Not all of us, mind you. Yours truly is the poster boy of good, visiting fans. Hands in my lap, my trap shut despite Nomar taking some scrub rookie snake pitcher deep, I keep to myself and don't let the thrill of another D-Back ass whoopin' get the best of me. If not for the Dodger hat and jersey, the other snake fans would likely think I'm a just a quiet fan who'd let his emotions ride shotgun if the tables were turned and the Diamondbacks were schoolin' the Dodgers. Hell, they'd probably console me after the snakes lost if I wasn't in my Blue gear - "it will be OK, dude, they'll comeback tomorrow night. The season will turn around." - Snake fans aren't the tightest baseball stitches in the box.
The first night I went with my buddy - we'll call him Paulie- who I often take to Dodger-Diamondback games, not because he's a Snakes fan or an old Dodger fan, but for the fact that the Big Blue Wrecking Crew is 4-0 with Señor Paulie in attendance. He's my rabbit's foot when it comes to Dodger games in the desert. If it was the last game of the season, and both teams were battling for the division title - winner goes the playoffs - and Paulie was on his deathbed, I'd cart his diseased ass and his half-dozen IVs to the ballpark just to ensure a Dodger win. If he's out of town for a crucial series, I'll take the few bills I managed to pilfer out of Wife's lock box and buy Paulie a plain ticket back. And if he declines the return trip, well, there's always the B.A. Barrackus method - find him, drug his milk with a sleeping agent, lug his hairy ass on the plain, and let him wake up in section 319, row 11, seat 8 of Chase Field in Phoenix. I ain't messing with a streak, and a little high school sports reporter won't deny me the opportunity of watching my Dodgers in the playoffs.
I realized I don't fit in with most of the Dodger fans out here. I'm missing a few holes in my ears, nose, eyebrows, lips, nipples (I didn't verify this as I was afraid I'd be sliced like a Easter ham) and more than likely other regions that I shall not discuss because this is a family forum. My arms, neck and back are painfully naked, as in, I have no ink to sport, either. It seems that to be a Dodger fan these days, you need an array of tattoos. Maybe that's why Wife fits in better at these games than me. Be it heavy-green jailhouse tats of naked bodacious ta-ta'd women, battleships or Chines letters that mean strength or patience or peace or whatever the hell (likely it means big armed jackass with little pee-pee), or ink with more color than Michelangelo's palate, Dodger fans are quickly becoming more entertaining to stare at than the bearded lady at the circus.
Just to keep Paulie the Snake Fan in check, I sat him next to a mastodon of a human, who of course was inked up to his neck with colorful dragons, skulls, naked chicks and elk (because nothing says friendly like a tattoo of a snarling elk with an 8-point rack of antlers). And to top it off, as if you couldn't guess, Andre the friggin' Giant was a Dodger fan. Paulie coward in his seat, making sure to not look "Andre" in the eye for fear of the behemoth human being would feel challenged and pounce on his meager body like it was a dangling bloody stump in a shark tank. I'm not sure if he spilled his beer in fear of the impending attack by Megasaurus or if the dark stain was some other liquid (I'll leave it at this since the dinner hour is approaching, suffice it to say you won't want to drink lemonade if I went into more detail). I nodded a hello to the fellow Dodger fan, basically telling him I had his back if any of these spindly Snakes fans got out of hand, but for some reason I didn't believe he'd need my help. He wedged into his seat, shaking all of the upper-deck, and then folded down the seat next to him for his 4-year-old son who was clad in Dodger blue as well. And that sight alone eased Paulie's rattled nerves. How can "Andre" be so bad when he's cheering along with his son during the Mustard, Ketchup and Relish Race?
It's a shame the rest of the Dodger fans in the stands weren't so easy to get along with. Everywhere I look, I saw dudes and chick dressed in blue wigs and white Dodger jerseys swiggin' suds and pointing fingers at distraught Snakes fans. Oh, they put up a fight, hurling mustard and diamond-dog greased-streaked napkins at the drunk Dodger fans, but that's just like throwing stones at a pack of wolves, you're just looking for an attack.
