This time, the pavilion seats were surprisingly good. Far away, yes, but with a clean panoramic view of the whole game. From out there, you can actually see baseball unfold. You see the defensive shifts, the outfielders cheating toward the line, the way a rally develops before the television cameras even notice it. And every home run looks like it’s headed directly toward your forehead, which adds a nice survival element to the evening.
But the pavilion has its own ecosystem.
Around the second or third inning, I got up to grab something and found the corridor blocked by a medical emergency. Gurney. Paramedics. Security guards creating a human wall. It was handled professionally, though the sight of emergency personnel weaving through a stadium crowd always carries a strange combination of seriousness and inconvenience. Everyone slows down just enough to stare while pretending not to stare.
The pavilion concourse itself is fascinating anthropology. There are these huge aisleways dividing sections, and near the entrances from the main concourse are clusters of people who appear to have purchased tickets primarily so they could stand in circles drinking beer and discussing matters entirely unrelated to baseball.
At any given moment there were probably thirty or forty people gathered there, talking loudly, laughing, occasionally glancing toward the field as if surprised to discover a game was in progress. Navigating through them became a tactical exercise. I eventually adopted the safer strategy of climbing back up the stairs, walking around the crowd, and descending again like some sort of baseball stadium mountain goat.
And then came the seventh inning.
Two security guards appeared near our section. They stood on the walkway, quietly talking into radios while looking toward someone several rows below. Then two more arrived. Then four more. Suddenly there were seventeen security personnel converging on one man like the Dodgers were attempting a bullpen game with ushers.
They finally moved in, took the guy into custody, and put him in handcuffs. Right on cue, two LAPD officers showed up, including a sergeant with the old-school rocker chevrons on his sleeve—the kind of detail only former cops and people who watch too many crime shows notice.
But the true beauty of the moment was the crowd reaction.
As security escorted the man out, somewhere in the pavilion one brave soul began singing:
“Na na na na…
Na na na na…
Hey hey hey… goodbye…”
And suddenly four hundred people joined in.
The entire pavilion serenaded this poor guy as he was marched up the stairs in handcuffs. It was equal parts cruel, hilarious, and oddly harmonious. For one shining moment, the pavilion became a drunken community choir.
Honestly, it was kind of magnificent.
The crowd out there definitely skews younger. Not necessarily rowdier—Dodger Stadium has always had its moments—but younger, louder, and more social. Yet nobody blocked my view during the game, the wave originated near us several times, and the section itself never felt overcrowded.
And perhaps best of all, because attendance wasn’t packed, the trip home was easy.
The Dodger Stadium Express bus back to Union Station moved quickly, the late-night train ride was calm, and the entire public transit adventure took almost exactly the same amount of time as driving would have—except I didn’t have to fight traffic or pay forty-five dollars to park. Public transportation after a Dodger game feels slightly post-apocalyptic at 11:30 p.m., but efficient.
So yes, I’ll buy pavilion tickets again. Probably for one of the June day games.
Good sightlines. Better stories.
And apparently, free musical performances.
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