I have always liked baseball, whether it was watching my brother’s Little League games or playing in the backyard with makeshift bases and bats. But despite my nostalgia for it, I hadn’t been to a game in years.

I used to ardently follow the Dodger stats in the newspaper, but since year after year they always managed to disappoint, I’d kinda given up going to the actual games. No one else seemed interested, so instead I’d just drive my roommates crazy by occasionally putting on a game (I was interrupting their Law and Order marathons). But that was it.

Last week, some British friends were in town and they wanted to go to a game. I jumped at the chance — and probably exasperate them with my incessant chatter about the history, random facts, and random rules. Got to learn to not do that as much. They were very polite about it.

But sitting in the stands, watching the pitcher throw 98 mph balls, and seeing the stadium lights slowly turn on as the sun set, there was no better moment to summarize a Los Angeles summer.

I’m off to Washington D.C and the Virginia area for awhile and am hoping to have lots of anecdotes and cultural (and photos!) to report back on.

And just in case you were curious, the Dodgers lost that night.


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