I took my oldest to the Dodgers vs. Giants game on Saturday. I hope it goes well! 2-1 victory! There is a lot of white and blue in the stands. What a fantastic way to represent the Bay Area!

Taking my oldest to the Dodgers vs. Giants game on Saturday was more than just a baseball outing — it was a moment I had been looking forward to for a long time, a chance to share a slice of tradition, rivalry, and memory-making with someone I care about deeply. There’s something about bringing a child to their first big rivalry game, especially one as storied and passionate as Dodgers vs. Giants. The tension in the air, the roar of the crowd, the colorful sea of fans waving caps and yelling chants — it’s something you feel in your chest before the game even begins.

From the moment we arrived at the stadium, it was clear the energy was different. There was a buzz outside the gates, and while there were plenty of Giants orange and black around, there was a lot of white and blue. A whole lot. Dodgers fans had shown up in force, their presence unmistakable, their voices loud, their pride on full display. It’s the kind of thing that could easily annoy a local fan base, but in a weird way, it gave the whole experience more weight — the feeling that the rivalry was alive, that it mattered, that this wasn’t just a regular season game but something closer to tribal.

And I wasn’t the only parent there with a kid in tow. All around us, families filed in with similar intentions — parents clutching hands, holding snacks, pointing out players, narrating the game before it even started. My oldest was wide-eyed, taking everything in with a quiet awe I recognized from my own childhood. Baseball stadiums have a unique magic — that sudden openness when you walk through the tunnel and the field appears in front of you, impossibly green, sunlit, perfect. It felt like stepping into a postcard. And for a brief second, time really did feel suspended.

We found our seats and settled in, surrounded by a cluster of mostly Dodgers fans — loud but respectful, surprisingly friendly. There were a few playful jabs exchanged with nearby Giants fans, but nothing mean-spirited. Everyone seemed to understand that we were all part of something bigger, that it was less about conflict and more about shared passion. My oldest leaned over at one point and asked, “Why are they cheering so loud if they’re the away team?” I smiled, and the only answer I could think of was, “Because this rivalry runs deep. And their team is playing well.”

The game itself unfolded with all the tension you’d want in a 2-1 contest. Every pitch felt important. Every at-bat had weight. Both teams played sharp, clean baseball — tough defense, strong pitching, just enough action to keep you glued to every inning. The Dodgers struck first, taking an early lead, and I could feel the tension in the stadium build. Giants fans got quiet, while the blue-clad contingent around us cheered louder. It’s hard to explain the feeling when you’re outnumbered in your own house. But weirdly, it seemed to galvanize some of the home fans. There was a little extra fire in their chants, a little more bite in their heckles. It was rivalry baseball in its purest form.

The Giants answered back in the middle innings, tying it 1-1, and for a moment, the balance of sound shifted. Our section got loud again, fans rising to their feet, hopeful. My kid was jumping up and down, unsure if it was okay to get that excited, but I encouraged it. That’s part of the fun. Letting yourself get swept up in it, cheering wildly, believing — even if just for a few innings — that the momentum had swung and something special might happen.

But the Dodgers weren’t done. Late in the game, they scraped another run across. Not a towering home run or a dramatic triple, but the kind of scrappy, grind-it-out run that championship-caliber teams know how to generate. And just like that, it was 2-1. The game suddenly became about survival for the Giants — trying to mount one more rally, trying to turn tension into triumph.

And yet, it didn’t come. The Dodgers’ bullpen held firm. The crowd roared with every strike, every groundout, every high fastball that blew past a Giants bat. There were moments where the game could have turned, near-misses and deep fly balls that made everyone gasp, but they didn’t fall. The final out came and the Dodgers fans around us exploded — standing, arms raised, high-fiving each other, singing songs and chanting “Let’s go Dodgers” with renewed gusto.

I’ll admit, it stung a little. You never want to see your team lose, especially not at home, especially not to them. But even as the disappointment settled in, I looked over at my oldest — flushed, sweaty, still smiling — and knew the day had been a success. This wasn’t just about winning or losing. This was about being there, together, soaking it all in. About passing on a love of the game, of the experience, of everything that makes baseball magical.

There’s something truly powerful about live sports, especially in the middle of a summer evening when the sun sets behind the stands and the air cools just enough to remind you that you’ve been outside for hours. And there’s something particularly poignant about rivalry games — not because of the hatred or animosity, but because of the passion and history and connection. Because fans care enough to travel, to chant, to wear their colors loud and proud in enemy territory. Because it matters.

As we walked out of the stadium, still surrounded by white and blue, I found myself strangely appreciative. Dodgers fans had come up to the Bay in big numbers, and while it’s tempting to feel territorial or defensive, I couldn’t help but respect it. They care just as much as we do. And that, in a weird way, elevates the whole thing. There’s no rivalry if only one side shows up. You need the contrast, the push and pull, the tension in the air that makes every game feel like a playoff battle, even in July.

We talked about the game on the way home — about what we liked, what could’ve gone differently, who we thought played best. My kid asked thoughtful questions, repeated the name of the Dodgers closer who shut things down, even mimicked one of the big swings from earlier in the game. It was clear they weren’t just passively watching — they were absorbing it. The crowd, the strategy, the stakes. And that, more than anything, made me happy.

The truth is, rivalry games are often where fandom really takes root. You remember the moments more clearly — the sting of a tough loss, the ecstasy of a walk-off win, the chants that echo long after the final out. And when you’re a kid, those are the games you remember. You might forget a sleepy Tuesday night blowout, but you remember the time the Dodgers came to town and the stadium felt like it was holding its breath all night.

So yes, it ended in a 2-1 loss. But in another, more important way, it was a win. A win for memories. A win for tradition. A win for connection. We got to witness high-stakes baseball in one of the most iconic rivalries in the sport. We got to yell and cheer and groan and laugh. We got to be part of something bigger than ourselves — a crowd, a culture, a moment.

I can still hear the crack of the bat, the murmur of the crowd between pitches, the way the entire stadium stood up for the final inning. I can still feel the warmth of the sun as it dipped behind the stadium, the buzz of excitement that never quite left. And I can still see my oldest’s eyes wide with wonder, asking if we could come back again sometime.