22 May 2005

...while wondering what ever happened to Rod Carew

It's baseball season!

Yeah, yeah, I know. There's still some unfinished roundball business and I'll get to it. With my beloved Mavericks' elimination, I now know how Laker fans have felt all these (two) months.

Onward!

Round two of the Beautiful Season almost turned out like its predecessor, a perfect run of predictions -- almost.

In the (L)East, we had Miami in four over Washington and that's how it went down. The Wiz were a little more seasoned than the Incred's and that got them into the second round. They never really had a chance here, even without the Big Femur.

In the other Eastern Series, we picked Detroit in seven over Indiana. The Pistons won, but it wasn't nearly as close as we had it. LB's got the guys primed and ready for another run and showed again how he's a class act by calling timeout to extend Reggie's farewell standing-O, then leading his team to half-court to join the applause. Asked about it afterward, The Greatest Basketball Mind of Our Time said, "I only wish we had had more timeouts." What brawl?

Over to the Big Boys. We picked Dallas in Seven over Phoenix and our perfect streak ended in six. Thus also ended the Charles Barkley rule that in a seven game series the better team always wins. But, as they say, that's why they play the games.

In the real shocker of the post season, Seattle actually won two games before falling as expected to San Antonio. I have no explaination for this at all.

On to the Conference Finals:

EAST:

(1) Miami Heat vs (2) Detroit Pistons

Where to go here? Miami has stormed to the conference finals, going 8-0, but has played two teams they should have stormed through. Detroit put away one garbage opponent in the Sixers and handled the Pacers more easilly than we thought. The Heat have the most dominant player in the game but the Pistons have the best coach. Shaq has eaten everyone's lunch this season but these same Pistons scarfed his in last year's Finals. Everything about this matchup screams Pistons.

Except that voice inside me.

Miami in 7

WEST:

(1) Phoenix Suns vs (2) San Antonio Spurs

Run and Gun can not win an NBA title. I do not care if you are Doug Moe, Don Nelson or Mike D'Antoni. Take all of their Nugget, Maverick and Sun championship rings and they will add up to Kobe Bryant's class -- none. Phoenix beat the Grizzlies in the first round because they were vastly superior. They beat Dallas in the second round because the Mavericks completely abandoned their season-long quest to improve defensively and because, in reality, they only had 19 games playing under a new system before the postseason started.

San Antonio lost the first game of their series with the Nuggs then put them away in short order. Despite inexplicably losing two games to Seattle, that series was pretty much the cakewalk it should have been. (as an aside, look for Seattle to be in the lottery again next season -- seriously) The Spurs will come into this series untested, but with Greg Popovic that won't be the issue it would be for most teams. The lack of sharpness gleaned from intense competition will probably cost them a game early and the Suns are good for one win at home, but that's about it for this Cinderella season.

San Antonio in 6

Until next time,
Paz

21 May 2005

...while wondering what ever happened to Reggie Miller

And just like that, it's over.

No cushion for the blow, no drawn out parting of the ways. One moment you're rushing together, headlong into destiny; the next you're standing alone, wondering how it all fell apart so fast.

Now by definition, the odds are not good going in. 96.66% of the time, it's going to turn out just like this. But it's that .33 that we live for, no? Whether you're a Warrior or a Wizard, a TrailBlazer or Timberwolf...a Magic or a Maverick. No matter where you are, each November love blooms anew. And hope. And while some affairs are doomed from the outset, for a handful there exists the real possibility of genuine bliss.

Today, I couldn't be further from bliss. As time was winding down in regulation last night, everything slowed down to a crawl. The pass to the MVP we let walk away. The dribble. The pullup three. Did any of us even need to look where it went? Could any of us have stopped ourselves from looking had we wanted to? Overtime was a formality. Then everything went to warp-speed.

Being eliminated from the playoffs is very much like death, I would imagine. When you die, that's it -- you're dead. And outside of those few closest to you, the world moves on. There will be some like me, who suffer for months on end, but the Mavericks won't be mentioned again on television, other than as part of "the Suns' path to the..." And that's the hardest part. No matter how well a team does and no matter what joy they brought, in the end, we grieve alone.

