May 07 2008 11:28 PM
Was in New Orleans for Jazz Fest (and to woo me this Memphis Belle), so I missed the first two games, but went out today. Opera Singer was doing the anthem again and she picked this game and me to go with her on the field. She's pretty cool, that Opera Singer.
Same deal as last year, if some of you remember. You enter in the area where the office-type employees go to work every day. They gave us our passes, got the Opera Singer some water and stuff, we goofed around for a minute, and then they took us up to the press booth for her sound check. 
The Dodger Stadium escort this year was super friendly and talkative and a cutie pot-pie in her own right. Corie, I think it was. Or Korey. Something like that. Here she is next to this kid Brock I'll tell you about later.
Hummina, hummina.
I told you guys last year about the bullpen cart, I think. That thing's cool. I told cutie pot-pie how much I dug it and she said she told the higher-ups to bring it back, but nothing came of it. I told her to push harder. They weren't ready to listen maybe.
So, sound check is up in the press booth where Dodger organist Nancy Bea Hefley and (and her ever-present husband of 50 years) does her work. I walked in the same time as Howie Rose and said kind of excitedly, "That's fucking Howie Rose!", but I said it quietly and no one heard me, I don't think. I saw Rob Reiner coming into the can as I was leaving and found that quite a bit less cool. Anyway, here's a shot. Not of Reiner's Meathead, but Opera Singer warming up. A little blurry, this one.
We went down to teh field next for her second sound check. They had her show up later this year so we missed all of BP, which I'm not gonna lie, sucked a little. Kid got a little sassy on her second run-through. She kicked just as much ass, though.
Two peeps threw out first balls, some chick from "Friday Night Lights" I'd not heard of and some guy who used to be some kind of equipment manager for the Mets, but is now affiliated with the Dodgers, I think. His Dodger jersey only said "JT" on the back. Can't remember his name. All the Mets guys knew him and were up on the rail booing him and laughing and someone even lightly chucked a baseball out at him. Tommy Lasorda was his catcher and dropped the lollipop JT looped at him (blurry, too).
It's about noontime now, so she's gotta sing. She steps out by the big "LA" behind home plate and just belts out a fucking gorgeous opera-tinged (but not full-on opera) National Anthem. Sparse crowd right at 12PM, but enthusiastic and appreciative.
As soon as she was done, that kid Blake from earlier ran up and gave her a huge hug. It was pretty cute. He showed up to the game with his dad, who skipped work and had the kid skip school to they could watch a little day-time baseball. Is that nice or what? So he takes the kid down to get autographs before the game and some girl, maybe cutie pot-pie, asks the kid if he wants to kick the game off NASCAR-style by shouting "Time for Dodger Baseball!" as they players start their engines. Dad's completely excited and tells me he's been a Dodger fan over 40 years and can't get over that he's standing on the same field they play on. I tell him his kid'll now be a Dodger fan 40 years from now, too.
Then Blake stomps out, two-hands the mic like some speed metal frontguy and screams, "Time for Dodger Baseball!" like Vin Scully never could.
Kid's even got eye-black on for chrissakes. Hard-core.
Cool, let's play ball then.
We're ready to head to the seats when David Wright comes out for a game of catch with Marlon Anderson. He's like 30 feet away and cutie pot-pie likes him just as much as me and Opera Singer do, so we all hang out and I start snapping pictures.
Davey starts stretching it out and moves closer to us. 20 feet or so, then maybe 10 feet away. Then, like 5 feet away. The girls' jaws have dropped to the perfectly manicured grass and I'm acting gayer than Charles Nelson Reilly, too.
Even closer.
Closer still.
Josie steps out to start the game. We finally have to leave.
Here's our seats. Not too bad.
What else? I got the kid to go Mets for a minute. Here she is Chad Cordero-style.
Her Met-love didn't last. Here's us about to throw-down before the game. I'm the hobo on the right.
Her: "Let's get a picture."
Me: "There's a game being played, girl. C'mon, Churchie!"
(PS- $12 bucks for that stupid beer.)
So that's about it. Mets kicked ass. John Maine was awesome. Me = happy. Her = faking sad.
Walking out, she gets cheeky with Gibby and I stare down Mike Marshall. Not that one, the other one.
That's it. Good night, kids.
