A Match Made In Chavez Ravine

By James Mason

I’ve played sports all my life, so I have tons of sports memories. Unfortunately, many of them are bittersweet at best, but mostly painful. Some of these memories end up with me crying under the bleachers after a tough loss or sulking in the locker room for an hour after a game. Most of the fun I had playing sports came during times away from the games itself. Perhaps my greatest sports memory as a player was scoring a touchdown my sophomore year in high school as a seldom used defensive tackle in a meaningless Junior Varsity game.

However, my greatest sports memory comes as a spectator. I don’t remember the date, and I can hardly remember the team the Dodgers were playing. The most important part of this memory is the girl I was with.

For storytelling purposes, we can say it happened on a balmy August night in Dodger Stadium during the Summer of ’98. I was thirteen years old enjoying the ballgame with my father, my two younger brothers, and Tyea, a girl I met through my then step-mother. We met the summer before, and kept in touch through emails and occasional phone calls. She is a year older than me; fortunately that didn’t matter to her.

That night the Dodgers were playing the Padres. I don’t remember much else about the game. I’ve long forgotten who the starters were that game, and I’m sure most of the players in that game are long gone from baseball. I do remember it was a close, low scoring game. I did my best to keep her interested without sounding like the sports geek I am, but I’m sure I did a poor job of covering that up. Luckily, she finds my sports obsession cute.

The Dodgers and Padres would head into the 9th inning tied. The home team was able to get three quick outs in the top of the 9th inning. Tyea was thirsty so I went with her to the concession stand, walking sideways to keep my eye on the game. The lines were relatively short, so we only missed one at bat, which ended up an out. As we headed back to our seats, the Dodger’s Eric Young came to the plate. Before we reached the top of the stairs, he hit a blast to deep center field that everyone knew was gone as soon as he hit it. The stadium erupted and we smiled and held hands. He circled the bases as all sorts of thoughts circled my heads.

We stood at the top of the steps like that watching the fireworks until my father started walking up the steps. At the point we just stood awkwardly, trying to act like nothing happened. On the way back home, the talk was all about the Dodgers, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

For the Dodgers, that home run isn’t even a footnote in their illustrious history, let alone that season. The Dodgers probably didn’t crap the rest of the season. Eric Young remained a relative nobody throughout the rest of his career (he played last season for the Padres and the Rangers, though he only appeared in four games for Texas). I’m not a Dodgers fan, nor is my father or brothers. Tyea still thinks baseball is boring. Yet, as long as I remain close with her I’ll never forget that game, or at least that moment at the top of the stairs.