As with death, there is an afterlife. Dirk and Fin and Stack will come back next November, lace them up and make another run at it. But it won't be this run. It won't be this team.

And no matter what lies over the horizon, right now we are tied with the Atlanta Hawks, for last place.

10 May 2005

...while wondering what ever happened to Mr. Bently

Habemus Papam!

With the whisps of white smoke began the papacy of Benedict XVI. And with the whines of the Americans continued business as usual. "What? A conservative pope?!?!" Yeah, because the Catholic Church is so known for it's liberal ways. "Well, maybe he'll change." That's what you want, someone flighty serving as spiritual guide for a billion people.

Citizens in this country do a great job of separating their church from their state. Catholics in this country do a horrible job of separating their State from their Church. Christianity is not a democracy -- you do not get a vote. And the rules do not "change with the times". What was right is the same thing that was right two weeks ago. And what was wrong was wrong two millenia ago. While the culture we live in evolves constantly, what is expected of us in our Christian lives does not. This, of course, flies in the face of the American Way. We want freedom, not restriction. When we outgrow an ideal, we simply push it aside. I mean, majority rules! Still, there is that annoying little issue of right and wrong.

So we intermingle our issues. Can't argue that abortion is not murder? Make it a Women's Rights issue. Can't reconcile the fact that Christ himself forgave his killers, as opposed to executing them, with your pro-death penalty philosophy? Make it an economics issue -- it's cheaper to kill them. And on and on...

This is an effective way for everyone to be able to walk away from a debate feeling they are on the higher moral ground. And that's what it's all really about in the United States, isn't it -- being right? Being better than the next guy. We do love our winners.

But the problem here is that we as a society have gotten so good at clouding the issues, that we have lost sight of most of them. Where one side argues that abortion is the taking of a human life, the other argues that not allowing a woman to do so is government interference with her autonomy of body. Neither of the two sides is even addressing the other's argument. And while each may have salient points, any value of such debate is lost in a sea of semantics. This loss of ability to even use a common languge of morality results in virtual enslavement to emotivism, a case quite eloquently made in Alasdair McIntyre's book, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theology.

This relativism of morality virtually ensures that no argument of a moral nature will be resolved in secular society. The Catholic Church, however is not secular. It is for this reason that secular arguments against her doctrine are irrelevant. The Church is very clear in its teachings. it is up to the Roman Catholic to either accept those teachings or not. It is not the Church's responsibility to change to meet the desires of her flock. It is the responsibility of that flock to look into its heart and live a Christian life. At this point in our collective journey, we have been given Pope Benedict XVI to guide us along that path.

As Catholics, we believe that the Holy Spirit chooses who the pontif will be. The cardinals in attendance at a papal conclave are merely praying for the Spirit to reveal to them the name of the successor to St. Peter. The selection of Joseph Cardinal Ratzenger would seem to be a validation of the pontificate of John Paul II. Benedict appears intent on continuing along the path of orthodoxy laid out by his predecessor. He has also made initial statements addressing my main concern, that of ecumenism. The new pope has made comments specifically designed to reach out to jews and other Christian denominations. While he has stopped short of addressing those of a non-Judeo-Christian theological outlook, it is my hope that that follows.

Another thing that Benedict brings to the office of the papacy is that he is an excellent administrator, something which many say was not a strength of his predecessor. Particularly as regards the abuse scandals in the United States, a strong vioce in Rome will go a long way. As cardinal, the new pope refered to "the filth within the priesthood" when addressing the issue. It would seem that he will proactively address this and other issues that were not focused on as perhaps they should have been.

But Benedict's greatest strength, and that which causes the most hope for some and trepidation for others, is his lifelong defense of Catholicicsm. While statements such as his preferring a smaller, purer Church to one focused solely on numbers may terrify some, It brings joy to my heart. For if there is one thing which no one should ever compromise on, it is one's religious convictions.

