The Los Angeles Dodgers opened their Major League Baseball season by hosting the San Francisco Giants April 1-3.
It was a sea of blue, which made me uneasy. Having grown up rooting for the Giants, I felt anxious being on enemy territory. And after reading an article only minutes before leaving about a Giants fan getting beaten in the parking lot, I admit I was a little on edge. I opted to wear neutral colors (not that I own any orange anyway), shared golf claps and groans with the few Giants fans seated around me, and kept my mouth shut when anything slanderous was said about my team or home. My boyfriend Patrick made sure to patronize me whenever there was an error made and I started to slide down in my seat.
The fans attempted time and time again to create a wave, which never made it too far. A fight broke out a few sections down from where we were seated—reserved, directly behind home plate—and a bat split and hit a fan in the face right before the 7th inning stretch. While some little girl was singing “God Bless America,” a man was clutching ice to his head and being smothered by men in suits. The applause the little girl thought she was getting for her lovely rendition was actually for the man now waving around his new souvenir and walking away.
After the Giants lost 4-3, half the stadium filtered onto the field to watch fireworks shot off to a classic rock soundtrack—most of which were obscured by the smoke near the end. Many of the drunken fools making their way back to their cars had snide remarks to say about Brian Wilson’s facial hair (though he remains on the disabled list—his beard is feared my friends) or the incompetence of San Francisco as a whole. I bit my tongue and carried on, my boyfriend looking back at me nervously. We got ours, though—winning 10-0 the next day.