The problem, of course, was that Dodger Stadium holds more than 50,000 people.
Knowing it was going to be crowded, I left earlier than usual. Not just a little earlier, but the kind of early that makes you feel slightly ridiculous. I figured I would beat the crowds, grab my bobblehead, and enjoy the game. Instead, when I arrived at Union Station, I found what looked less like a line for a baseball game and more like an evacuation route.
The line for the Dodger Stadium Express stretched far longer than I had expected. Every conversation around me revolved around exactly one topic: the bobblehead. Nobody was discussing the pitching matchup. Nobody was talking about the Colorado Rockies. Nobody seemed interested in baseball at all. The only thing anyone wanted to know was whether there would still be bobbleheads left when they reached the stadium.
After about twenty-five minutes of waiting, I finally boarded a bus. The mood immediately improved. We were moving. We were making progress. The coveted bobblehead seemed safely within reach.
Then we encountered four young men on rental electric scooters.
As the bus entered the dedicated bus lane on Sunset Boulevard, we found ourselves trapped behind them. Normally, scooters move quickly enough to stay out of the way. These scooters, however, appeared to be losing a battle with the incline. Their batteries were struggling so badly that the riders were pushing themselves along with one foot, just as if they were riding old-fashioned kick scooters.
The bus driver honked.
The scooter riders looked over their shoulders.
And laughed.
That was a mistake.
Someone on the bus yelled, "They're going to make us miss the bobbleheads!"
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The entire bus erupted into panic. Suddenly everyone was shouting. People stood up and pointed. Passengers began yelling at the scooter riders, despite the fact that there was virtually no chance the riders could hear anything over traffic. The bus driver joined the effort by leaning heavily on the horn. Before long, dozens of Dodgers fans were shouting, waving, and bouncing in their seats with such enthusiasm that the full-sized transit bus actually began rocking from side to side.
At that moment, the Dodger Stadium Express ceased being public transportation. It became a crusade.
The scooter riders continued their slow uphill journey while a bus full of increasingly desperate baseball fans imagined their bobbleheads disappearing one by one.
As we approached Vin Scully Way, a Los Angeles Police Department motorcycle officer sat near a side street. The scooter riders spotted him and immediately exited the bus lane, cutting down the side street and disappearing around him. As our bus rolled past, the officer looked toward us with an expression that suggested he was trying to determine whether a riot had broken out inside the vehicle. He could hear the shouting. He could see dozens of people pointing. What he probably could not understand was that the entire disturbance revolved around collectible plastic figurines.
Unfortunately, the bus could not make the turn onto Vin Scully Way as quickly as the scooters could. By the time we finally negotiated the turn and started up the hill toward the stadium, the four riders had vanished.
As we approached the gates, the tension reached its peak. Thousands of people were streaming toward the entrances. Everywhere I looked, people were predicting disaster.
"We missed the bobblehead."
"They're definitely gone."
"No way there are any left."
Fans spoke with the grim certainty usually reserved for natural disasters.
Then we reached the gates.
And everyone got a bobblehead.
The crisis had been entirely imaginary.
The scooter riders had not ruined anyone's evening. Civilization remained intact. The Yamamoto bobbleheads were still plentiful, and the collective panic instantly evaporated.
What followed was one of the most enjoyable games I have attended in a long time. Shohei Ohtani took the mound as the Dodgers' starting pitcher and also led off the game as their first batter. In a scene that felt almost scripted, Ohtani stepped to the plate for his first at-bat and launched a home run, electrifying the stadium and setting the tone for the evening. He pitched well, the Dodgers controlled the game, and they went on to defeat the Colorado Rockies.
By the end of the night, the only challenge remaining was getting home. The line for the return bus was long, and it took about forty-five minutes to board. Yet nobody seemed particularly bothered. The anxiety, the panic, and the imaginary bobblehead shortage were behind us. Fans compared their prizes, talked about Ohtani's performance, and relived the highlights of the game.
Looking back, it was a perfect evening of Dodger baseball. I got my bobblehead. I watched Ohtani pitch and hit a home run. The Dodgers beat the Rockies. And somewhere out there, four young men on rental scooters remain completely unaware that they briefly became the most hated people in Los Angeles.
For a few unforgettable minutes, an entire busload of Dodgers fans was convinced that those four riders stood between them and happiness. As it turned out, there were enough bobbleheads for everyone, the Dodgers won, and the only thing anyone really lost was their sense of perspective.
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