We sat in the car in the Dodger Stadium parking lot - we had been let in before anyone else because of our stadium club passes - and we were cheering hard for Bartolo with men on base.
We left the guys down two runs to their own devices because when you sit in Frank McCourt's neighborhood, all of the grub is free ('cept the Margaritas for the Missus).
So by the time we had gorged ourselves on a fine buffet in the presence of the Duran Duran-like 1988 World Series trophy (and not the Channel 9 Angel game, but rather the Mariners/Nationals contest), we sauntered to our seats abutting the Dodger dugout to spy ANA: 5 NYM: 2. The only stadium in the major leagues that calls them Ana gave us good news about our Los Angeles team. Before the waiter could ask us if there was anything we needed, the score was adding runs, 7, 8, and finally 12.
We then watched the Texas numbers tie it up and then blow it big to the Marlins. Bellies full, boys up two and a half games by some unrevealed mystery, we decided that Minnesota still had the ability to claim home field advantage for the American League playoffs and rooted hard for the Dodgers to cause that important loss. And team Blueblood complied, replete with Gagne heroic entrance and Choi walkoff, Randy Newman serenade and no indigestion for once from ballpark food.
Perhaps all of that was not worth missing the comedy of Bartolo Colon driving in a run, but upon leaving we were held up by Frank McCourt holding court. The yellow seat fans were leaning over, shaking his Boston hand and the Club seat section anointed were posing for pictures and asking for autographs. A kid in the yellow seats leaned over the concrete, between McCourt and myself and excitedly proclaimed "I want to be down there in your seats, how do you get there?" I deadpanned "It costs $375 bucks." So of course the kid instantly hollers to an attentive Dodger owner "$375 dollars, what a RIP OFF." Frank's flinch was worth it.