Knock-toberfest – 2024: World Series Game 2 trip

I’d like to share some experiences about my trip with our son Justin, the last weekend of October, out to our family’s homeland in SoCal. We made the pilgrimage to Dodger Stadium to see Game 2 of this year’s Major League Baseball finals (fondly known as “The World Series”).

To provide some background and context: Meme & I had gone to Game 2 of the 1988 Series when I was a District Supervisory Ranger at Santa Monica Mountains. Game 1 had ended suddenly in the bottom of the 9th inning, with the Dodgers losing and down to their final strike. I was quietly saying “just a hit” (to tie), when a hobbled Kirk Gibson came to the plate and hit a historic game ending walk-off home run. Meme & I were catapulted from the couch in joyful celebration. Game 2 that we attended was a well-pitched Dodgers victory by Orel Hershiser. The Dodgers went on to defeat the favored Oakland A’s on the road in 5-games (4 games to 1). Justin had just turned 5 and didn’t go with us: our pair of tickets, procured in the lottery of that yesteryear, was for two tickets (Reserved level: $ 60 each). He’d remembered he didn’t get to go that year, and jumped at the chance this time around. Meme & I postponed a planned excursion to archaeological parks, monuments and sites in the 4-Corners area, in order for father-son bonding adventure (much shorter than our sojourn to Scotland years back).

Fast forward through many years of struggle to this year. The Dodgers are playing the mighty Yankees, opening in L. A. In the bottom of the first extra inning (10th) of Game 1, they are again behind and down to their final strike, with two outs, when a hobbled Freddie Freeman blasts the Dodgers to victory with a “Grand Slam” homerun scoring 4 runs. This time Meme & I didn’t experience lift-off from our couch, because that is in the living room and we were watching in the den. We did, however, explode from chair & loveseat not believing that lightning sometimes does strike twice.

Early the following morning I left our home outside Santa Fe enroute to a place I have had so many memorable events with Dad, high school & college chums, cousins, step-brother-in-law (it was there that Charlie first mentioned to me he wanted to be an airline pilot. I told him to think about Navy. He went to UW (Huskies!) on a Navy ROTC scholarship, flew P-3’s and is now a Captain for Alaska Airlines). Please, feel free to climb aboard with me as we back out of the garage and in the darkness point the 4Runner south towards Justin’s place in Albuquerque and the ABQ International Sunport. Hopefully you don’t mind listening to my “go to” channel on SiriusXM radio, # 24 = Margaritaville. Approaching Bernalillo that Oct. 26th morning pre-dawn we call Justin with status & update: no answer. We leave a message, calling again at Tramway with same result. Arriving at Justin’s we scurry about and make our gate with plenty of time, but no seats for waiting, except high-chair cocktail seats.

Waiting for our morning’s direct flight I noticed many Dodgers fans making similar plans: heading west. It makes sense, as the Albuquerque Dukes (and later Isotopes) had been the Dodgers’ AAA farm team. There still is a lot of support here for “Dem Bums”. As we see both legs of the flight are full to capacity (but, we have room for you, my imaginary friend). In Phoenix we lose much of our base, probably going on to other southland airports: we stay aboard for our Burbank (BUR) bound SWA 737 – going to the rear of the craft, as at BUR we still get to board/disembark front and back. For this early in the morning everyone seems wide-eyed-and-bushy-tailed. Must be the SWA hospitality (or the Starbucks they brought onboard).

A few minutes after arrival we’re stretching our legs with the walk-about to the rental car area, where our Budget “Fast Break” is available for rapid exit at the Avis desk (a head spinner I know). The agent asks if we’d like our mid-size in an EV variety. Three times he mentions we’re to bring it back “as is” and shouldn’t charge it. Sounds like a good plan: we hop on it, and hop on in & out their multi-level parking garage (an ode to concrete). Departing the airport we’re close to a primary neighborhood of childhood memories (our kennel on Lima St. near San Fernando Rd.). However, we were on a mission: Tommy’s Famous Burgers next to McCambridge Park was calling Justin (OK, me too). If you haven’t experienced their Chili Cheese Burgers, the next time you find yourself going L.A. way, it is worth a try (Remember, to get extra napkins – you’ll need ‘em).

