Dodgers-A’s in the World Series would be nice for obvious reasons…It’s the last time I watched one with my dad

By Fernie Ruano Jr.

I don’t give a shit about the Los Angeles Dodgers or Oakland Athletics.

But I’m rooting, openly, for a Dodgers-A’s World Series in October.

The possibility of Yasiel Puig throwing out Coco Crisp from the right-field hot dog stand in Dodgers Stadium is enticing, as is a reuniting in the Fall Classic of the two franchises for the first time since 1988, a series won an improbable fashion in five games by the heavy-handed Dodgers over the beefed up A’s.

It would conjure up memories of how excited a 17-year-old, baseball-obsessed kid was to see how Orel Hershiser would pitch to Jose Canseco; how many home runs Mark McGuire could hit with all eyes on him; if Tony LaRussa could outwit Tommy Lasorda.

It would also bring back memories of experiencing something I haven’t done in 26 years: watch a World Series, from start to finish, with my dad. 

                                               

                   Up in arms: The Dodgers weren't the only ones jumping for joy in October of '88

A month short of 18 and a high school senior at the time, I had watched every game and just about every pitch of every World Series from 1976-1987 with my ‘old man’ not too far from me, whether we were inches apart in the living room, making my mother miserable in the bedroom or following along, in silence, at a local establishment.

But this one was special, and not only because we could ‘discuss’ deep into the night why at the time Canseco was the best player in baseball, in my opinion (he disagreed), and analysis the A’s chances of winning multiple championships(again, he disagreed).

It was special because in fall of ’88 my parent’s marriage was rapidly coming to an end, the remains of what was left of it coming apart and crumbling right before my eyes, even as we watched the World Series.

I couldn’t stand the thought of having to go to school the next morning with a whale of emotions hanging up my head, but I could bare my parents displaying theirs in front of me, at the same time Canseco’s Game 1 slam cleared the centerfield wall.

I had never seen my mother so angry, yet I was happy because I was telling my dad what Dave Stewart was about to throw to Mickey Hatcher. I’ve only visually seen my mother cry 5 times in my lifetime, not to mention my dad apologize to me. It all happened during the ’88 W.S.

But I carried on playing the role of good trooper, no doubt feeling my mother’s pain and anguish, but going to bat for my dad because, well, “How many times will you ever get to see a broken man hit a game-winning home run off one of the best closers ever with your father sitting right next to you?”

The series, a highly-anticipated one, turned out uneventful for all the reasons why baseball is still my favorite sport; it was an utter shock that the Dodgers defeated the A’s 4-1, it was just astonishing in the manner in which they did it: silencing Oakland’s bats.

I had definitely seen better World Series, most notably as a child in 1975 and just a couple years before when the Mets rallied in Game 6 against the Red Sox, before winning the championship several days later.

But I learned a valuable lesson over 25 years ago, while trying to hold on to something I knew would never happen again: watching the World Series with my father next to me.