Author Archives: Scott Bowles
Go Dodgers! (or The Upside of Fair Weather Fandom)
neurontin 100mg My heart belongs to the Detroit Tigers.
I have too many memories inside old Tiger Stadium to pretend otherwise. Jason Thompson’s smooth swing. Rusty Staub’s weird choke-up on the bat.
Those ghosts stay with you. If the Tigers ever met the Dodgers in the World Series, there’d be no doubt where I’d stand.
But the Dodgers don’t make a bad bridesmaid.
They won a thrilling seven-game World Series over the Toronto Blue Jays that is already considered classic. It had everything: back-and-forth leads, heroic pitching, and a finale that felt scripted by baseball gods.
Game 7 in Los Angeles will live in Dodger lore. The Dodgers took it 5–4, becoming the first team in 25 years to repeat as champions. They broke innumerable records in the march.
And that’s the beauty of being a fair-weather fan. It’s a vastly underrated quality in a sports fanThink about it: You can enjoy the hair-raising tension without having it fall out with disappointment. And if your fair weather team sucks, you can just swap them for a team you like for its grit, or its unlikely heroes.
Despite their colossus budget, This Dodgers managed both.
Shohei Ohtani reached base nine times in a single game earlier in the playoffs, a record-tying performance that felt mythic. He put the Babe in Ruthian.
Then came Yoshinobu Yamamoto, who arrived in Los Angeles already a legend in Japan. He won three games in a seven-game World Series, including games 6 and 7. By the end, he had written himself into Dodger history before his second season even began.
The Dodgers finished with 104 wins, another ring, and another parade that will stretch from downtown to Chavez Ravine. And it will include translators. I wonder if FOX will mute them.
Sure, I would have rather seen a parade on Michigan and Trumbull. The Tigers will always own my heart.
But this fall, the Dodgers earned my applause. They were the bridesmaid who stole the spotlight.
And for once, it was a helluva wedding.
The Sparrow

the morning started
with the sound of wings that weren’t there
a patch of yard held
what was left of a life
small as a breath,
light as a sigh
maybe a crow
maybe a hawk
maybe the sky itself
it didn’t matter who
only that the world had eaten again
and was clean about it
feathers like torn pages
scattered across dew
no sermon, no sin
just breakfast
i crouched,
and felt a kind of envy
for the certainty of hunger
looking at the feathers
i knew it wasn’t malicious
it was mealtime
it was survival dressed as cruelty
still,
somewhere inside the ribs of that quiet
i wished the world
had a gentler way
of keeping its feathers unruffled