There was no attack this night, however, but one slightly inebriated - I may be underselling that fact - Dodger fan broke down the tight-fisted Chase Field security (if it was anymore tight-fisted a wild gaggle of lemurs could break through), jumped the outfield fence and ran donuts around the Dodger right fielder. For a second I thought it was Drew Barrymore, but the jet black hair, moustache, goatee and rather heavy upper half told me it is was not the star of Bad Girls. I hung my head low. Is this what us Dodger fans have come to? Running drunk around the Dodger right fielder, lugging 200 pounds under the girdle and a half-empty cup of watered-down, $22 Bud Light? Could it get any worse?
Yes.
The next night I went with Wife, who up until that game is 1-3 at Dodger games. When she agrees to attend a game, I cringe before meekly saying "OK," and buying the tickets. It's already a recipe for disaster night before we even step into the stadium. The lot I like to park in, which is across from America West Arena where the Phoenix Suns run and gun, cost $20 instead of the customary $5 thanks to a Suns home game. Next, I find our seats are smack in the middle of a Snake season ticket holders. There we are in Dodger jerseys and Dodger hats (I converted Wife two years ago; I think it was tougher than turning a gay dude straight), two mice sitting in a aquarium full of, well, snakes. Every strike, every ball, every ground out, the season-ticket holding nerd to my right would poke me in the ribs and scream (the stadium was as silent as a prayer service, did he really have to scream?) "Did you see that? Orlando Hudson sure knows how to run to first, doesn't' he?" And then in between innings, he'd ask me without fail, "So, when was the last time the Dodgers won the World Series?" Of course, this gives him the opportunity to say, "Well, we won ours in 2001." 1988. 2001. I could have gone into the six other World Championships, and the 20-some-odd WS appearances, but when you're talking to a Snakes fan, logic is thrown out the window.
And while the game is dragging on, we're watching the shenanigans in the right field seats. It seems there's a power struggle, one side chants "let's go Dodgers," and that's answered with a "let's go, D-backs," which is punctuated with flying debris. It comes to a head in the sixth inning. While the Dodger pitcher is struggling the Snakes top of the order, everyone in the stadium turns their head toward the right field stands where Dodger fans and Snake fans turn the aisle into a gladiator arena. Punches and soda cups are flying, and all I can see is a dude in a white and blue shirt windmilling arms like a 8-year-old in a fight. The war wages on for the better part of five minutes before Phoenix's finest, obviously on break at Yum-Yum donuts, go up the wrong aisle, back-track, and finally break up the melee. They escort the Dodger fan out, and buy the Snake fan a slice of pizza and some new nachos, which I believe was flung at the battle's start.
Could it have been any worse? I guess so, if you're this guy... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOZm8gUdr-Y
Anyway, as we leave the game, a string of Dodger fans line the stadium's outside wall, and a Chase security guard, hand on gun, watches them intently. I'm sure the rent-a-cop is just waiting for these Dodger hooligans to make a move so he can cap these heathens.
What happened to those days when the ribbing was taken for what it was - good-natured jabs at one another's teams? We used to attend Dodger games as kids and the worst thing I saw or heard was a group of guys urging a woman a few rows ahead to pull up her top (she didn't - prude). I sat with Giant fans behind me at Dodger Stadium when the Dodger were getting their butt handed to them and no one tied them to the Think Blue sign and pelted them with tomatoes. So why now? Why do most fans feel it's their right to being annoying nincompoops using any words (and some made up) they see fit despite a little league team sitting within earshot of their foul mouths?
I blame it on Raider fans. That's what makes up the Dodger fan base for the summer, disturbed Raider fans using baseball as their summer outlet for unabashed aggression.
It may also have to do with beer consumption. Maybe stadiums should go alcohol free to curb the aggressive behavior.
Hell, what am I saying? That's just crazy talk. No beer at baseball games is like no communion wafer at a Catholic Mass.
***
Look for a new Sleazy Teazy tomorrow morning. I can't wait, and I know you can't either.
1 comment:
Well, if you're a respectful away team fan maybe you guys should head out to SD sometime when the Dodgers are in town. We'll even have a comfortable couch for you to sleep on by then!
Post a Comment