Who I Am

Everybody has a point in their life when they must make a decision, take a stand if you will. As a fan of sports, there comes a time to pick your team, to pledge your allegiance. No two fans are alike and everybody has their story. My name is Carter Beesley, and as a kid I had two loyalties. Growing up in Corona, California, I was spoiled by the presence of two great baseball franchises, the then Anaheim Angels, and of course the Los Angeles Dodgers. Baseball was my first love. I joined my first competitive league when I was three years old. Practices were held at the diamond adjacent to my elementary school. It was there that I first learned to outwardly love something. Squishing the bug, keep your eye on the ball, and playing with passion were the first lessons I learned and ironically the ones I remember the most vividly. It was on this dirt field that my journey started.

I played baseball every year as a kid. My first team was the Red Sox. Not knowing any better, I was just ecstatic to have a jersey and a number all my own. Looking back it seems silly as a Southern California boy to associate with any Boston sports franchise, but hey ignorance is bliss right? With each year came a new team. Yankees, Orioles, Giants (bleh), Angels, you name it. In the middle of that carousel of teams was the Dodgers. That year sticks out to me because it was the first and only season I played winter league ball. The rules and scheduling were a little different that year, and due to circumstances I missed all but two games. I was devastated and sad when at the conclusion of the season, I was still presented a trophy at the team party. Basically, I received an award just for showing up. Needless to say, the season was pretty forgettable, but what did remain was the feeling inside when I donned that shade of pantone 294 blue. There’s something different and something special about wearing blue with scripted “Dodgers” across your chest and an interlocking LA on your head. I didn’t recognize it then, but my love for The Boys in Blue was just beginning to blossom.

Sadly, that would be the only time I ever played for the Dodgers. The years came and went, the teams kept changing, but my love for the game kept growing. As a kid, I really was just excited to play and watch the most beautiful game in action. Geographically, Corona was a lot closer to Anaheim. My dad worked in Orange County, so tickets to watch the Halos were more readily available. I must say, my dad was the one who instilled the love for the game in me. He was my coach, my scout, and my biggest critic. I vividly remember pitching to him in the backyard. He would walk off the distance from the mound to the plate, turn around, squat, and proceed to call pitches for me to hit. I hated these sessions at the time. Being sure to teach me that there were consequences to my mistakes, every forth ball thrown outside the strike zone would earn me a lap around the block. I had to run. It only took me a few trips down the street to realize that balls were bad and walks were unacceptable. Looking back, the love for the game forged that relationship between my father and I. This led to many evening trips to Angel Stadium once dad came home from work. Names like Troy Glaus, Tim Salmon, and Francisco Rodriguez became household. These were the guys I first watched since becoming a coherent fan of baseball. They were more than just names. They were heroes. I remember watching the 2002 World Series intently. The Giants (again, bleh) boasted one of the best lineups in baseball, and oh yeah a guy named Barry Bonds was in the midst of an unprecedented stretch of four-straight MVPs. The series was an absolute thriller. I can still see in my mind, Darin Erstad, floating towards right-center field to secure the last out. Troy Percival recorded the save and Bengie Molina mauled him on the mound. These were experiences of a lifetime. The parade to honor the champs was held at Disneyland, my favorite place on earth. We went and even bought a commemorative ball. Humorously enough, I didn’t think baseball could get any better than it was in that moment, but as tends to happen in life, some things changed. Those beloved Anaheim Angels would soon become the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, and I would soon no longer live in sunny Southern California.

I was about ten years old when we made the move to Salt Lake City, Utah. Although I tried hard to carry my SoCal swagger with me to Utah, it was little harder to stay updated with what was going on back home. iPhones didn’t exist and it was hard for a kid to check ESPN every night. I still played baseball every year, but my fanhood struggled for a few years. Lost in all of this shuffle, were those feelings I once had when I was a Dodger. My love for the Angels has since faded, and I was looking for a more emotional tie to the game. I had almost forgotten about one Saturday afternoon in August during that Angles title run in 2002. That day, my grandpa (dad’s dad) had taken two cousins and me to Dodger Stadium. Gramps lived in La Verne, CA, so going downtown was a lot more feasible. I don’t remember a lot leading up to the game, but boy do I remember what happened once inside. I don’t just say this to be cliche or add fluff, but it was magical. I had been to Angle Stadium multiple times and felt the atmosphere, seen the fireworks erupt from the rock waterfall in center, and gazed upon the giant A in the parking lot, but this was different. i felt tradition and history on 1000 Vin Scully Avenue. My grandpa had been a long-time season ticket holder in LA and his seats were just rows behind the Dodger dugout. It was a day game, and the Atlanta Braves were in town. I didn’t know much about baseball yet, but I knew the Brave were good, and they had some nasty guys on their team. I had heard of Chipper Jones, of course, from playing Backyard Baseball for countless hours on my home computer. I didn’t realize how incredible he was yet, but I had a front row seat to watch him operate at third base. Oh, and he also had a double and went yard in the game. I knew many Dodger names, though. I had one a free Farmer John lunchbox at school that year which donned the pictures and names of the Dodger studs. Gagne, Green, Izturis, Beltre, and of course Dave Roberts, to name a few. It was a great game. The Dodgers won and Shawn Green threw a game ball right into my mitt as he entered the dugout after the seventh inning. The ball was stolen from my glove, but it’s the thought that counts. As a kid, I couldn’t forget those sentiments I had that day.

Those feelings ended up being critical as I began to enter into my teen years and yearned for a team to call my own. I thought about that day often and would stare at that same old lunchbox for hours, thinking about seeing those legends play. It made me think about why it felt so special. Why did I have these feelings for LA and not when I was in Anaheim? I soon realized that bleeding Dodger blue was a family tradition. My father grew up in the Pasadena area. His dad had season tickets for as long as he remembers. He would stay up late at night listening to the silky smooth voice of the legendary Vin Scully projecting from the radio. It felt so different to me because it was tradition. The Beesley family had long been Dodger fans. This was it for me. I knew where my allegiance had to be. I have to give credit to those Angels teams. That’s where I first learned love for the game and for the MLB, but I’ve since gone on to grow and perfect that love through the Dodgers. Since then, I haven’t looked back. It has been a little more challenging, considering Los Angeles is now more than 500 miles away, but my heart has never been closer to that team and that city. To me, this is what baseball is all about. It is referred to as “America’s pastime for a reason. The game itself is tradition, and in my family, Dodger baseball is tradition. That is who I am.

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