Fond childhood memories stirred my excitement as we pulled up to the gate at the top of Academy Road. Dodger Stadium, the oldest ballpark on the West Coast, stood majestic in the early evening sunlight, encircled with parking lots and framed by the distant southern skyline of towering downtown Los Angeles skyscrapers.
I loved the game long before I met Jarret or became a baseball wife. Mom became a Dodger fan when the team moved to L.A. in 1958. Dad grew up a Cubs fan in Chicago. My parents took Dave and me to Dodger Stadium as soon as we were old enough to gum a hot dog. Dad taught us how to keep box scores and waited with us in the parking lot after games to meet the players. At home, Mom and Dad would hold hands on the couch as their teams played each other. When Dave and I were in grade school, Dad worked the LAPD night shift. Mom let us listen to Dodger night games on the radio and we shared the highlights with Dad at breakfast. Even after my divorce, I kept a casual watch on baseball standings for sports talk with Dad.
Nick parked in the season ticket lot behind the bleachers. We walked hand in hand to the right-field entrance to the Grandstand to meet Dave and Robin outside the souvenir shop.
Robin waved at us over the crowd, her shoulder-length blonde hair glistening under the stadium lights. She carried her rounded curves like an asset, and more than one set of male eyes turned to check out her worn jeans and V-neck tee as she pulled Dave toward us. His Dodger T-shirt fit snug over the belly of his 220-pound frame, with extra pounds courtesy of Robin’s excellent home cooking, no doubt.
“Excuse me?” Robin pointed to Nick’s cap. “A Cubs’ hat? What is your area code, sir?”
“Eight-one-eight,” Nick said, grinning down at her. “However, I was born in the three-one-two and raised at Wrigley Field.”
“You know why Nick studies the occult, don’t you?” Dave said. “He’s on a mission to learn how to reverse the Curse of the Billy Goat.”
“What’s that?” Robin said with a giggle.
“A very sad story,” Nick said. “In 1945, a tavern owner got thrown out of a World Series game at Wrigley Field because the stink of his pet goat bothered the fans. He got so upset over the insult to the goat that he put a curse on the Cubs and swore they would never win another World Series. The Cubs didn’t win that game and they haven’t won a World Series since.”
“Are you really searching for a reverse for the curse?” Robin said.
“Always,” Nick said with a serious nod. “But don’t worry, I’ll be gracious when they win tonight.”
“We’re not worried about your sorry Midwest team, pal. We’ll even dry your tears after the Dodgers win,” Dave said. “First team to third base buys a round of beer.”
“You’re on,” Nick said. “I hope you’re thirsty, because Cubs take the first at bat.”
“What’s in the bag?” I said, pointing to the white plastic pouch in Robin’s hand.
“While we were waiting for you, Dave bought souvenir shirts for your mom and us girls.” She opened the bag and showed me three pink Tshirts, each with a silver-glittered Dodger logo on the chest.
I slowed down to let Nick and Dave pass through the security checkpoint first. “Pink? You let him buy us pink Tshirts?”
Robin put a finger to her lips. “Please don’t say anything. Dave picked them out. If he thinks I love the shirt, he’ll feel confident buying me gifts. He says making me happy makes him happy. Getting presents makes me happy.”
“Pink doesn’t make me happy,” I said.
“Why?” Robin squeezed the bag tight to her waist. “The shirt is cute.”
“To you, sure. You look good in pink. I’m not wearing that thing.”
“A little cranky tonight, Liz? Are you edgy about being at the game with Nick when Jarret might pitch?”
“No. Jarret will be on the field. He’s too far away to cause friction.”
“Then why the mood?”
“Remember when I told you about Laycee Huber, my old neighbor in Atlanta? The one Jarret—” I stopped to show my ticket and open my purse for the security guards.
“Slept with?” Robin said, passing through the gate.
“Right. She’s in town. I saw her at the gym this morning.”
“Ugh. Way to start the day, Liz.”
Robin and I caught up with Nick and Dave at the Field Box entrance and the four of us wove our way through the thick stream of fans searching for their seats and lining up for food at the concession stands. Fifteen minutes to game time, the stands were less than half full with the rest of the fans stuck outside in traffic or being L.A. fashionably late. We took two sets of escalators up to the MVP Loge Boxes to Section 103 and the seats reserved for Dodger players’ friends and family. Jarret gave my parents tickets in the fifth row above and behind home plate with a sweeping view of the entire field.
“Finally,” Mom said after we filed to our seats. “Nick, you sit next to Walter. Dave, you sit—”
“Vivian, stop telling everyone what to do.” My dad, in a gray Chicago Cubs T-shirt matching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, hugged Robin and me then shook Nick’s hand.
“Good to see you, Walter,” Nick said. “Happy birthday.”