The Longest Week

Shohei Ohtani, 31, the highest paid player in Major League Baseball, helped the Los Angeles Dodgers win the 2025 World Series over the plucky Toronto Blue Jays in seven games and 146 innings.

It started with the second longest World Series game in baseball history. Which was the third game of this year's World Series. 

What was I doing sitting in front of a TV screen in a dark house shortly before midnight rooting for a team from Canada to score a run and end a game that had lingered nervously into the 17th inning?

The standard baseball game goes nine innings. The game was about to run 18. That’s two games worth of baseball and neither team had scored a run over the last 10 innings.

Like tennis, there is no clock in baseball. It can go on forever.

You must love the game to stay tuned. I was enjoying every nuanced second from the expression on the pitchers' faces as they prepared to throw curves, sliders and 100-mile fastballs at batters with wooden sticks, to base runners calculating when to go, fielders anticipating a hardball smacked at them and what to do if they caught it. 

Baseball at its highest level with everything on the line is a pleasure to watch.

Once revered as the nation's pastime, baseball has been called out, lost its place to the faster, continuous action games of football and basketball that keep fans in front of a TV screen. Baseball is the opposite: slow, fit for a languid summer day or evening, a bunch of guys spitting and farting, grabbing their crotches waiting for something to happen. Or so the stereotype would have it, with all due respect to women's fast-pitch softball, a different game.

Going18 innings against the current champions, the underdog Toronto Blue Jays had already issued a warning to one of the wealthiest teams in baseball, the Los Angeles Dodgers: You've got competition from a scrappy club from north of the border. Trump's tariffs on Canada served as a backdrop, as former Jays superstar Joe Carter said: All of Canada was rooting for Toronto. Los Angeles was rooting for the Dodgers.

We had business in La-La Land the next day, would be driving 380-miles from Santa Cruz to Dodger Town. I couldn't stay up all night.

Recent reports show that Hispanics make up 40-percent of Dodger fans. Since 1980 when a 19-year-old left-handed wunderkind from Mexico named Fernando Valenzuela stepped on the pitcher's mound for the Dodgers, Angelenos of Mexican heritage have been in love with the team. They wear the blue caps with mucho pride.

LA, with all of its diversity and derision, deserves a rally factor. Let it be the team that was first to accept a Black player, Jackie Robinson, whose number 47 is sacrosanct as the only 47 in Major League Baseball. 

ICE (Immigration Customs Enforcement) has been extremely active in LA, rounding up folks from south of the border like cattle. Easy pickins, I thought, at Dodger Stadium located in Chavez Ravine which has only one road in and out. Would ICE be hiding in the bushes?

This added a new statistical element to a game built around numbers and averages. How many immigrants can you lock up versus how many paying fans and/or votes you lose. Factor in three Japanese nationals playing for the Dodgers, including Shohei Ohtani who, incredibly, excels at pitching and hitting. He walloped two home runs and two doubles in the marathon third game that the Dodgers eventually won after 6 hours and 39 minutes and 18 innings. Ohtani reached base in the game a record 9 times.

Baseball records were falling like bowling pins in this Series. 

Dodger star Freddy Freeman finally broke the stalemate, smashing a walk-off home run to end the the marathon 3rd game giving the LA team a 2-1 lead in the Series. 

The 6-foot, 4-inch Ohtani has a contract with the LA franchise for $700-million. Once known as the Bums from Brooklyn, today the LA franchise is valued at $7.73 billion. Many fans wear newly-minted Brooklyn Bums T-shirts. The team moved to California in 1958. Go figure. Forget it, Jake. It's L.A.

Heat Wave

California was suffering a heat wave the Tuesday we drove to LA where Game 4 would be held. We always take Hwy 101 for the scenery that in recent years has been blanketed in grape vines, the rolling hills of California vineyards.