The Second Vatican Council brought sweeping changes to a Church that had not seen much in that vein in a very long time. Unfortunately, it was a very misunderstood council and much of the Catholic identity was swept out the door. While the council focused primarilly on how the message of the Church was delivered, its intent was not to change doctrine. Sadly, many misinterpreted Vatican II as doing just that. Mass in the vernacular was quite possibly the greatest thing to happen to the Church in a thousand years. Inclusion of the laity in the liturgy was also positive. A renewed focus on the laity's relationship with scripture breathed a new life into the Church. But none of these things changed doctrine.

I was fortunate enough to be raised in the most conservative diocese in the United States, the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. So while I was born in 1969, I had the benefit of a pre-Vatican II theological education, with the benefits of a post-Vatican II presentation. As my life brought me to live in four very distinct regions of this country, I have seen many things. I have seen churches stripped bare of all icons; I have heard priests almost refuse to tell me I have done wrong in the confessional; I have witnessed the increasing restlessness of the "faithful", as they yearn to be free of the yoke of guilt. And I'm not even going to get into the people damn-near leaping accross the isles to hold hands during the Lord's Prayer, making it -- and not the Eucharist -- the moment of communion during the mass. All of these things have contributed to an erosion of the Catholic identity.

Pope Benedict is exactly the voice the Catholic Church needs right now. This pontificate will be a very important one, for this pope may very well be the last one who was actually in attendance at Vatican II. It will be incumbant upon him to be the final authoritative voice on the matter.

But is that so hard? Doctrine is quite clear on the issues most American Catholics say are the most important issues of division facing the Church right now. Let's look at them, and then the arguments raised in favor of a change in policy:

Abortion: A human zygote is not going to turn into a giraffe. Or a Buick. It is going to become a human baby, which will become a human child, adolescent, etc. The only difference between a zygote and a 90 year-old man is that they are at a different point in the life cycle. It is as simple as that.

Divorce: When a man and woman state before God that they are going to remain married to one another for the rest of their natural lives, they are making a sacred oath. The bible is quite clear here. If a man an woman divorce, as is sometimes necessary, they are not to remarry. It too, is as simple as that.

Contraception: The conjugal act has one purpose -- the propagation of the species. Any act taken to subvert the potential creation of human life in that act is contrary to the will of God. Simple.

Celibacy: While not biblically-based, it is the position of the Church that a celibate priest is relieved of the distractions of this world. It is hard enough to maintain a family, let alone simultaneously lead one's flock.

These are the positions of the Church. As with anything else, there are opposing views.

Those against the ban on abortion speak about unwanted children and a woman's right to choose. The Church chooses to place the preservation of life over one's desire to do with their own what they want to because, after all, our lives are not ours. We are but mere stewards of the life God has created and given to us.

In a society overrun by divorce, many would like the Church to loosten up restrictions on remarriage. How? Make your first marriage a conditional promise to God? There is no wiggle room here. Marriage for life means just that. While there are justifiable reasons for divorce, such as abuse, neglect, adultury. Simply "not being happy" does not meet the litmus test.

The most prevelant argument for contraception is that it will slow the spread of AIDS. That is simply not an effective argument. The position of the Church clearly states that the only people who should be having sex are married people, with their spouse and only their spouse. To add a caveat of, "or wear a condom" undermines the entire doctrine and makes no sense.

One of the most highly debated items is the celibacy of the priesthood, which is funny to me, since most of the people arguing are not priests. One argument is that something needs to be done to combat the shortage of priests. That is a valid point. Another is that it is "unnatural" for a man to be celibate -- yet you do not hear these same people crying out for nuns to be free. Then there's the lunatic fringe, who equate supressed sexual desire to a catalyst for child molestation.

I don't know the answer here. Personally, I like having a celibate priesthood. I know that I am my priest's his primary concern. If he has a family at home, can I know that? Perhaps an increase in the responsibilities of the deaconnate is the solution. Perhaps further increased participation of the laity. Given the choice between married men or celibate women, if it comes to that, I would personally prefer celibate women. But whatever is to be done here, I have faith in the leadership of my church to go forward with the best course of action because I believe their placement has been guided by the loving hand of the Holy Spirit.

