What’s the most you’ve ever been hated?
Last week, I was hated by 50,000 people. They hated everything I stood for. And I loved every single minute of it.
Last Wednesday night, the Los Angeles Dodgers’ most successful season in 20 years ended, and I got to witness it all, in a black and orange Tim Lincecum No. 55 San Francisco Giants T-shirt.
Before I made the journey out to Chavez Ravine, they asked me, “Why would you go? The Giants lost months ago.”
I replied without hesitation, “It’s about pride.”
But this story begins long before most of us were born, with two ball clubs from New York who battled year after year for National League supremacy. The animosity was deep-rooted, sure, but it was all coated with a layer of respect for the rivalry. As the decades wore on, the setting would move 3,000 miles west to sunny California, but the passions remain the same.
Here, we fast forward to Game Five of the 2008 National League Championship Series: a 3-1 series lead for the Philadelphia Phillies, who only needed this game to reach the World Series. From the other side, however, it was the potential last game of the season for the entire Dodger fan base.
With StubHub receipts in hand, we walked up Elysian Park Avenue. My teammate in sedition sported a sparkling white Chase Utley No. 26. Phillies jersey, marching side by side the aforementioned orange and black Rebel draped over my own shoulders. Warily, yet with heads held high, black and white approached the sea of blue.
Large, 4×4 trucks with flowing Dodger flags mounted on the bed thundered by us in the parking lot. And the boos started from every direction.
The first type was a classic jeer: “Boo! Go back to Philadelphia!” or something of the sort with more expletives. This kind of chant is to be expected at any sporting event, a kind of warm-up hating before the actual game.
This turned out to be a rather innocuous harassment though, because my friend in white happens to be from that city and would love nothing more than to get back there soon, hopefully to celebrate a World Series.
Then, there came a second wave, this time directed at me.
“A Giants fan?! Are you kidding me?” That’s how it would start. Sometimes, it was just followed with a warning not to sit in the pavilion where I was told I would be devoured like all-you-can-eat hot dogs for wearing these colors. However, mostly it was a lot worse.
Now, I feel I’ve a pretty good sense of direction, but that night at Dodger Stadium, I was told by countless blue-clad fanatics that both my sexual and geographic orientation were to be strongly questioned.
As we walked down the aisle to our seats in the top deck, the calls came all the way from fans in adjacent sections noticing these strange colors floating through a midst of a hundred brand-new No. 99 Ramirez shirts. All I could do was raise my fist in the air to show resiliency and continue walking. Even the 2-year-old in front of me, with a mini No. 15 Furcal draped across his back, gave me a hard stare.
Just as I was starting to think that this whole ridiculous stunt had gone too far, Phillies shortstop and Bay Area native Jimmy Rollins belted a solo shot to lead off the game, and I was reminded of the pure joy of watching the Dodgers’ dreams go up in flames. As the visiting team solidified its 5-1 victory, I did not gloat but stood patiently watching the small portion of Philadelphia fans revel in their deserved glory.
As I caught the eye of exiting Dodgers fans, I shrugged slightly hoping to convey a simple message: “We’re in the same boat now.”
Even as I write, I realize that this column is analogous to my experience at the stadium. Thirty-six percent of my fellow Bruin classmates hail from Los Angeles County alone.
So, let’s be frank, I’m speaking to a large quantity of Dodger fans, some of whom are studying my mug shot right now, so that if they see me on campus they can lay some more hate on me.
But I’ll be ready for it, because it’s all part of a never-ending battle of which I am proud to play a part. For without the relentless hate that deep down we love to harbor for our rivals, that elusive championship would never taste as sweet.
If you’re hoping for a black and orange Cy Young Award winner, e-mail Smukler at esmukler@media.ucla.edu.