We got an early start. Barb and I take turns at the wheel. Traffic was light. I looked forward the game that evening. Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, Pismo Beach, Santa Maria, Los Alamos... we flew by without our usual stops. 

"Let's check Super Ricos for lunch," she said.

I could almost taste the fresh poblano peppers and homemade tortillas that attract long lines at this nondescript taqueria in south Santa Barbara. No line today. The place was closed -- Tuesday and Wednesday, according to the handwritten sign on the front door.

Adding to our hunger, the dull smell of oil began to penetrate the far reaches of my olfactory passages. I spotted the familiar six oil drilling platforms off the coast. Drill baby. The sensation worsened when we passed through Malibu on the PCH noting the remains of the Palisades fire in January. 

The ruins, even on the coast side, included partial foundations, broken brick walls, a decorous concrete birdbath stood alone, a symbol of elegance amidst ruin. The fires had blown down the canyons leading to the coast with indiscriminate results. We saw dwellings standing erect like sentries next to empty lots and scorched black palms.

We reached our destination of Manhattan Beach in time to see the sun set. My throat had begun to burn. The Jays evened the Series that night in LA at 2 games a piece. Angelenos were becoming notably nervous.

"People around here have been taking Toronto too lightly," said one resident from his balcony apartment.

The next morning I jumped into the ocean to cool off, hoping to cleanse my nasal passage with salt water. Barb had a family meeting. I walked to the North End Cafe in Manhattan Beach for delicious chilaquiles. The chef was a portly Latino wearing a Dodger cap who seemed at home and a fan of his own cooking. I don't want to make a big deal out of it, but under the circumstances you start to notice who's doing the work.

Mission Impossible

Our ultimate mission was to provide support to our friend Stephanie who had undergone knee replacement on Tuesday. She lives alone caring for her lovable pit bull Freya in a residence crawling with plants and wild visitors from the local environs.

"Welcome to my Jurassic Park," she greeted us. Her post surgery mood, doubtless drug-supported, was upbeat. "A hawk landed over there recently," she pointed to the jungle just outside of her room-sized terrarium connected to her main living space. She had a photo of the predator. "I have raccoons and opossums, too."

Another of the many sides of Los Angeles.

Stephanie's hawk

Stephanie and I shared at least two major concerns: Deep disgust for our the current administration in DC, and a desire to watch what was turning into a historic World Series, being held in her greater backyard (aka Chavez Ravine) near downtown. The same Chavez Ravine where a Hispanic community was removed in order to build Dodger Stadium. Irony upon irony. 

The Series served as a distraction (a baseball frequency) for both of us. That evening my nose ran like a faucet. I did everything possible to cover up what I was sure was an allergic reaction to air-borne particles in Los Angeles. Stephanie's myriad fertile, tangling greenery surely did not help my condition.

The evening following Steph's surgery, we all watched the Jays go ahead in the Series 3-games to 2, as 22-year-old pitcher Trey Yesavage struck out a record-sertting 12 Dodgers, to become an instant Canadian hero. Things were suddenly looking dubious for the modern-day Bums but divine for the Canadian Birds. Although we never saw Steph's hawk.

Barb and I like our coffee hot in the morning while Steph drinks a cold brew from the refrigerator. I volunteered to pick up two cups at a nearby Starbucks.

I rarely do Starbucks and I'm not familiar with protocols like names of coffee drinks. It was a day off for the Series and the day before Halloween. Appropriately spooky black and orange decorations were abundantly on display on local lawns. I had to pull over and figure how to defog the windshield. I needed my caffeine fix. Discomfort in my throat had subsided but my nose continued to drip.

Starbucks was empty, save for three employees. Funny for a Thursday morning. What was I missing? I walked from one end of the counter to the other hoping to be recognized with no response. I did note a row of cups filled and ready to go arranged in some kind of alphabetical order. I'm from Santa Cruz where Starbucks is not recognized. We have Verve, The 11th Hour, Cat and Cloud, Firefly, Santa Cruz Roasting Company and a few other local roaster/purveyors.

