My wife and I met a friend and his wife at the Dodger Dugout Club. It was a surprise. I was not privy that we would be sitting in this section. It was a very mind-blowing experience. The food was free. I ate too much. Men were carving meat. Sausages were grilled to perfection. Their respective casings popped and juices leaked to perfection. There was free wine tasting and free Dodger Dogs. I half expected the venerable Farmer John himself, in the flesh, to be packing the innards and grilling by hand. He was not. But there was free candy and soda. And beef pho and pulled pork sandwiches. I thought about vomiting in an attempt to take further advantage, but I didn't feel the need to engage in such barbarism.
The entire scene looked and felt like some clueless banquet of excess. The revelers seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the empire was crumbling. I really hoped to run into Frank McCourt. My intention was to follow him into the bathroom and pull a Hunter S. I wanted to get my own urinal interview of a fallen (falling) man. I knew I wouldn't have the guts, so I'm glad he didn't show. We were three rows back. There were other fallen men I could have said something to. Vernon Wells always seemed to be in good spirits. Before every at bat he would spit his gum and hit it with his bat. He hit the first base umpire with the gum his third time up to bat. He looked like he was having fun. We were. We were full. Sitting so close to the field changes things a little. For better or worse, it blurs perspective.