So Joyce took me to Monday’s Dodger game…and bought us tickets in the third row, right behind home plate. I don’t need to sit that close to a game, and I’d honestly rather sit somewhere where you get a view of the whole game, but Joyce wanted to make me happy…and there is something cool to sitting that close to a major league ballgame.
Probably not something that’s gonna happen to me too often. So I decided to make the most of it.
Since this is LA and we were in seats that cost over a thousand bucks, there had to be something showoffass mixed in…and there is. The Dugout Club. It’s a fancyass buffet, and all the food is included in the price of your ticket. There’s a bar, since everything included doesn’t mean alcohol. And of course it’s craft beers on tap (and some good ones.) None of the generic stuff they sell upstairs. The bar also has a whole menu of totally gayass martinis. I checked the menu out when I was waiting for my beer. It was so gayass I had to take a picture of it:
This ain’t shit you should be drinking at a ballgame. And if you get fucked up, how are you going to keep score?
When I saw the place my first thought was, shit, no hot dogs. I could see a big carving station and a salad bar and a whole mess of other food you don’t want to eat at a ballgame (only a total jerkoff would eat a salad at a ballgame), but after looking around (ok…Joyce asked), I found that they had all the Dodger Dogs you could eat. They were just in this dumbass buffet dish:
I can eat 7 or 8 hot dogs pretty easy, but you don’t want that much food in your stomach at a ballgame. And I’ll never forget Dad’s rule from when I was growing up: one hot dog and a Mountain Dew before the game, and ice cream at the top of the 7th. Now it’s two hot dogs and a beer instead of the Mountain Dew (Dodger Stadium doesn’t have Mountain Dew anyway), but I’m a much bigger boy than I was when Dad and I started going to ballgames.
So I grabbed a couple Dodger Dogs out of that dish thing…and then I had a serious crisis. There was no relish. Seriously: no fucking relish. Do rich folks not eat relish or something? How can you have a hot dog without mustard and relish? Okay, so I started being a little bitch, but luckily a waitress came by with a fancyass bowl of relish. The one they had was empty so she’d taken it away. So I guess rich folks do eat relish after all.
Since I wanted Joyce to see that I was taking advantage of everything, I hit the carving station too. I sure as hell wasn’t going to starve. Nobody in the whole restaurant was going to starve: there was a shitload of food. Most of it wasn’t ballpark food, but I reckon some people just get too rich for hot dogs. That’s called gettin above your raisin’ in the South. That ain’t a good thing.
We got the park with plenty of time to eat inside (eating inside at a ballgame?) and be in our seats in time for me to get my scoresheet ready to go. The roast beef was dang good and rare like I like it, but I gotta admit it felt strange sitting in a nice restaurant like this and eating my Dodger dogs off of a big square plate:
But I guess you gotta get something for your thousand bucks besides a view of the umpire’s “tokkis”. (That’s the word Shoshanah’s family used for butt.)
On the way to our seats, they showed us they had they had plenty of ice cream available during the game. Drumsticks and sandwiches kinda stuff. Since they weren’t five bucks a pop, I helped myself to two ice cream sandwiches at the start of the 7th.
I tried not to think of what Dad would say when I got up before the 8th and got another one.