What it comes down to is a large number of Catholics in this country wanting to change the Church to fit their personal whims. This causes me to wonder how one can truly believe in a church that can be swayed by public opinion. The Church is, by definition, superior to this world. It was founded by Jesus Christ and serves in His name. If one truly believes that, how could they ask it to change?

There's the rub. And that is what every Catholic must ask himself. Do you believe in what the Church has taught you? If you do, then embrace it, proclaim it! If you do not -- if you truly do not -- then you are probably better served seeking a church home more in-line with your ideology. That may end up in a smaller Catholic church. But that's ok. The point here is not that those who disagree with Catholic teaching are wrong. The point is that the teaching is not going to change, nor should it. It is incumbent upon the individual to look wiithin and change.

Am I a perfect Christian? No I am not. I fail on a daily basis. But I know exactly where I have failed precisely because right and wrong are eternal. I trust those who the Lord has placed at the head of my Church. I know many cannot do so, and I respect that. For those who insist on having more input into the direction of their church, who want to in fact steer their church toward their ideal, there are many Protestant denominations where that can happen. And that's not to say that the Catholic way is better. Just different.

In the end, we are all called to Jesus. And we all believe the same things:

We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen;

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, only son of the father, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God, begotten not made, one in being with the Father; Through Him all things were made; For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven; By the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary and became man; For our sake he was crucified under Pontious Pilot; He suffered, died and was burried; On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the scriptures; He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father; He will come again in glory, to judge the living and the dead;

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son; With the Father and the Sun he is worshiped and glorified; He has spoken through the prophets

We believe in one, holy, catholic (little c), apostolic church; We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins; We look to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

Amen. And viven il Papam!

08 May 2005

...while wondering what ever happened to Mark Macon

Well, Round One of the Beautiful Season went as scripted, more or less. While we missed on some series' length, all of the winners were as predicted. A quick recap:

(L)EAST:

Miami took out Brooklyn in a sweep. The Nets had a shot in Game 3 to make it a little interesting, but came up short. No surprises here, though the emergence of journeyman (and former Mav) Damon Jones was nice.

Detroit blew past Philly in 5. Just like we called it, again no surprises. For the first time in a while though, the Sixers' future looks good. The "other" AI, Korver and Dalembert make for a nice fit around Iverson. Whereas the team they took to the NBA Finals was built for that season, this group could see longer-term success. Now all they need to do is pawn C-Webb off on someone.

Indiana and Boston went the distance, with the sixth-seeded Pacers taking out the paper champions. An exciting series that went precisely as we called it. Miller Time has not, in fact ended. This group deserved a win for all they've been through. As Reggie put it, "my legacy will not be just about what I have done in the past, but what we were able to do this season". Amen.


Washington took out Chicago a game earlier than we projected, but this six-game series was as good as advertised. Two young, entertaining teams slugging it out. And it went down as it should have. The team with a little more seasoning moved on. But make no mistake: the incrediBulls are most certainly back.

WEST:

We thought Phoenix would lose at least one to Memphis. We were wrong. The Suns looked good. There were some doubts how they would react to a physical Grizzlies team. I guess now we know.

San Antoino took out a Denver team in five in a series we saw going seven. The Nuggs stole Game One, got blown out in Game Two and then lost the next three, by an average of 9. They looked like a team just happy to be in the playoffs. Next year they will expect -- and achieve -- more.

Seattle beat Sacramento in 5. So the Kings suck worse.

Dallas and Houston played an absolutely classic six-game series. Unfortunately for Houston, the series went seven. With Yao gone ghost and Dirk in witness protection for most of the series, Tracy McGrady was an absolute stud, who was only answered by -- Jason Terry? Every playoff season gives us a guy who never had a chance to appear on the big stage come from nowhere to shock us. Last year it was Chauncy Billups. This year it's Terry. Wow, what a series!

Onto the Conference Semifinals.

EASTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Miami Heat vs (4) Washington Wizards

The dream dies on South Beach. Washington may be able to steal one in this series. I wouldn't bet te farm on it though.

