Tag Archives: Dodgers

Spice of Life is Tastiest Ingredient

by Woody

The key ingredient in any dish, from fancy cordon bleu to backyard barbecue, that makes taste buds dance the happiest and sing the loudest is not a mystery spice, rare herb, or secret sauce, but rather, simply, the company with whom you eat.

Indeed, enjoyed with the right person or gathering, a nothing-special hot dog surpasses a perfectly prepared meal in a restaurant gastronomique in Paris.

Which is why, although I am not a regular chowhound of hot dogs, one of my all-time favorite meals was a stadium frankfurter. Actually, about 25 of my favorite meals, that being the ballpark number of Ohio State football games I went to during my elementary days alongside my two older brothers and dad.

The sweetest condiment for a hot dog is the joy of special company.

Frankly speaking, in a blind taste test those ol’ Horseshoe Stadium hot dogs would probably have ranked dead last. Eating them blindfolded would have actually been a good idea because, unlike the Buckeyes’ scarlet-and-grey home jerseys, the wieners, plucked from pots of murky water that looked less potable than a swamp, were grey only.

Add in stale buns, depleted condiment stations, and a Sir Edmund Hillary-like climb back to our upper-deck seats, by which time the wieners were cold dogs, and you had prison-like grub…

…unless you were sandwiched between your two big brothers in the bleachers, in the spring of your life, in glorious Midwestern autumn, in which case it became the standard against which I still measure all hot dogs.

Another of my most memorable hot dogs also involves my oldest brother. It was in New York City, long ago, from a vendor cart. Strolling away, my brother took his first bite and – Splat! – the entire web of sauerkraut fell onto the sidewalk that was grosser than the witch’s brew-like hot dog water in Ohio Stadium.

Rather than turn on his heels and ask the vendor for a replacement bale of sauerkraut or, perish the thought, eat the hot dog naked – let me rephrase that; eat a naked hot dog – he invoked the five-second rule; scooped up the sauerkraut, now flavored with a sullied sundry of sidewalk spices; and gobbled it up with the gusto of Joey Chestnut in Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Ever since, every hot dog I’ve eaten always tastes a little better knowing it isn’t topped with sidewalk-seasoned sauerkraut.

Based on pedigree, it’s hard to top a Dodger Dog. Fittingly, one of my most savored hot dogs was in the Dodger Stadium press box dining room, during a seventh-inning stretch, when my writing idol Jim Murray joined me for a quick chew and chat.

All this thinking about hot dogs was stirred this Halloween when I had another fantastic frank that joined my grand slams of memorable meals. Just as candy tastes better when it’s earned by trick-or-treating on foot, it is similarly true for hot dogs I can now attest.

In addition to sweets for kids, for the past 30-plus years Scott, a friend of a friend, has given out hot-off-the-charcoal-grill chili dogs, complete with all the fixings – sans, thankfully, sidewalk sauerkraut – to adults. Youngsters are welcome to both treats, adding up to few hundred hot dogs served annually.

Scott’s enthusiasm and charisma, assisted by a fun giant wiener hat and aided further by free margaritas and full-size beers, make his hot dogs unforgettably delicious and worth the trip across town.

To be perfectly frank, these neighborhood-famous chili dogs, with the fellowship of my brother-of-a-friend Ken added in, were darn near the equal in my memory to those battleship-grey cold stadium hot dogs of long ago.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Caught in a Catch-22 Situation

by Woody

Johnny Carson, doing his Carnac the Magnificent character on “The Tonight Show” many years ago, memorably gave the clairvoyant answer, “Catch-22.” He then opened the sealed envelope and read aloud the question within: “What would the Dodgers do if hit 100 pop flies?”

The joke, hilarious then, would land flat this season with The Boys In Blue having just become only the eighth team in major league history to win 100 games in three consecutive seasons. Moreover, excising the 2020 season that was shortened by COVID-19, the Dodgers have now reached triple-digit wins in their last four full seasons.

Anyway, I found myself in a funny (in hindsight) Catch-22 situation the other day that eventually turned me Dodger Blue in the face. It was regarding a certificate of deposit that had just matured. Despite being with an online bank, to keep the CD from automatically rolling over I was required to make my withdrawal by phone.

After an eternity in the call queue listening to the musical equivalent of Ambien, a representative finally asked for my full name and account number, then had a few more questions.

