Hey, it’s Timothy Nishimura. Did you make it this far? Awesome! Usually, there are a couple of columns of links here, followed by an About Us teaser, and social media links. In lieu of these things, I thought it might be nice to write a long, meandering block of copy similar to the vanity cards of Chuck Lorre. This is my third vanity card. When I was five, Kirk Gibson gave me the early birthday gift of a high fly ball to right field in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. During the NLCS against the Mets, I turned to my Dad and stated that I wanted to be a Dodgers fan. He offered me a VERY serious look that would underscore the importance of his next words. He said something to the effect of, “When you choose a team, that’s your team for life. Win or lose.” So, from that moment, I officially joined the ranks of those that bleed Dodger Blue. My Dad loved baseball, he always talked about how it was a game of strategy, a mental contest as much as it was physical. He was a tough SOB. He once caught a home run ball with his bare hands hit off the bat of Tony Gwynn. This was in the same right field pavilion that Kirk Gibson placed that instantly historic baseball. My father once refused to allow me to accept field level tickets to a ballgame because I had a Little League game the same Saturday. Our LL team (The Mets) were in the basement of the CNLL standings, and my participation would have likely made no difference. So it goes. My Dad would always drive to Dodger Stadium using the back route over by Elysian Park, never via Sunset. He was a walking Thomas Guide, that man. I was heartbroken like the kid that asked Shoeless Joe to say it wasn’t so when Mike Piazza was traded. My Dad chalked it up to the standard career trajectory for catchers, and had hopes we would quickly rebuild. The Dodgers were and still are leaders in talent development, after all. But sadly, the old man was wrong. That particular move was a mistake. Watching his post-Dodgers career and to see him enter the HOF as a Met was bittersweet. He’s still family, after all. Some time between the moment that I tried on the 1969 World Series ring belonging to former Miracle Met, Rod Gaspar (a kind gesture of Mr. Gaspar, it must be noted), and Julio Urias’ final strike delivered in 2020, I became transfixed on the idea that our beloved Dodgers should win at least once more for my father’s sake. Sadly, this did not happen as I had hoped, but I know he was next to me, night in and night out, on the living room couch, coaxing high fly balls over the outfield fences and inside the foul poles. RIP Pops.