Miami in 4

_____

(2) Detroit Pistons vs (6) Indiana Pacers

This is the series everyone wanted to see and we all know why. This is the series NBA fans want to see because the on-court action will be compelling. Hopefully the latter quickly overtakes the former as point of focus for the media whores. In the end though, the difference will be a direct result of that November night. Not having Ron Artest will be what does the Pacers in.

Detroit in 7

___________________________________________________________

WESTERN CONFERENCE

(1) Phoenix Suns vs (4) Dallas Mavericks

I cannot see this not being a classic series. The speed model versus the new edition; friend versus friend; the MVP versus the mouth of the South(west). This series has all the ingredients of a perfect matchup. These two franchises have been linked since the Finley JKidd trade. Donnie Nelson moved out of the desert onto the plains a few years later. Nash was traded to Dallas for a pick that became Shawn Marion only to return six years later as a free agent -- and an MVP. Two things will determine the outcome of this series: depth and fatigue. Dallas is deeper than Phoenix. While the Suns' starting five are better, their bench is not even close to being as deep as the Mavericks. As a result -- and because Phoenix did not really acquire any depth until well into the season, the Suns' starters logged more minutes during the regular season than any other team. The eight days off were nice, but in a seven game series where Dallas is relentlessly throwing fresh bodies out there, Phoenix will fall just short.

Dallas in 7

_____

(2) San Antonio Spurs vs (3) Seattle SuperSonics

San Antonio in 4


Until next time,
paz

06 May 2005

while wondering what ever happened to Gene Garber

I love where I live.

I can see the ocean from my bed. My feet need only step 31 times from door to sand. A short ride takes me into the mountains and the desert beyond. I can be in downtown San Diego in 30 minutes, Los Angeles in 60. In four minutes I can be sitting in a pew at Mission San Luis Rey; in four hours, at a slot in Vegas. Everything is at my fingertips.

Depending on season, I am within an hour of a Padres, Angels, Dodgers, Ducks, Kings, Clippers, Lakers or Chargers game. If I want to dip into the wannabes, there's USC, UCLA, San Diego State, Peperdine, Long Beach State... The list goes on.

It hardly ever rains. It's cool at night, warm in the day. The relaxed but not lazy pace is one I have not seen anywhere else in this country.

There's traffic. We're taxed out the arse. Every couple of years people decide it's fun to start shooting on the freeway. There's no Chelsea. So the place is not perfect. And while that last drawback could very well be the one that tears me away from a place I have found happiness for the first time in over a decade, I try to live in the moment though, trusting in Him to work it all out in the end.

It's a warm Tuesday late afternoon with the sun gleaming over the Pacific, a light breeze swaying the palms high above as I straddle my Yamaha. I start out along the strand, beach to my left. Children running along the water, a volleyball game playing out on the beach. I wind my way along the rebuilt Pacific Avenue, working my way to Harbor Drive and the entrance to the 5. How LA I am becoming. Not Interstate 5. Not 5. No, I sound like a local: "the 5". (Well, LA without the looks, tan or money. So perhaps I should say "how Dallas I am becoming".)

Heading North out of Oceanside, as I do every day on the way to work, I am greeted by absolute beauty. To the left, the ocean; to the right, fields, green and undulating after a comparatively wet winter. And beyond, the mountains. The first 15 miles or so are composed of the westernmost outreaches of Camp Pendleton Marine Base. About five miles in, helicopters on maneuvers fly overhead, landing along the coast. I'm flying. There is virtually no speed limit in Southern California. As long as you're not being an idiot, not zipping in and out of the other cars, and as long as you make at least a perfunctory attempt at slowing down when you see a cop, they leave you alone. I'm cruising at about 90, pretty much in the flow of traffic. I'm laying down, feet on the rear pegs, torso over the gas tank, feeling at absolute one with the machinery below me. The wind, the vibration, the -- rush -- it's incomparable. Absolute freedom.

