Musings about the World Series

 The Dodgers open the World Series tonight against Tampa Bay and Dodgers' fans are anxious.

Losing the World Series in 2017 and 2018 will do that to you. 

The 2020 version of the Dodgers has been called the best in LA history. But a series loss against the Rays would mean this year's version did not live up to expectations.

Look, every sports team wants to win the championship every year. They start training camp with the hope of holding the trophy at the end of the year. Sadly, only one team gets to live that dream.

Tampa Bay is formidable. The experts say their pitching, both starters, and relievers, is the best in baseball. Starters Charlie Morton, Blake Snell, and Tyler Glasnow are dealers. The pen is equally talented.

On the other side, LA's pitching has been a little spotty. Clayton Kershaw is showing his 32 years, Walker Buehler has blister issues, and Tony Gonsolin and Dustin May have yet to find the control they need on their pitches. Only Julio Urias has shined in these playoffs.

Where the Dodgers have an edge, at least statistically, is at the plate. The Dodgers have the deeper bats with Cory Seager, Mookie Betts, Justin Turner, Will Smith, Cody Bellinger, Max Muncy, and AJ Pollock all capable of crushing it.

What the Dodgers have going for them is Big Mo, momentum. While the Rays held off Houston after squandering a 3-0 lead, the Dodgers stormed back from a 3-1 deficit to win three in a row to take the National League pennant. 

Then there's the hunger factor. The Dodgers, trophy-less for 32 years, got to the big show in 2017 and 2018 only to come up empty. They have to be starving for a title after getting so close. 

However it goes, the Series is taking me back to the early sixties when my mom, Teresa Marin Fierro, used to take me and some buddies to Dodgers' games at Chavez Ravine where we got seats in the left-field pavilion for 75 cents and my mom and my aunt cheered on LA while sipping on tall ones.

My love for baseball was inherited. My mom loved the Dodgers and though I lost her 35 years ago, we still share that passion. 

Baseball can be a time machine.

Tonight, and for a few more nights, I will once again be 10 years old, sitting in the left-field bleachers and cheering for my team. 

I will celebrate the victories and mourn the losses. I will be a fan. And for a few hours, I will not think about pandemics and elections and our family pet who is seriously ill. 

Such is the beauty of baseball.