neighborhood. His old neighborhood, but not his anymore.

          “Think you can come to my game Wednesday night?”
          “I’m gonna try. See if my boss will cut me out early.” Heat pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. “Say hi to your mom for me, Ace.” He leaned over for a hug then tugged at the rim of Ace’s baseball cap. “I love you, kid.”
          “I will, Dad. I love you, too.” Ace slammed the door shut and headed inside.
          And Heat, the 2008 Rookie Prospect of the Year, went back to his apartment for a few hours’ sleep. He had a double shift that would start before tomorrow’s sun came up.