The Wrong Decision

Growing up, I was a die-hard Dodger fan. True, the object of my obsession may have had something to do with all those hot guys, but I honestly loved the game. Back in those days, not a lot of games were televised, so I’d listen to Vin Scully call the play-by-play then type it up complete with box score summaries every inning.


When I got older and was able to drive, Dodger Stadium was my second home. (My record was 33 games in one season.) The summer after I graduated from high school, my best friend and I even managed to meet a player right off the field. He invited us to join him after the game (which is a whole other story and one I’ll save for another blog.)


The point I’m trying to make is that I truly loved baseball and for awhile wanted to make a career of it (side note: I eventually worked for Gene Autry’s Golden West Broadcasters which owned the California Angels, so in a way, that dream was fulfilled...but I digress.)

Years and years later, I got set up on a blind date with a former Dodger. We went out for awhile and imagine my delight when he invited me to accompany him to the “Old Timer’s Game!” Visions of meeting Sandy Koufax, Maury Wills, Willie Davis...all my old favorites danced through my head.


There was only one problem.


I had a scheduling conflict.


Back up twenty years. I was entering high school and my parents had decided I was too good for public schools so they forced me to go to a private school in the Valley. Our deal was this: I’d go for one year, then I’d get to choose whether to rejoin the friends I’d had all my life. The real bitch of it was, this damn private school had a coed elementary program that went through ninth grade (Campbell Hall) and a girls-only high school (Argyll) from 10 through 12, so I while I stayed back with all the youngsters, my friends started high school. Anyway, I fulfilled my end of the bargain and when it came time to choose, I left the private school in the dust. The trouble was, I’d made some really good friends in that year but they didn’t exactly live down the block, so I never saw any of them again.

Okay, now flash forward again. For twenty years, I’d been dreaming of showing up at my private school’s reunion—of rekindling old friendships.

And the damn thing has to be on the same day as the Old Timers’ Game.

I gave it a lot of thought and opted for the reunion.

Now, I’m not a pill popper, but the thought of walking into that reunion scared me shitless so I scored a Valium for the event. I mean, what if no one remembered me? (Even though I’d been Homecoming Queen, Snow Princess, and a cheerleader—okay, so I’m bragging, but trust me, that was the last time anything like that ever happened, so let me have my day in the sun, okay?)

I arrive at the campus, park my car, and see a little table set up where I get my nametag. The students manning the welcome desk direct me down a path at the bottom of which (so they tell me) everyone is milling around.

With my heart in my throat (the damned half a Valium was worthless) I make my way down to a throng of women. Since there were only five guys in my class, this doesn’t alarm me.

What does alarm me is that I don’t recognize a soul.

And they don’t recognize me.

Everyone is polite...they’re wracking their brains, trying to place my face. I’m wracking mine, trying to place theirs.

This is a nightmare come true.

I shoulda taken a whole bottle of Valium.

Wait. One girl’s name is familiar. Suzie Rockett. Hadn’t she married the teacher who’d driven me around the football field at the Homecoming Game?

And, I remember this, because she was a senior at the time. These women are not from my graduating class.

I mumble a torrent of incoherent words and manage to escape (picturing them all shaking their heads in confusion behind me). Back at the welcome desk (which I have to pass on the way to my car) the students ask if I want my money back but I’m too embarrassed to spend another minute on the campus.

So, here’s where I had made my fatal mistake: I graduated from Campbell Hall in 1968. Since many of the people (especially the guys!) went on to different schools from there, I’d naturally assumed a reunion would be celebrated in 1988. Not so. Later, when the Internet came into being and I accessed their website, I learned that we’re all supposed to celebrate in the year of our high school graduation. Dumb me.

So, did I go in 1991? Not on your life. I still haven’t seen any of those people again.

And I never got invited to another Old Timers’ Game.