I get it. It’s only a game. The success or failure of millionaire players and billionaire team owners has no effect on our day-to-day lives. And yet, we spend more than we should on tickets, stadium food and drink, and caps and jerseys so we can share our devotion to a sports team. Our emotions rise and fall with every play. Our souls soar with a victory or are crushed by a defeat. In the process, we build a community that transcends backgrounds, beliefs, and generations over a shared love for a team.

I’ve talked a lot about my devotion to the Dodgers on my website. Of course, I was overjoyed when they won their eighth World Series by defeating the Yankees. But this victory meant more.

It was vindication of the Dodgers-Yankees World Series of my teenage years when Reggie “Mr. October” Jackson regularly crushed our hopes. We would then gather at the lunch tables at Reseda High School to commiserate. Decades later, those lunch table discussions with my friends about the Dodgers have moved to Facebook.

It was for my heartbroken mom whose boss gave out tickets to the 1978 World Series to everyone in the office, except her, even though everyone at her work knew she was the biggest Dodger fan there.

It was for the 1981 Dodgers-Yankees World Series I couldn’t pay attention to because I was taking care of her after her stroke while working at Carl’s Jr. and going to college full-time.

But this World Series was mostly for my son. During his time in Little League, he played for both the Dodgers and Yankees.

He lost interest in baseball after Little League, but he fell in love with it and the Dodgers during their 2020 World Series run. We started going to Dodger games together as we amassed a large bobblehead collection.

He recently broke his ankle and needed to go to the hospital last night for surgery. We watched Game 5 apart. He was in his hospital bed while my wife, his daughter, and I watched the game at home. We were still able to root for the Dodgers with him along with my daughter on family chat.

I get it. It’s only a game. But the bonds we make are real. They bring people together, inspire us through difficult times, and build memories and traditions we can carry with us. That’s why we call baseball in our family an heirloom. My grandfather gave it to my mom, my mom passed it on to my brother and me, I passed it along to my children, and my children will be able to pass it along to theirs.

Now, we can look forward to next spring when it starts over again.