Lo-Fidelity: Baseball World Series 2025 — I love LA!

I’ve been obsessing over the baseball playoffs and the looming World Series all October. The fixation began innocently enough. Autumn ushered in a change of season that always has a seemingly primordial effect one me. As the leaves fall and the mountains are exposed for the stark, barren landscapes they really are, I turn inwards. 

That often means parking myself in front of the living room TV at night, with the lights dimmed to a mellow glow, maybe a candle or two burning near my seasonal autumn shrine of gourds, Indian corn, a seasonal fall flower arrangement, and those adorable miniature pumpkins. I love hearing the wind blow and the rustle of aspen leaves dancing on the metal roof at night. 

Baseball fits my insular mood like a glove this time of year. The fantastic scenes from stadiums in big cities across America — superstructures indicative of the mighty work of man — seem a universe away. Watching baseball alone, I suddenly become aware of time passages and my funny relationship with the acutely American pastime over the years. 

Before we moved to Aspen, I grew up in Santa Monica, California. My sisters and I went to a swanky private joint called John Thomas Dye School. We were driven to school in carpools, with finely brushed hair and teeth, nails trimmed, wearing navy blue uniforms, pressed white shirts, V-neck sweaters, and patent leather shoes. Upon punctual arrival, we dutifully pledged allegiance to the flag. 

One of the kids in our celebrity-stacked class was Aaron Crawford. Her dad was the legendary major league journeyman Willie Crawford, right outfielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers. On Aaron’s birthday, she took our first grade class to see her father and the Dodgers play. We stood right behind the Dodgers dugout in between 3rd base and home plate, barely able to see over the rail. 

I still have vivid imagery of the moment the team walked out on the field and signaled to our class. We were treated like miniature royalty with hot dogs, popcorn, peanuts, Cracker Jack, Coca-Cola, and mini-pennants to wave. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. After a genuine VIP backstage-esque experience that, you’re a fan for life. I have the Dodgers flag up now to prove it.

Forward to Iselin Field in Aspen, where my mom signed me up for intramural T-Ball. I was the only kid to strikeout. I spent most of my time (and allowance) at the snack bar called the “Last Stand.” Part of life is learning what sports aren’t for you. 

My dad tried. He bought me a California Angels mitt that I had for a long time. I took great care to form the crease with mink oil, a hardball string-tied-closed into the pocket. While baseball been “berry, berry good …” — to Garrett Morris’ notoriously hilarious Chico Escuela character on Saturday Night Live — the sport just never stuck to me. I gravitated more towards BMX and skateboarding, keeping true to my Southern California birthplace and those rebel Santa Monica “Dog Town” roots.

The other day, I heard the song “Boys of Summer” by Don Henley on the radio. When the song came out in 1984, I was probably at the peak of my high school deadhead infatuation phase. I was reminded of another reason perhaps why I love baseball so much. The line “Out on the road today I saw a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. A little voice in my head said don’t look back you can never look back” spoke to me about my life in Aspen and illuminated two unlikely bedfellows of Americana: baseball and the Grateful Dead. The proof is in the pudding; last year, five MLB teams hosted a Jerry Garcia day.

I’ve really been enjoying the playoffs. Truth be told, I’m about equally interested in the game and watching the people behind home plate and wondering who they are, what they’re wearing, and what they’re eating and drinking. I love the random crowd shots, too, like kids with baseball gloves, fan-caught balls, rally-routines, funny signs, the men and women in custom get-ups, and the obligatory celebrity sighting. The popular 7th inning stretch resurgence of John Denver’s “Country Roads” brings the Aspen tie-in.

I’m not a fan of that Marlin’s man guy who’s at all the games behind home plate. For some reason, likely a deep flaw in my personality, an out-of-place stranger dressed up in a CDOT orange Miami Marlins jersey with his visor on sideways and his phone out all the time is driving me crazy. I’m paying much more attention to him than I should be. What did he ever do to me? He’s living rent-free in the corner suite in my head. I gotta do better. 

The only cure is to sit next to Marlin’s Man behind home plate at the World Series. Anyone want to hook me up? I’m willing and able drop everything like a box of rocks to fly directly out of Aspen to either Los Angeles or Toronto at a moment’s notice. I can see the texts now, as my phone supernovas: “Dude! Is that YOU behind home plate next to Marlin’s Man???!!!” People tell me I’m really fun to go to baseball games with. 

A Mariners vs. Dodgers series would’ve been a win-win for me as I am a fan of both teams, and I was sad to see a West Coast series go up in smoke, but the Dodgers vs. Blue Jays has a compelling, geo-political lean to it, as well. Did anyone see the Canadian TV commercial beat down about tariffs featuring Ronald Reagan? That was a royal Canadian grand slam. By far the most eloquently scathing political commercial I’ve seen in years. Hopefully, they’ll have it on repeat all series long. 

That being said, Go Dodgers! I love LA and the classic Randy Newman song. I’ll be wearing my team T-shirt and hat, all the while rooting on mega star Shohei Ohtani, the 700-Million Dollar Man. I’m thinking mail-ordered Pink’s hot dogs would make a nice game-time meal. Their “Giada De Laurentiis” signature dog looks good enough to eat.  

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.