Sufficiently fortified with cholesterol, we cruised, or floated, along to 6th St. and then Olive (the number of times I’ve done that is, well… a lot), then we proceeded down Olive Dr. to Forest Lawn Dr. & Memorial Park. Up on the hill (near the North Chapel) we visited the resting place of Fred & Margaret Young (4-5 rows down from our parking spot). Dad was such an invested Dodgers fan. I still remember when he met my senior prom date, Susan Long (she had lived on 6th St. and we inadvertently done a 60's "high school" driveby), voted “Most Likely to Succeed”, and a Valedictorian before her years at Wellesley College with classmates that included Hillary Rodham (Clinton). After our senior ceremony at the Starlight Bowl, Dad told Susan that he was really touched by her speech: so much so that he turned down the volume on his earpiece as he listened to Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett doing play-by-play of the Dodgers game. We knew he’d be with us as we rooted for the home team that evening.

Getting over to I-5 South, our next stop was the Holiday Inn Express (HIE) in the Echo Park area near Dodger Stadium. We took a zigzag route, but got there over an hour before check-in. I hadn’t been in that neighborhood for a number of years, one-block from MacArthur Park (no cake left out in the rain – no precipitation, which is good for baseball). The vicinity had changed a lot since I was last there: many, MANY housing challenged people (more on that later). The room was under Justin’s name, and after waiting a bit I went to the desk and asked re: status for the room, and a key card for the rest room. I also showed my “Gold Card”, that is actually Platinum now, and the manager was immediately able to find a room ready for us on the 5th floor (nice view of the area around 6th & Alvarado).

Leaving the hotel at 3PM we (yep, you’re still with us) take Alavardo to Sunset to Vin Scully Ave entrance. This trip normally takes 9-minutes, but today it is Game 2 time, and sponsored by “Fog Hat” and their song “Slow Ride” so it is 1.5+ hours. While passing under US 101, I noted that it was empty of tents and caches. Justin, who is a New Mexico Public Defender by day, told me he had clients tell him they feel “trapped with nowhere to go” in tunnel’s and underpass. Oh, but the tailgating and neighborhoods closed to “Thru Traffic” is festive (tailgating is prohibited at Dodger Stadium (wink-wink, nod-nod). After paying your $70 parking fee (a pittance compared to tickets), you follow the vested arms wavers towards another entrance/exit. But before you’re caught in a magical mystery tour vortex you are directed to a “stop here” spot. Walking through the parking areas you’re reminded of the smell of a Grateful Dead concert, but you sense your fellow revelers are making more than… “make good money, $5 a day, make any more might move away…” Up long flights of stairs brings us to 2nd level Lode entrance: left field. Our tickets our around on opposite right field side, but we decide to take the inside experience of sights, smells and sounds. Crowded: even the men’s rest room has a long line out the door on the left field side, and concession stands – forget it for now. We walk-n-take-it-in, seeing a mix of Dodgers & Yankees fans (what is that “Reds” fan doing here?). Getting to our seats in Section 160, Row M, well before game time of 5:05 PM PDT, we’re cocooned by Dodgers fans, but some Yank-yellers as well. As we prepare to take a selfie photo of father-&-son a kindred fan asks us if he can take the photo for us, allowing a wider panorama. Here is the result.

The concession stands are “hardly a wait” here; in fact you have to speed read before deciding on a couple of cervezas* “Jalisco”, in a commemorative cup, a bag of peanuts, and two Premium (all-beef) Dodger Dogs. As we’re puttin’ on all the fixin’s we note there are few to no onions: reality in these times of agricultural recalls. Even though I had only 3-morsels of “O” it was still good, and the game: we (Los Dodgers) started strong and hung-on at the end. Early in the game our Boys-in-Blue took a lead on long balls, with round-trippers by Tommy Edman (2nd inning), and Teoscar Hernandez and “FREDDIE” (in the 3rd). Juan Soto with a solo shot in the top of the 3rd, made in a one-run game for half an inning. The bottom of the 7th was “hold your breath time” as Shohei Ohtani (NL MVP Finalist) suffered an injury while being thrown out trying to steal second base. As it turns out, no one scored again until the top of the 9th. Both teams had chances, but good pitching by Yoshinobu Yamamoto, just giving up that one run through 6.1 innings, set the stage for back-to-back Dodgers’ victories, mirroring again the start of the ’88 Series. But, as any long time Dodgers backer knows, when that reliever comes out of the bullpen it is like the proverbial “box of chocolates” – “you never know what you’re gonna get”: will it be a hurler in shutdown mode or same guy who has lost the plate somewhere in Narnia: walks 3 of 4.

