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.