As I wind through San Clemente, the traffic picks up a bit, so I slow it down and sit back up. There are more houses, a few more businesses, some more landscaping, but the terrain is still mountains and ocean for the most part until I reach the Pacific Coast Highway and the 5 starts to head inland. Then the carpool lane starts and it's a virtual invitation to lose all sensibilities as regard traffic laws. I have had cars damn-near run me down in the carpool lane, only to look down and see that I'm already pushing three figures. Craziness. Still, with a wall on one side and a solid yellow on the other, it's the safest place to be. So I kick it up a notch and roll on through the OC.

And here's where it just gets ugly. Wal-Marts upon Ikeas upon Best Buys upon Starbucks. Suburbia at its worst. Cars, concrete, congestion and confusion, on a grand level. I've always thought of suburbia as one of God's little jokes. You start with an area having maybe one store and a gas station, that take you about fifteen minutes to get to. Developers come, chop down all the trees, build a bunch of streets that go absolutely nowhere, then name them after all the trees they just cut down. What you are left with is that same area, now containing ten stores and six gas stations -- that take you 45 minutes to get to. But at least you get the benefit of inflated mortgage and rental rates to go with your shiny new zip code.

In truth, Orange County is developed much better than most suburban areas in the nation. The main streets are wide (usually 4-6 lanes, with medians), the lights are timed well and the speed limits are typically 50mph+. There are plenty of freeways, and while they do get congested, they also make sense in design and location.

What I do find funny about Orange County is how much the people here detest Los Angeles. This comes to mind as I pass through Anaheim and see Angel Stadium on the right, Disneyland on the left. When I moved out here, staying in Newport Coast for a few months, I made the rookie mistake of mentioning in a barroom how much I liked it out here in LA. It was like an E.F. Hutton commercial. Then I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that I was not in Los Angeles -- complete with look of disgust at the mere mention of La ciudad de los angeles. What's funny about all of this to me is that without Los Angeles, Orange County would not exist. At least not in its present form. Which of course brings me to the argument du jour: The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Owner Arte Moreno wanted to change the name of his ballclub from Anaheim to Los Angeles, in order to capitalize on the region, as opposed to one city. Said city opposed, claiming irreparable damage, invoking a stadium contract clause whereby the word "Anaheim" must be included in the team's name. Thus the ridiculous moniker. The thing is, Moreno's right. He knows he is not going to get any more people in his stadium, no matter what the name is. But a kid in Shreveport is more likely to buy a Los Angeles Angels cap than he is an Anaheim Angels cap. That's just how it is. And the more stuff is bought, the more money the team makes, the more money it has to spend on better players. Beyond all of that, everyone knows the team plays in Anaheim. But if you ask anyone who does not live here, "where's Anaheim?", they will respond, "LA". So the whole argument is pointless. Just ask the Auburn Hills Pistons or the Irving Cowboys.

In any event, Angel Stadium is dark this evening, the team being on the road. I press northward.

When you reach the Los Angeles County line, you know it. The freeway goes from five regular and a carpool lane each way, to three regular, without. As a result, the traffic gets denser. The roads are rougher. The soot settles a little thicker on the street signs. You're definitely getting into an urban environment. Traffic slows sufficiently that I can lane split. That and use of the carpool lane are two of the nice perks of motorcycling in LA -- um -- Southern California. On the east coast, there's no way you're going to get away with riding down the striped line between vehicles stuck in traffic. You'd get about three cars down before someone opened a door on your ass.

I stop for gas in Commerce, one last time to stretch the legs before heading into the heart of the city. I pay my obnoxious $2.79 a gallon and fill the bike up, grab a sandwich from Subway for later and hop back on the freeway.

Before long I see the sign: Los Angeles City Limit, and my pulse quickens a bit. I've always had a strong sense of place. I cried as I dipped into the Red Sea; I am proud to have grown up in the Birthplace of (our) Democracy; it is not lost on me that I had to literally go to the edge of the continent to find myself again. So as I enter the City, I feel its draw. It's the yin to New York's yang. The definer of a coast. The second-largest city in the nation. And I roll, unbounded, into it.

I exit onto the 101, ride the most ridiculous freeway curve known to mankind, a 90 degree turn -- downhill -- in the middle of downtown, come up along the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels, bless myself and turn off onto the 110, taking the first exit. I roll into Chavez Ravine in the middle of the third -- so LA.