Fortunately for the hometown faithful, we got pitchers that evening in Anthony Banda & Michael Kopech. They got through 7th & 8th unscathed. In the 9th, however, Blake Treinen and the Dodgers did not go unscored upon and Alex Vesia was called in for the final out with runners on base – it was a nail-biter for both sides. Many of us did not leave directly, taking in the post-game atmosphere (another photo). Of course we learned when we finally got to our EV-ride why so many fans notoriously leave early: it took us about an hour to get out of the parking lot. Once accomplished, it was smooth sailing through Elysian Park and back to HIE. That night, with the cheers of our fellow fans ringing in our ears Justin was awakened (past midnight) by the smell of smoke. He decided to let this First Responder rest as he did a recon and size-up: it was from the housing challenged folks in the alley. I slept through it all. At B-fast the next morning we sat next to another D’s fan that had come in from the southwest. He said he lived south of Tucson, but had been born in Ruidoso. We talked baseball and fire behaviors seen around southern AZ & NM. Shortly thereafter, we left for BUR and our direct flight home to ABQ Sunport (via quick stop, stay onboard) in “Lost Wages”. We all got home without incident (thanks for coming along with us) and later Justin auditioned for a part in Vortex Theatre’s production of Hamlet (he was cast as one of the heavies), adding to things to think about. *- Sorry I didn’t get you one, but Justin did later. I took a borrowed copy of the non-fiction book Nomads on our journey west (good read by the way: did you know that the great expansions of the "wander-about" tribes (Huns & Mongols) that brought such changes east & west 800-years apart was due to severe prolonged droughts in central Asia caused by... you got it: "climate change", or that when Marco Polo when venturing to China benefited from the Khans having established elaborate rest stations every 20-30 miles along the Silk Road routes: free trade was a basic tenent. Before heading to the airport Sunday morning the book had an unplanned close encounter with a cup of coffee. It happens when migratory.

'67: Texas to L.A. (and back)

In December of 1967 four young Navy Airmen, 19-20 years old, “taxied” out of the Naval Air Station (NAS) Corpus Christi, Texas in a prime cruise-mobile (Ford Fairlane) headed to the Los Angeles area on leave from the “line crew” at VT-27, a training squadron where naval aviators honed their multi-engine skills flying the Grumman TS-2, an antisubmarine warfare aircraft. Heading west by northwest, there were four of us: 3 white & one black. Our intention was to drive straight through, swapping drivers as we proceeded home for the holidays. Much of the west Texas travel was on US 90 through Del Rio, Langtry, Sanderson and many miles of openness north of Big Bend country.

We hit a snowstorm a little east of Alpine, and by the time we got to that town it looked like its name – it was covered with a layer of white-stuff and snow was blowin’. We pressed slowly on, creeping west and by the time we hit the “west Texas town of El Paso”, near midnight, I-10 was closed down, at least to vehicles that did not have tire chains. Most of us, at least 3, were unaware of Texas’ “Jim Crow” laws, and that a little over a decade before a black physician (Dr. Beck) had been denied rooms in that very city. Yes, the lingering vestiges of our influences on the Third Reich were still with us. The car’s owner, we’ll call him Tom, and I went to a motel’s office and scored shelter- from the storm. The next morning our quartet was able to buy and apply chains that enabled us to continue our westerly sojourn at a remarkably slow pace for our foursome from SoCal. Near the Arizona border we were finally able to shed our chains and motor-on in haste: looking forward to family & festivities.

At the same time: to our east in College Station, TX the Texas A&M football team, winners of the Southwest Conference, was preparing for their battle against Alabama (and their former coach Paul “Bear” Bryant), in the ’68 Cotton Bowl. Little did I know that James T. (JT) Reynolds was a member of that squad, probably practicing as we drove towards the Pacific Ocean. JT & I would eventually be National Park Service (NPS) Ranger colleagues, wearing NPS green-n-grey. At present though he and Sammy Williams, who were “The Integrators” (the first black players in the Corps history) of Texas A&M football: I’ve also heard they were the 1st for the SW Conference, and they were busting-their-butts with the teammates prepping to play The Tide come January 1. The Aggies were very much the underdogs.

When the young Navy personnel hit L.A. we started going separate ways. Three of us were taken to my parent’s place in Burbank. Tom went to wash his car before his Father saw the trip’s road grime, while I took my squadron mates to home rendezvous pick-up spots in Baldwin Hills (west L.A.) and Porterville, CA (where fruit groves were freezing and we helped with smudge pot placements). Driving home, in my parent’s kennel van, that we used to move some of those pots, the roadsides appeared to be lined with snow. Though I knew they weren’t, in the dark, due to fatigue and having driven and ridden in the snow during our trip I saw snow. We were supposed to ride back with Tom to Corpus, but I received an offer from my Dad that was hard to refuse: if I stayed for the ’68 Rose Bowl (USC vs. IU) he’d get us tickets, pay for me to fly back to Corpus Christi and give me $100 expenses money. This was a lot for this “Airedale” (Navy slang for aviation folks). He said it was for Mom, that she’d like me to stay around a few extra extra days, but I know it was for both of us too.