“Mr. Woodburn, for security purposes, what’s your date of birth? The last four digits of your social security number? Mother’s maiden name?

He was just beginning.

“Mr. Woodburn, what’s your mother’s mother’s sister-in-law’s mother’s maiden name?”

Me: “Ummm…”

Rep: “Lets try a different question, Mr. Woodbum. Who was the first concert you attended?”

Me: “Yes, The Who.”

Rep: “Very clever, Mr. Woodbury. What was the model of your first car and which of the nine photo squares is it touching?”

Me: “I’m talking to you on the phone, not looking at a computer screen.”

Rep: “Well then, tell me: Are you a robot, Mr. Woodstone?”

Me: “No.”

Rep: “A nonstop train leaves Chicago for Philadelphia traveling 60 mph. Another train leaves Philadelphia heading to Chicago at 40 mph. In what city will they pass each other?

Me: “I have no idea.”

Rep: “Perfect, Mr. Woodberry. If you’d gotten that right I’d know you were an AI bot.”

(The remainder of the transcript is cross-my-heart true)

Me: “Can I please cash out my CD?”

Rep: “Not yet, Mr. Woodburn. One final question. I need to send you a text with a security code – is blah-blah-blah your phone number?”

Me: “No, that’s a landline we no longer have. My cell number is blah-blah-blah.”

Rep: “That’s not the number we have listed.”

Me: “I understand that, so please change it to…”

Rep: “As I said, Mr. Woodsworth, I can’t do that without texting you the security code.”

Me: “But you can’t text it to a landline. Use this number I’m calling your from.”

Rep: “Mr. Woodshed, I can only send a text to the number we have on file.”

Me: “How about you email the code to me.”

Rep: “I’m not authorized to do that.”

Me (frustration rising like a home run off Mookie Betts’ bat): “Will you please transfer me to your supervisor?”

Rep: “It’s been a pleasure to help you today, Mr. Woodpile. I’ll transfer you right now…”

The line went dead.

A second phone call was placed, summer turned to autumn while I was on hold, and when my at-bat finally came I swung for the fences: “I’d like to update my phone number.”

Rep: “No problem, Mr. Woodburn.”

Me (happy dancing while the change is successfully made): “Since I have you here, I’d like to cash out my CD.”

Rep: “Of course, Mr. Woodchuck. For security reasons, if two nonstop trains leave Los Angeles and New York…”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Golden Memories of Golden Voice

by Woody

As with every Dodgers fan – no, every baseball fan no matter their team affiliation – news of Vin Scully’s death at age 94 on Tuesday gripped my heart and squeezed my wife’s tear ducts. A moment later, we smiled and laughed.

Yes, laughter among the sorrow because we both reached back to the same memory two decades past when the home phone rang and my wife answered and the velvety voice on the other end of the line – “Hello, this is…” – was unmistakable even before the caller identified himself.

Lisa, unaware I had been trying to set up an interview, didn’t believe here ears. “You aren’t Vin Scully,” she said after he gave his name, amused at one of my friends’ lame jokes…

…and hung up.

The phone quickly rang again, The Golden Voice once again asked for me, and Lisa instantly realized her embarrassing mistake.

A few days later, I didn’t interview Scully so much as I pulled up a chair in his Dodger Stadium radio booth long before that night’s game and listened to his singular storytelling. I had hoped for maybe 15 minutes of his time, but he graciously enchanted me for an hour.

About a year later we crossed paths at a gala dinner honoring another Southland legend, Jim Murray, washing our hands in the restroom. Remarkably, Scully greeted me by name, but the greater display of his peerless people skills was his insistence I come meet his wife. In turn, I introduced him to Lisa – albeit without mentioning the phone hang up.

Scully’s geniality in person was as authentic as it was on the airwaves.

“I enjoy people, so I don’t mind autograph requests at all,” he told me. “Why not sign? They’re paying me a compliment by asking.”

And what were some of the stranger “compliments”?

“I’ve signed a lot of baseballs, as you can imagine,” he shared. “But also golf balls and even a hockey puck, which is sort of strange. Paper napkins seem popular, even dirty napkins – I think it’s all they have on hand. I don’t expect them to keep it, but I sign anyway because hopefully they will keep the moment.”

How many magical moments did Vin – didn’t he make us all feel like we knew him on a first-name basis? – give us during his 67 years behind the Dodgers’ microphone? Count the stars in the sky and you might have the answer.