I finally drew attention from a barista. Noting the size of cups, I said. "Two tall cups of drip coffee, please." She performed the electronic payment routine and went about her business. I wondered what she was up to, since it didn't seem to be pouring two cups of coffee. Anticipating where the cups would be delivered, I walked to the counter where the aforementioned cups were full and waiting.

People began to show up for those ready-made specialty coffee drinks. They had obviously ordered online, were probably on their way to work. I got it! Service was designed around car culture; you pick up your brew on your way to work or wherever you're going. No one was wearing Dodger merch. Did they know about the Series? Another side of the beast: blase'.

My name was called, I picked up my two tall cups, already fitted with lids and proceeded to the counter where I spotted two canisters of cream, one on the right side with half-and-half the other on the left side of the counter with oat milk. I couldn't imagine adding oat milk to coffee. Or was it goat milk? I wasn't wearing my readers so I couldn't tell. Neither appealed to me.

I bumbled around with the lids and discovered coffee filled to the brim. I would need to pour out coffee before I could add cream. With a tall cup in each hand, I walked around looking for a place to pour out coffee, feeling very conspicuous, knowing I was doing it all wrong. 

I discreetly, finally, poured the excess coffee into the trash, added cream, replaced the lids and with both hands full with top-heavy cups, I backed out the door.

Halloween fever on The Strand in Manhattan Beach

Trick or Treat

Steph seemed to be healing rapidly. Freya the contented pit bull roamed around the house, stopping occasionally to cough deeply. She continued to show signs of a recent bout with pneumonia. We walked her one afternoon and Barb took her out one morning. Not much of a walker, Freya preferred lying on the neighbors' grass on her back and stomach, emulating the decadence of the famed Cleopatra. Watching her made my throat itch.

Barb and I went out to purchase Halloween candy for trick-or-treaters, which would be the same day as the 6th game of the Series If the Jays win tonight, Toronto wins the Series. The Dodgers had to win both Friday and Saturday's games to claim the trophy. Both games would be played in Toronto in front of thousands of screaming Cannucks.. A nervousness verging on surrender settled over the basin.

The kids came in their costumes as predicted. One little couple were dressed in homemade police uniforms. Interesting, given the smattering of American flags in the neighborhood. "Cute costumes," I said. I struggled to keep my mind on the game, which the Dodgers ended up winning, which meant the 7th game on Saturday night would be a barn-burner, pull out all stops, anything goes. It had been six years since the World Series had gone to seven games!

Pressure was on. The final game played in Canada. Winner take all. Could the Dodgers take the trophy back to LA? Did the upstart Blue Jays have enough in them to beat the star-clad team from LA? 

Stephanie appeared to be managing well, with support friends in the area. We made plans to drive home on Saturday. I hoped to arrive in time to watch the critical 7th game of the Series. 

Wrap Up

I drove back to Santa Cruz in a fury. "You rest, Honey." My nose and throat felt better. But I still had baseball fever.

Canadian Karla Courtney shows off sweater she knitted for good luck during Toronto Blue Jays playoff games and World Series, timed with finish of 7th Game. That's real fandom.

You've probably heard by now that the Dodgers won the 2025 World Series. But it required 11 innings in Game 7 to do it, before catcher Will Smith cracked a walk-off home run. The 6h and 7th Games in Toronto were extremely close. I believe the baseball gods favored the Dodgers for a reason. Maybe due to the many immigrants under duress in LA. I just wonder how many Angelenos stayed tuned when it appeared to be over for the Bums. All in all, the Series was a winner for baseball. It seemed fitting that a Japanese National, Dodger pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto, was named Most Valuable Player. He won three of the four games necessary, plus relief in the final game, with an overall earned run average (ERA) of 1.03 (which is excellent).

After a long week of touching bases in California, we were safe at home.