At the Rose Bowl on New Year’s Day we watched O.J. Simpson and the USC Trojans dance & prevail 14-3 over the Hoosiers.

Earlier that day the Texas A&M Aggies upset heavily favored Alabama 20-16 in the Cotton Bowl, while JT and Sammy watched far from the sidelines. Though they were credited by their coach (Stallings) for helping with the victory, JT & Sammy weren’t allowed to be there and play due to “unacceptable lodging” factors = vile “Jim Crow” laws. So, while a young man from a working/middle class family that was white got to go to Rose Bowl, two young men that had sweated and bleed with their team were not permitted to be there because they were black.

Their young (32-years old) coach undoubtedly had a lot on his plate, but was apparently MIA in this civil rights effort to fight-for-right. 1968 could have started with promise and hope, but as a sign-of-the-times, and a year that changed my worldview, it instead traveled a trail of unrighteous sadness with the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Presidential candidate Senator Robert F. Kennedy, and “The Whole World is Watching” Democratic Party Convention in Chicago.

JT Reynolds has been an honest, intelligent & just man all the time I’ve known him. He had an extraordinary career with NPS and was part of the heralded “Yosemite Mafia” that left positive imprints throughout the National Park system during my days; he was an instructor at the Horace Albright Training Center, a Regional Chief Ranger and on the Oversight Committee for the Interagency ARPA Task Force which I was lucky enough to be part of. In addition, he was a park manager and superintendent at Death Valley National Park before retiring. To this day, for JT & Sammy, I’m humbled to say: “Gig ‘Em” and “Fight On!”

Returning to base, at the baggage area of the Corpus Christi airport I was asked by a uniformed Coast Guard pilot if I needed a ride out to the NAS. I gratefully accepted. He was driving a late model mustang convertible, and as it was a “rag top day” and the top was down, I remember thinking “life is good”. As we approached the east gate I mentioned it was odd that he had an “Enlisted” sticker on his car. He then told me he too was an enlisted man, but he had this officer’s uniform he used while traveling. I immediately thought “this doesn’t sound good… or legal”. He also said that I’d visibly help sell the situation being an airman. At the gate we were waived through and when the guard saw the driver wearing an officer’s uniform he saluted. My trip home went without further incident.

Dr. Bruce C. Newlin

We recently traveld west to the Burbank/Glendale area for a couple days of rememberance for my "Uncle Bruce". He & they were special: cousins Heather and Amanda Newlin planned and executed a wonderful tribute to their extraordinary father. I was also happy to see a quorum of my cousins (all but, two made the trip). Here are some photos and my thoughts-n-words I shared during the day. Forever in our hearts, Uncle Bruce...

Dr. Bruce C. Newlin “A reading from the ‘Book of Bruce’: and the greatest amongst these is LOVE” (My last trip to SoCal I told him “Next time we’ll both wear our cowboy hats.” This is for you Bruce…) Good morning: I’m Phil, one of Bruce’s nephews, THANK YOU for being here, and allowing me to share some of my memories of a very special person. I’ll attempt to provide some family context (the historian & archaeologist in me). My mother, Margaret, was Bruce’s oldest sister. Though she had her own accomplishments, my Mom was always extremely PROUD of her younger brother Bruce, and from my earliest years I remember him as a role model extraordinaire, a true Renaissance Man.

“Bruce, Bruce, Oh Bruce, we loved you man…” I’ve been saying that a lot the past couple of weeks- followed by “We learned to be Cool from You…” (Jimmy B. – lyrics available)

Some Early Adventures: “Uncle Bruce,” though born in northern New Jersey, was destined NOT to be a “Jersey Boy”, but like many of his contemporaries migrated to California in the 1930’s. At almost age 5 (in ’39) he traveled across this land, going coast-to-coast with his older brother Larry, who was a freshly-minted 20 at the time. Needing to stop every 2-hours for radiator water and rest, the trip took 2-weeks. It probably wasn’t a Clampett or Joad family-esque trip, but when I think of the TV & movie depictions of that great migration, I picture Larry & Bruce headed west. He became a Californian. With his mother & family, he eventually lived in a small home on a one-block street called East Orange Grove: mid-block from GHS & Carr Park, and on his bedroom wall he had a beat generation mural - most people would have a poster or picture, but he had a larger than life mural painted by a friend. It was an oversized abstract of a right-handed pitcher with baseball in hand. If it still existed today it would be quite a collector’s item.