Here is another of my favorite personal moments that I keep wrapped in red velvet. Our interview concluded, I asked The Greatest Sports Broadcaster Ever if he would put me in the batter’s box in Dodger Stadium. Oh, how I wish I had recorded his imaginary call of my one-and-only Major League at-bat.

In my mind’s ear, nonetheless, I can hear it still as he announced me digging in at the plate to face the great fireballer, Bob Gibson, who promptly brushed me back with the first pitch: “Gibson says, ‘Welcome to the Big Leagues, Mr. Woodburn,’ ” said Scully.

Next pitch, I swung at a fastball after it was already in the catcher’s mitt, yet somehow “the tall, lanky kid from Ventura” – for I was magically no longer 40 years old – fouled off a couple pitches and worked the count full.

Scully ended my fantasy with a wink, not a home run. Like “Casey at the Bat”, mighty Woody struck out. It was perfect.

Perfect, too, was Scully’s succinct answer when asked how he would want God to greet him in heaven: “Well done.”

Well done, Vincent Edward Scully. Well done, indeed.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

“Hello, this is Vin Scully . . .”

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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End of an Era Stirs Dodger Blues

            The phone rang and my wife answered and the voice on he other end of the line was unmistakable even before the caller identified himself.

“Hello, this is . . .”

Vin Scully was returning my call. However, I had not mentioned to my wife that I was trying to set up an interview and since it is not every day that The Voice of the Dodgers phones home, my wife was caught off guard.1scully

“You aren’t Vin Scully,” she said, amused, thinking it was one of my friends pulling a prank.

And she hung up.

The phone rang again, again the golden voice asked for me, and this time my wife realized her embarrassing mistake.

A few days later, I didn’t interview Scully so much as I pulled up a chair in the Dodger Stadium press box and listened, enchanted, to his storytelling. At one point, he mentioned having just read “The Professor and the Madman” about how the Oxford English Dictionary was compiled by two men – one turning out to be an insane murderer. It struck me, as Scully spun the synopsis, that he could read a random page from the dictionary and make it a listening pleasure on the radio.

About a year after formally meeting Scully we crossed paths a second time at a gala dinner – washing hands in the restroom. Remarkably, he remembered my name, but the greater display of his peerless people skills was his insistence I come meet his wife.

I have been reading The Star for the better part of four decades, writing in its pages for more than a quarter century, and in all this time I cannot recall a more terrific on-going feature, “Peanuts” included, than the daily “Visions from Vin” compiled by Jim Carlisle chronicling Scully’s life and career. The sports-section serial came about because, after being the rivet holding the franchise together for the past 67 seasons, Scully is hanging up his mic following the Dodgers’ regular-season finale in two weeks.

While the gems Carlisle has uncovered from various books, magazines and newspaper interviews have been enjoyable, even more so have been the personal encounters with “Vin” shared by local readers. The common denominator of their remembrances is this: the next time Scully is rude to someone will also be the very first time.

Scully’s friendliness is authentic.

“I enjoy people, so I don’t mind autograph requests at all,” Scully told me. “Why not sign? They’re paying me a compliment by asking.”

And what are some of the stranger “compliments”?

“I’ve signed a lot of baseballs, as you can imagine,” he answered. “But also golf balls and even a hockey puck, which is sort of strange. Paper napkins seem popular, even dirty napkins – I think it’s all they have on hand. I don’t expect them to keep it, but I sign anyway because hopefully they will keep the moment.”

As personal tale after tale shared in “Visions from Vin” attest, these moments are indeed kept, safely wrapped in red velvet in each person’s mind.

One more red-velvet moment. Our interview concluded, I asked Scully if he would put me at the plate in Dodger Stadium. Pat Riley once diagramed for me the Lakers’ “Fist Up” play to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and my goodness how I wish I had kept that doodled napkin. Even more, however, I wish I had recorded Scully’s imaginary calling of my Major League at-bat against the great fireball-throwing Bob Gibson.

No matter, for I can hear it in my mind’s ears yet, working the count full before Scully ended my fantasy with a wink, so to speak: mighty Woody struck out. It was perfect.

To borrow from Ernest Thayer’s famous poem, “Casey at the Bat,” come game’s end on Oct. 2, the tale will be this: “Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout . . .”

. . . but there is no joy in Dodgerville, mighty Vinny has called his final out.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

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