This is kind of a pilgrimage for me. A walk into my past. In my youth, the year was defined by baseball. Spring Training meant school was almost out. The All-Star Game meant summer was winding down. The pennant race meant school was back in. The playoffs meant the cold was upon us. And in Philadelphia in the late 1970's, they meant heartbreak. Heartbreak at the hands of the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Back then, your team went out there 162 times a year and when it was over they either won their division and went to the playoffs (none of this NLCS crap) or they went home. Then the next spring, barring injury, trade, retirement or promotion, the same 25 guys came back and did it again. There were no Wild Cards, no "NLCS". It was all or nothing. In 1976, '77 and '78, the Phillies did win their division, only to lose to the Dodgers in the playoffs each time. Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, Steve Yeager and Davey Lopes became the bane of my 7, 8 and 9-year-old existence. Scars like these do not heal. So even though my love affair with baseball had suffered irreparable harm during the strike of 1994, I carried a lot of history with me through the parking lot.

Dodger Stadium was always a bit mythical to me as a child. Sunshine at 10:30pm, warm nights in spring and fall -- it seemed like a whole other world. When the Phillies would travel to the west coast, it was an adventure. I could stay up late those nights watching the game. Living and dying with each pitch, hoping the game would be close, so my favorite player, relief pitcher Gene Garber, would get in.

We lived in the city. I grew up in a row house and my dad would sit on the porch, watching the game on a black-and-white, cold bottle of Ortleib's in-hand. Mr. Quaid would be on the porch next door, listening on his transistor -- old school. Row houses don't have central air, so we would sweat it out until it was time for bed -- time for the window unit in my parents' room to go on. They'd open the door connecting their room to my brother's and mine, and my sister would crash on the floor, bastards that we were. When the Phils were on the west coast though, with the late starts, we'd watch the game upstairs in my parents' room, in the cool air. If it was a Friday, my mom would order us a pizza from Crown. We'd pop open some RC's and bask in the glow of the television, it too a black and white.

I think of those nights as I slip the scalper a twenty for my $55 seat and head to the right-field gate. I pass through the labyrinth of security, check my backpack -- and helmet (what the hell could I do with that, I wonder), and step into the park. It's everything a ballpark should be: dank, damp and dark. Immediately upon entering, the senses are overwhelmed by the intermingling aromas of garlic, popcorn, hot dogs, fresh-cut grass, sweat, beer and urine; the low hum of a crowd, ever-expectant, broken by the rhythmic slap of ball into mitt; the contrast of a dark, grimy concourse with the pristine white lines, the rich brown dirt and the luxurious green lawn. There's no jungle gym for your kids to play on or Speed Pitch to test your arm strength; no wiffle ball field or face painting stations. Just baseball. I grab a Coke and a Dodgerdog and I search out my seat.

There are directional signs that must be original. There's no way they have been replaced -- or cleaned -- since the place opened. The sections are numbered awkwardly, and the rows within the sections -- forget about it. Still, I find my place and settle in about ten rows behind the LA dugout. They're playing the Expos tonight. Now you may call them Nationals, but to me they will always be Expos. It's 2-0, Washington. Tommy Lasorda is sitting in the second row, to the right of the dugout and, if she's not dead, I'm pretty sure the woman I hear a few rows back and to the left screaming at Jeff Kent to "do something!" is Lauren Bacall.

There is something very different about the fans who sit close to the field at a baseball game, as opposed to those who watch from close-up at NBA games. If you stopped the action, turned off the scoreboard and cleared the court at any given moment of an NBA game, put a gun to the head of every fan in the second thru tenth rows and told them that they had to either name the score, the time left or three players on each team currently on the court or be shot, you would run out of bullets. At a baseball game though, these people know their stuff. Baseball is a passion, not a social gathering. People don't go to the ballpark to see and be seen. Sure, there's the obligatory suites for the suits, but they're retrofitted here, so they're not as domineering. Even the Dodger Stadium Club relegates its white-linen diners to the far reaches of the first-base line. Sitting here amongst the lights, sounds and smells, where the peanuts and beer flow freely, I feel like I have come home.

