The Dodgers Hat
written by: Jim Bartlett
April 2024
In no particular hurry, after all, the game doesn’t start until five, Patty saunters along the front of the two lonely checkout stands, making her way towards Mercado Alimentos’ exit. As she waves one last “adios” to Isabella, her favorite cashier, the creaky automatic door begins its fitful slide, one that’s slow enough she’s able to pull a Fuji from her bag and take a hearty bite. Closing her eyes, she eases out a “Yummmmm,” the tart, juicy apple satisfying the craving she’s had all morning. When the glass door does finally open – obviously it’s in no more of a hurry than herself – she steps out into the bright spring sunshine, stopping for a moment to take in the view of the tall palm trees that line both sides of Laveta Terrace Street at the top of the hill, knowing that not too far beyond those California icons, the boys of summer – sometimes she likes to think of them as “her” boys of summer – play in beautiful Chávez Ravine.
Dodger Stadium, she thinks with a long sigh. It’s been a rough winter. Even for California. But with spring comes new hope, a chance at renewal, and, of course, baseball.
She starts up again, heading across the tiny parking lot for the sidewalk. Her house is only two blocks away, and what a day for a walk. But just as she makes it to the curb, and has lifted her apple to her lips for another bite, the sound of the old man’s guitar begins to drift gently in the warm breeze, and she turns – with a smile – toward the shrub-lined alcove alongside the store.
She thought for sure she’d missed him when she’d first arrived at the little market, as he wasn’t in his usual weekend spot – a rusty metal bench to the back of the nook. Which would have been disappointing, as, along with the strings she’d picked up, she’d actually remembered to bring a little cash to toss in his bucket. No one seems to carry cash these days, and lord knows, she’s no exception.
She takes a couple of steps his way, but stops again, finally enjoying that long-awaited next bite of the apple as she soaks it all in. Dressed in baggy jeans, a thrift-store flannel shirt, and wearing that Dodgers hat, ooooh, that Dodgers hat, he sits sort of sideways on the bench, something she guesses he does to better hold the guitar, which, like that shirt, has seen better days. Though scratched and dinged here and there and the frets along the neck all appear to be the victims of sandpaper, what stands out most is the area just below the big sound hole, as the finish has been worn off from years of strumming, leaving an inverted arch of dry, bare wood. It’s a five-string guitar rather than six, as that big string along the top is missing and has been for some time. The “E” string, the kid at the Guitar Center had called it when she stopped by yesterday to buy a new one.
“You really need to replace them all at the same time,” he had said, a curled strand of long pink hair dangling in his reddened eye.
And so, she bought the whole set.
She takes another couple of steps, the lasso of the Mexican folk ballet he’s singing in that baritone voice – one she’s heard a time or two before – pulling her closer. Yet despite the sirens’ call of the song, it’s really the Dodgers hat that holds her eye. While it’s an older one, there are no marks, nor does it seem to be faded – rather it seems to glow, as if the magic of baseball, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and the crack of the bat sending that Rawlings over the fence have somehow been trapped within. She feels deep inside there’s something special about it, and, like the Dodgers shirt she wears today, there’s definitely a story wanting to be told.
As if reading her mind, the old man’s eyes drop to her shirt and his song fades into the Santa Ana wind. With his gaze fixed, a smile forms, and he starts to put the guitar aside, but Patty puts out her hand to stop him.
“Wait. I have something for you.” Taking a seat at the table adjacent to his creaky bench, she digs into her purse and pulls out the set of strings, setting them in his lap.
His eyes widen, his mouth drops open, and his hand – the one not holding the guitar – comes to his chin, as if to keep it from slamming into the already cracked cement below.
“Señorita…” He stops, his eyes dipping down to her left hand. Though her husband John has been gone more than thirty years, she still wears his ring. The man’s smile stretches across his face. “Perdón, Señora. This is sooo very good. Gracias.” He wipes his eyes, touched by her simple gesture. “Muchas gracias.”
Leaning the guitar against her table, he points at the number 34 on her shirt.
“Fernando,” he says.
“Yes. El Toro,” she replies, referencing Valenzuela’s nickname.
“Sí, sí,” he says, shaking his head in admiration. “You like the Dodgers, sí?”