Bruce was an athlete, a sportsman, and a coach: drafted in his teens by the Yankees in the early 50’s, as a pitcher - think Whitey Ford & Mickey Mantle: it was a testament to his abilities. Due to a career ending off-season shoulder injury, while playing football on the beach, he moved on and upward in the ever-important field of education. It worked out! Bruce, “We learned to be Cool from You…”

The first time I attempted to catch Uncle Bruce, was when I was transitioning from Little League to Pony League. It was 1960, so he hadn’t thrown in a while: his fastball still had zip on it (strike one!), and his curve ball was like nothing I’d seen to that point: headed towards the batter’s head and then breaking over the plate (strike 2!). Plus he could throw a change-up and knuckleball (strike 3!). Bruce, still had it, and Bruce, “We learned to be Cool from You…”

My cousin Nancy recalls a time during the early 60’s also: “we were all at Grandma’s house in Glendale, my Dad (Larry) & Uncle Bruce wanted to play tennis at Glendale High. They told me to come with them to be their umpire! I said sure: as they started playing tennis, I yelled ‘OUT!’ They both said ‘that wasn’t out’. I said that’s it, I’m never going to be my Dad & my Uncles ref again‼” Nancy, as a college & USTA official for 10+ years, I know everyone sees it differently. Plus, they were probably calling the doubles lines – older people do that...

While working at John Thomas Dye school in Brentwood, Bruce took an overly shy introvert, that was being raised in an AKC dog show kennel, and blended him in with some of his students for Saturday athletics at UCLA and the L.A. Coliseum – something I still remember fondly. Bruce’s career in educating young people was remarkable: as I read his 7-page resume (available on-line) I thought: “yes siree, that’s my Uncle Bruce.”

Many Facets of Bruce: Leaving us peacefully on April 27th (Meme's & I state sanctioned wedding anniversary) I was blessed to have been able to caress his warm brow. Just look around here we see he was a Loving Husband & life-partner, a Father, Grandfather, (Son & Brother), & Uncle that will be fondly remembered and greatly missed by so many! Bruce was a Scholar, an Educator, Teacher (aka: Rabbi/Imam) he made a great Colleague & Co-worker. As a teammate & team builder, he was a Mentor and a Life-Coach: he was a role model for so many. As a Collaborator, he built lasting & working friendships: an example, being as a UCLA Bruin he shared 48-years with the “love of his life” Karin, life-long USC Trojan, true “California girl”. The term “love of his life” is often overused, but not in this case: their caring, intelligent and loving daughters (Heather & Amanda) are testament to that. Our thoughts and healing hearts are with them today and evermore… Bruce, “We learned to be Cool from You…”

Bruce was also a lifelong student of history and the human condition: he shared that passion with us. I, for one, was a history major in college, and it took me into the archaeology of China as a graduate student. Thank you Bruce! When I discovered that history & archeology could lead to a career with the National Park Service (NPS), I was again indebted to my “Uncle Bruce.” More than once during stress-filled adrenaline pumping times (think managing wildland fires or undercover operations) I thought of Bruce: Bruce, “I learned to be Cool from You.” (Well, I tried…)

Fast forwarding 1-2 decades this Ranger became a Special Agent with an interagency task force recovering and repatriating artifacts and special objects (art). My undercover name was Mike Newlin (I wonder where I got that family name). When I shared that with Uncle Bruce, he thought it appropriate. Once, as I looked out at the NPS SA’s that had assembled at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center for our annual refresher, I noticed a sea of Hawaiian shirts and thought: “Uncle Bruce has really caught on here”. At two consecutive Intermountain Chief Ranger's Conferences, when I introduced myself to young Rangers accompying their Chiefs at the mixer I received a double lool with: "You're Phil Young, you're a legencd." After the first time I shared that with Uncle Bruce and he pointed out that "You're a legend in your own mind." An outstanding point. The 2nd time I said: "No, that'd be my Uncle Bruce..." When I was asked by our State Dept., via our NPS Washington Office, to present at an INTERPOL/UNESCO conference on Stolen Cultural Property in Mexico City, I was able to speak “to the world” about “returning the sacred”. I thanked many that day and one was my “Uncle Bruce!”

Bruce freely shared his memories: once when I was on fire assignment on the Wenatchee National Forest, because Bruce had regaled me with his days pitching for Wenatchee, I actually sought out and found a local fan that said he remembered him. Another time, while Bruce & Karin were visiting the Santa Fe area where I live with an educational management think tank group, Bruce recalled playing in the Texas League and flying into Los Alamos, New Mexico: thrilling because of geography/topography and meteorology (oh, those T-storms!).