The Dodgers rally and tie the score, and I get caught up in the frenzy, jumping up for the play at the plate, high-fiving the stranger next to me, coaching the little kid in front of me on how to catch a foul ball. I forget about strikes and steroids, petulant millionaires and crybaby superstars. For a while, I lose myself in the fantasy again. I'm twelve years old, standing in the box, staring down Ace Plants. He throws his best stuff and I slam it over the left-center field fence -- the only home run I ever hit. And for the twenty seconds or so it takes me to round the bases, I'm at the Vet, Three Rivers, Candlestick. I'm Greg Luzinski, Dave Kingman, Michael Jack Schmidt. I'm a 35-year old man, alive and free, sitting at Dodger Stadium, watching a baseball game in the Southern California twilight.

It's the middle of the sixth and I sweet-talk the security lady into letting me slip past, to get a word in with Tommy L., a Philly kid done good. I introduce myself, tell him how much he broke my heart as a kid then tell him about how big a fan my Aunt was. He takes a picture with me, then signs my program, "Sue, Be with God, Tom Lasorda." I will place it at her grave the next time I am East.

The Dodgers rally, score two more and the game goes to the ninth. I head to the right field foul pole, to take some outfield pictures before the game is over. I make my way over to the Washington bullpen and see one of the pitchers slip a phone number to one of the bimbi along the fence. He tosses a ball over and, figuring she's gonna be getting a hell of a lot more than that later on, I reach over her 5'1" vertical leap and snare it. I'm oblivious to her castigations, but not to the nine year-old kid looking up at me. He's got an Expos hat, Expos jersey, Expos jacket, he's wearing batting gloves -- on both hands. I wouldn't be surprised if the kid was sporting Yupi! Underoos. I look at the ball -- a special edition Washington Nationals Inaugural Season ball (they're playing all of their games this season with them) -- then I look at the kid. Then I look at the ball. Then I look at the kid. Then, after extracting a promise to neither smack it around his back yard or put it on e-bay tomorrow, I do the right thing.

The Dodgers record the last out and Randy Newman starts playing. I walk out to the lot, reclaim my belongings and get back on the bike, the night having been everything I could have wanted it to. But karma has a little treat for me.

I work my way out of the lot and onto the 110, exiting Hollywood Boulevard. I turn west, heading for Pantages Theatre. I had bought a disposable Kodak for my picture with Lasorda, so I figured I would get a shot of Billy Joel's star on the Walk of Fame while I was there. So I park the bike, snap my shot and start to turn around when a guy walks up to me and asks, "you like Springsteen?" This not being the normal intro for a street-scam, I go with it, curious. "Yeah, he's ok." Guy says, "here", hands me a ticket. I look at it, then look at the marquee. Go figure. So I go in, find my sixth-row seat and catch the last six songs of the Boss' set. It's a low-key, acoustic vibe Bruce is laying down that night, and the crowd's feeling good. The show ends and I'm back out on Hollywood Blvd.

Perhaps inspired by some "Glory Days" lyrics, "I think I'll go down to the Well tonight", though I won't "drink 'till I get my fill." The Well is a dark lounge, all browns and blacks, with a 70's funk that was probably badly out of style for a while, but came back and is cool again. It's one of my preferred Hollywood destinations. But after a drink and some conversation, I'm ready to move on.

The night is still pleasant, I don't work in the morning and I'm in no hurry to get home, so I take the long way. I ease down Hollywood to Ivar, swing on down to Santa Monica Boulevard and roll west. I ride through Beverly Hills and Century City and work my way to the coast. I'm headed south on the PCH, past LAX, Manhattan and Redondo Beaches. I won't get off here until San Clemente, and I know that means I have a good hour, hour-and-a-half in front of me, but I don't care. I've got the wind, the sand, the ocean, the natural high I've got going.

I'm at a light. It turns green. As I pull away, I'm thinking:

From the South Bay, to the Valley
From the West Side, to the East Side
Everybody's very happy
'Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day

and yeah,

I love L.A.