“Oh, yes. My husband took me to a game on one of our first dates. I’ve stayed in love with both ever since.”
The old man wipes his eyes again, then reaches up and pulls off the hat, setting it on her head. It’s a perfect fit, as if it had been intended for her all along.
“For you, the red-haired lady.” He looks down once again at her ring. “In his memory.”
Patty can feel her face flush. The hat. THE hat. It’s kept her eye ever since the first time she saw it. As did John the first time she saw him.
And, what’s with that? How does he know about John? How could he possibly know that, though he’s been gone all this time, she now and again still finds herself giddy coming home and walking through that kitchen door, fully expecting him to run up for a hug.
She lets go of a long-held breath.
He was there, and then one day he wasn’t. Next to her and their little family, he loved those Dodgers, and deep inside, when she thinks about nervously pacing outside the operating room, she believed, and still believes to this day, that when the doctors began to work on that great big wonderful heart of his, he bled Dodgers blue.
One thing’s for sure, he would have loved this hat.
She rests her hand on his. “Oh, Señor, muchas gracias.”
Untucking the hand, he puts his finger to his chest. “Alejandro.”
With a smile, she puts her own finger to her shirt. “Patty.”
He follows her point, the finger landing practically in the middle of the number 34.
“You know, he brought Chávez Ravine back to life.”
She nods. “Yes… he most certainly did.”
The revelation, while striking and something she’s really never given any thought, isn’t all that much of a stretch of the imagination. Chávez Ravine had once been the home to three proud Mexican-American neighborhoods: La Loma, Palo Verde, and Bishop. Comprised of poor families that had been discriminated against when trying to find housing in other parts of the city, they were once again tossed aside when developers convinced the city to label the area as “Blighted,” thus setting the wheels in motion allowing them to claim the region by means of eminent domain.
One of the first purchases under that clandestine veil, coming in the 1950s, was the land for what would one day become Dodger Stadium.
Needless to say, the Dodgers, soon to arrive from Brooklyn, would not find any support from the Los Angeles Mexican-American community.
But then, as if summoned by the baseball gods themselves, a handsome young Mexican pitcher showed up on the Dodgers’ mound. He had a windup consisting of a high leg kick and his eyes pointed to the sky, which not only baffled those who watched him, but more so those who dared take a place in the batter’s box.
Her thoughts drifting back to John – not that they ever wander far from him – Patty runs her hand up and down the number. She’d found the shirt tucked in a drawer nearly ten years after she’d lost him, and she always thought it was a remembrance of the first time they’d actually gotten to go to an opening game. Which, by happenchance, Fernando started. His first start, actually.
They’d been married six years by then, nearly seven, and little John, at five, was finally old enough to come along – though he’d been telling Daddy he was ready for quite some time. As they left the house on that sunny April day, she wasn’t quite sure who was more eager-beaver – her kindergartener, or her husband, who might have fit well in a kindergarten class with his level of excitement.
After all, the game was against the Division rival Houston Astros, who’d knocked the Dodgers out of the playoffs in a tiebreaking game the previous year. A smile breaks across her face as she remembers their march up those stadium stairs that day – well, she and John were marching, little John was hopping like a bunny, step by step. The sun was bright, the aroma of fresh-cooked hot dogs drifted in the air, and they were filled with spring’s gift of optimism, hoping for some sweet revenge. But when they took their seats, a cloud of uncertainty shadowed their sunshine, as it was announced that Jerry Reuss, the Dodgers’ ace pitcher, had suffered a strained calf muscle, and the opening-day starter would be the new kid, Fernando Valenzuela.
And while the stadium slowly filled with doubt, the fans’ hopes now strained as well, Valenzuela himself seemed to think nothing of it, stepping onto the mound to pitch a complete game shutout.
And with that, the seeds were sown for the phenomena that would become known as “Fernandomania.”
He would go on to become the first – and, still to this point, only – player to win both the Cy Young award and the Rookie of the Year. But his biggest win came with the healing of the wounds that had scarred Los Angeles’ Mexican-American community, and before the season’s end, they claimed the Dodgers as their own.
The Dodgers won the World Series that year, and, now, with this hat, Patty feels their time has come once again.
