Every family has its defining traits. Joseph Kennedy bred Democrats. Henry Fonda fathered actors. Al Shapiro, my dad, raised Dodger fans. Reminiscences of
an old Dodger fanRadio man Vin Scully was a member of our family each summer night, singing out the doings at Dodger Stadium and selling Farmer John ham between innings. Dad and I fought about politics, war and religion, but we could always cool things off by changing the subject to the Dodgers. My wife Maggie still smiles about how he would wring his hands in the late innings pleading for a few insurance runs.
Such was his devotion to the team that I thought of him immediately when Peter O'Malley announced he was selling the club his family has owned for nearly half a century. I expect Dad would have taken it hard, even if the Dodgers stay in Los Angeles.
The Dodgers under the O'Malleys and Branch Rickey before them were more than just a hometown team. They defined class in a sports organization. Being a Dodgers fan made you feel part of something elite.
They broke the color barrier by signing Jackie Robinson. They introduced talent from Japan, Taiwan and Mexico. In an era of free agency, they've kept their top stars. They've put winning teams on the field year after year with a farm system that churns out one Rookie-of-the-Year after another.
Organizational loyalty has matched fan loyalty. They've kept ticket prices reasonable. In a game of musical chairs in the manager's office, the Dodgers have had three managers in the 38 years they've been in Los Angeles - all promoted from within the organization, all allowed to retire gracefully when it suited them.
Dodger Stadium is a jewel of a baseball amphitheater cut into Chavez Ravine. It's still as clean and bright as the day it opened. Its parking is brilliantly designed to all but deliver you to your seat.
Dad watched the Dodgers play in Brooklyn as a kid and took his loyalty to L.A. with him when he and Mom settled there after World War II. He was overjoyed when the Dodgers later joined him when they moved west and made baseball truly a national pastime.
I wanted to be in the ballpark more than Dad could take me. As a kid, I'd hitchhike there on the freeways and arrive early to sneak in with the vendors. I'd locate an empty seat behind the Dodgers dugout and happily watch Sandy Koufax blow away opponents while Junior Gilliam streaked home at the crack of Tommy Davis' bat and Frank Howard hit baseballs deep into the L.A. smog.
When I moved to Hawaii in my early teens, I adopted the Islanders. I took particular interest in watching the Albuquerque Dukes, the Dodgers farm team with Bill Russell and Steve Garvey, battle Mike Schmidt, Greg Luzinski and the Eugene Emeralds for supremacy of the Pacific Coast League.
It was a joyous feeling to sit in Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium more than a decade later watching the same players fight it out for the National League pennant.
The years, absence from L.A. and Dad's death eroded my ties to the Dodgers. Disgust with labor disputes drove me away from baseball. The end of the O'Malley era brings that part of my life to closure.
My brother Rick and especially my sister Marilyn have come the closest to continuing Dad's devotion to the Boys in Blue.
Marilyn's son Tim and Rick's boy Greg both have swung mean bats since they were old enough to stand. Maybe one of them will play in Dodger Stadium some day and give me an excuse to go back to the park. I'd love that.
