Excitement overtook me early last week when the dream of being granted media access to cover the Dodgers became a reality. Though as the week progressed the excitement faded, and was quickly replaced with outright curiosity. Would the love of the Dodgers, as if this is actually possible, be enhanced further? Or, would the newfound access take away the mystique, like a watching a dejected magician reveal his tricks?
Without a doubt, the most rewarding experience of the day was being able to meet with Joe Torre in the Dodgers dugout before the game. The information gained in fifteen short minutes saved the task of pouring over multiple articles in the following day's paper, or at other Dodger blogs online. To have a person with authority (Torre) answer your questions that others so desperately seek answers to, well, you feel empowered. For a site that is still trying to find it's voice, not to mention it's place among the other giants, it felt humbling to report Dodger news that was soon passed along elsewhere. And in the big picture of things that's the reason you're there- to report the news for others to gain knowledge from.
But the problem is you're also there for yourself. You want to cheer, you want to boo, you want to raise a hullabaloo. You want to stand and clap when someone gets engaged, wishing you could live vicariously through men who propose at Dodger Stadium, and the women who describe it later as the perfect proposal. You desperately want to drink a beer with your Dodger Dog (or two), as if the aura of the day isn't intoxicating enough.
But you can't.
Sitting, and subsequently working, in the press box is like setting up camp in the epicenter of neutrality. You wonder how Vin Scully does it.
The Dodgers proceeded to mount mini comebacks in the eighth and ninth innings; however, ultimately fell short of the glory of victory. As the other media members quickly gathered their notes and rushed down to the clubhouse I shuffled along, not wanting to miss a beat. And that's when the reality of the day sunk in.
But the problem is you're also there for yourself. You want to cheer, you want to boo, you want to raise a hullabaloo. You want to stand and clap when someone gets engaged, wishing you could live vicariously through men who propose at Dodger Stadium, and the women who describe it later as the perfect proposal. You desperately want to drink a beer with your Dodger Dog (or two), as if the aura of the day isn't intoxicating enough.
But you can't.
Sitting, and subsequently working, in the press box is like setting up camp in the epicenter of neutrality. You wonder how Vin Scully does it.
The Dodgers proceeded to mount mini comebacks in the eighth and ninth innings; however, ultimately fell short of the glory of victory. As the other media members quickly gathered their notes and rushed down to the clubhouse I shuffled along, not wanting to miss a beat. And that's when the reality of the day sunk in.
Perhaps the clubhouse was always this way after a loss, perhaps everyone was sad about leaving their families for the road, or perhaps the players were too afraid to draw the ire of the coaches for not appearing too distraught. Whatever it was you could tell the players were bummed. Hell, as a die hard fan, I was bummed. The smell of defeat lingered ominously in the air, desperately crying for someone to open a window in attempts to whisk away the negativity. Ironically, I wanted to be anywhere else but at the very place I stood, the very place I'd always dreamed of standing. I got too close, I saw the magician's secrets, I didn't like what I saw behind the curtain.
So why do I find myself desperately wanting to go back?
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