All right, sports fans. It’s that time of the year
again: the smell of freshly mowed grass, the “thump” of
genuine leather mitts, the “ping” of double-walled
aluminum alloy on a horsehide Rawlings. It’s college baseball
time.
With nothing better to do on a Friday night, my brother and I
wanted to catch our first game of the season. The problem is,
UCLA didn’t have one on Friday, and I wasn’t going to
make the Saturday alumni game.
So we called our buddy Neil, who plays shortstop for the
then-No. 4 Cal State Fullerton, and told him we were coming to his
game against No. 25 University of Nevada -Las Vegas that
night. Neil put us on his pass list, so our tickets were
waiting for us at will call.
Walking through Fullerton’s parking lot, we noticed a
large truck surrounded by less-than-sober students. Without an
on-campus stadium, this is something you don’t see at
UCLA.
In the bed of the truck was a cooler with lots and lots of
“apple juice.” One of the guys approached us and
asked whom we were cheering for.
“UCLA,” I replied.
The guy then slurred: “We’ll pay you $200 to streak
across the field naked with that deer head.”
Deer head?
Sure enough, in the back of the truck was a stuffed deer
head.
“Buddy, we’re sober,” my brother informed
him. “That means you have to pay for bail,
too.”
Although he agreed, we decided we needed a police record a lot
less than we needed $200, so we continued to will call.
There, I walked up to the table like a big shot and said:
“Yeah, we’re on Neil Walton’s list.”
“Who?” replied the girl behind the table.
“Neil Walton,” I repeated.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
I looked at her to see if she was serious. She was.
“He’s your starting shortstop,” I said.
Cal State Fullerton has won three national
championships. This school lives and breathes the national
pastime. Everybody knows the starting shortstop’s name.
How embarrassing for Neil.
We finally got inside the ballpark and saw something you
won’t find anytime soon at Jackie Robinson Stadium.
Nearly 2,000 people were there for the Titans’ home
opener. By contrast, 367 witnessed the Bruins’ home
opener v. UC Riverside. (In UCLA’s defense, it was on a
Tuesday.)
Sorority girls showed up in hordes, hugging each other to
generate body heat in the chilly night air. Most sorority
girls at UCLA don’t know where Jackie Robinson Stadium
is.
Fraternity guys guzzled beer along the third base line while
heckling UNLV’s third base coach. They don’t even sell
beer at UCLA baseball games.
Little Leaguers sought autographs from former Fullerton stars
like Chad Cordero, a first-round draft pick of the Montreal Expos.
When a group of kids returned with their hats signed, one turned to
the other and asked: “So who was that guy?”
“I don’t know,” the other
answered. “Somebody Cordova.”
My brother and I sat there, eating sunflower seeds until our
mouths were raw, and watched my toes turn blue. Not a wise decision
to wear sandals to a night game.
At some point, a Fullerton pitcher recorded the team’s
seventh strikeout, earning free Klondike Ice Cream Bars for the
crowd. It was 40 degrees out, and by now, I couldn’t
feel my face, not to mention my toes. And they gave out ice
cream. How about a cup of hot cocoa? Still, I jumped
around like a fool until I got one. Then I put the ice cream on my
feet to warm them up.
With the bases loaded in the bottom of the 11th, Fullerton
executed a suicide squeeze. The runner scored. Players
and fans went apestuff. Ballgame over. Drive home safely.
What an experience to start off my baseball season ““ too
bad it couldn’t happen at UCLA.
E-mail Karon at ekaron@media.ucla.edu