She squeezes Alejandro’s shoulder.
“Muchas gracias, mi amigo.”
October 2024
With her dear friend, Carol, trailing just behind, Patty walks out the gateway and heads toward the packed parking lot.
Though Carol’s not a baseball fan, really, not much on sports in general, Patty worked on her for a full week trying to get her to come along with her to the game tonight.
“You HAVE to come,” she’d said, using her best puppy-dog eyes. “It’s the World Series!”
“World Series, World Smeries. Ugh…” she had replied.
But in the end, she relented.
And the game proved well worth the credit card bill Patty would be facing for the next year. Or two.
Skipping along, maybe as little John might have done so many years ago, Patty replays the game, particularly the last inning, over and over in her head. Yet even lost in thought, she feels her friend’s burning gaze upon her, something that only intensifies as they merge into the thicker crowd.
“You better watch it there, young lady,” Carol calls out, her voice almost a laugh. “You float any higher and someone will have to call air traffic control.”
Patty stops, turns, and smiles. “Okay, maybe I’m a little happy, but I’m dancing, not floating. Just like the other fifty thousand in the stands tonight. I mean, look what just happened! The Dodgers have won Game 2 of the World Series. And now they’re up two games to none. Against the New York Yankees, no less.” Her smile widening, she reaches up and touches the brim of her hat.
“You and that hat,” says Carol, teasing.
Patty nods. She was able to attend eighteen games this year, and the Dodgers won each and every one. Along with that, she watched twenty more on television, and, yes, you guessed it, they won them all.
The hat.
And despite both Mookie Betts and Freddie Freeman being hurt for part of the season, here they are in the World Series.
The hat.
“Well, with the Dodgers up, one thing’s for sure, I’m wearing this hat to the end.”
Carol smiles, gives her head a shake. “Sports and superstition.”
With the thought, Patty slows, but only slightly. Superstition. She does have to admit, there really is a lot of superstition in baseball. A player on a hitting streak may not change his socks or even his underwear as long as the streak stays alive.
“Nice hat, lady.”
The voice, catching her off guard, comes from her side, and she turns to see two young boys, both Hispanic and about eleven or twelve, walking just behind a group of adults – probably dads or uncles or big brothers. Both boys’ envious eyes are glued to the hat.
“Thanks!” Patty beams a smile as she once again grabs the brim.
“She thinks it’s her lucky charm,” Carol says with a wink.
The two boys stop, turn toward each other, then spin back to face Patty, their eyes nearly popping out.
“That’s what my grandpapa always used to say about his hat. It was just like yours. I always thought it glowed in the dark.”
The words give Patty cause to stop as well, and she looks a little harder at the boy on the right, the one who’s doing the talking. Something about his chin, maybe his eyes, ring familiar.
“A man named Alejandro gave it to me.”
When she says the old man’s name, the youngster goes ashen – a tough feat for a Mexican boy.
“OMG! You’re the red-haired lady.”
“Wait, is Alejandro your grandfather?”
He nods, his mouth seemingly unable to move.
The other boy steps between them, obviously realizing his friend has lost his voice. “That’s his name, too. I’m Steven.”
“Oh, my.” Patty can only shake her head. “It’s so nice to meet you both.” She looks past Steven, catching Alejandro’s eye. “Your grandfather is such a wonderful person. And he can really sing! But, you know, I haven’t seen him playing at the Mercado in a long while. Where is he?”
Tears now roll down the younger Alejandro’s cheeks. “He passed away back in September. Didn’t get to see the Dodgers make it to the World Series.” He looks away, then turns back to face Patty again. “I can’t believe you’re the red-haired lady. He talked about you a lot. You gave him the new strings.”
Patty, finding her legs a little weak, can only nod. But then everything comes together and she knows what she has to do.
Slipping the hat off her head, she plants it on young Alejandro’s, whose eyes, like Steven’s, go wide.
Carol catches her breath. “Oh, Patty, the circle is complete.”
Tears streaming, Patty puts a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “You make sure you wear that all the way through the World Series, my friend.”
“Sí, sí, Señora.”
And with that, he gives her a hug. “From my grandpapa,” he says.
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