(This late post is brought to you by my inability to locate things like my scorebook, the basic reason for writing this.)

Thanks to my good friends Kelly and Gemma, I was able to make my first pilgrimage to Dodger Stadium last weekend to see Clayton Kershaw take on Kyle McClellan. It also gave me an excuse to wear my ‘42 Pelicans jersey and test out my Eephus League scorebook while sitting in seats close enough to touch Tommy Lasorda:

Frozen in baseball awe, I was unable to move from my seat and extend my hand. When finished with his duties as Pope of Baseball, Lasorda then stood at the top of the Dodgers dugout, took James Loney’s glove, and, I assume, proceeded to tell him how he should play the field. Lasorda’s still got it. Our seats also offered us an excellent vantage point of Frank McCourt, but for a variety of reasons, I felt no need to snap his picture. 

Never a neat scorekeeper, my biggest flaw, this evening was especially messy. There are missed plays, ketchup stains, and I had to switch between three different writing implements, making my scorebook look like the napkin of a deranged child at Bennigan’s. While this is certainly not a historical baseball document, it will be a shining beacon to friendship.

Because of the lateness of the game recap, here are some notes:

• Other than two strikeouts of Albert Pujols where he looked silly on breaking balls, Clayton Kershaw didn’t have much. 
• Cowboy Joe West was umpiring, but unfortunately, he didn’t do anything crazy.
• A scary moment in the bottom of the third when a fan was hit with a ball fouled off by Matt Holliday. I first assumed that the ball hit a seat as it ricocheted into the second deck, but the fan soon had to be removed on a stretcher. The game was stopped for a few minutes, but I have no idea how Holliday stepped back into the box and focused on the game.
• There was a very large, very drunk man very close to me, but I could not understand what team he was cheering for. At some point I heard him say, “I gotta get home early to bathe my schnauzers.” It sounded even filthier the way he said it.
• In the bottom of the seventh and with Ivan DeJesus at the plate, a small child half a row away from me threw up. As his mother picked him up, trying to get him up the stairs, he projectile vomited across at least eight to ten seats. It was like watching The Exorcist. For the remainder of the game people found flecks of vomit on their clothing and shoes. This was also when Ivan DeJesus got his first career base hit. The two will remain forever connected in my memory. 

This post is syndicated from Old Time Family Baseball.