As if right out of the pages of "Magical Marketing," a young man arrived at my front door two weeks ago to offer me a discount package of Dodger tickets just moments before the Blue Crew was to dispose of the hated San Francisco Giants for their fifth win in seven games to start the season.

I mean, talk about timing. I watch Jeff Kent and Milton Bradley hit back-to-back home runs, and seconds later, this guy is at my door asking me whether I’m committed to supporting the team. How could I possibly say no?

So I shelled out the 50 clams and he handed over a set of buy-one-get-one-free coupons and two free tickets to any game of my choice—minus the 24 black-out dates, of course. Yeah, I probably should have used that money for a graduation gift for my girlfriend, but she’ll never know.

So this past Monday, against my better judgment and my better sense of fiscal responsibility, I took off from work a couple hours early to take in my first Dodger game of the season. And rather than feel guilty about taking the evening off from my duties at The Acorn, I figured I might as well get a column out of the experience. Here’s what I came up with:

My date with the Dodgers:

3 p.m.: Scheduled departure time. I want to leave early because I need to claim my free seat before the game at the box office and I’m looking to get the most bang for my buck. Only I waste 15 minutes looking for my old mitt and then I find out my car is sorely in need of gas. Waste five more minutes at the gas station trying to figure out which brand of beef jerky is most appropriate for the car ride.

3:30 p.m.: Depart Agoura Hills. Cruise down the 101 with unexpected velocity until I run into some backup near Woodland Hills caused by a two-car fender bender in the fast lane. As I drive by the scene of the accident at 2 mph I wonder aloud (and with the window down) why people can’t get into these kinds of collisions at 2 a.m.?

4 p.m.: Still caught in traffic. Hear three ads for mortgage loans, one for a mattress superstore and one for some product called Preparation H On-the-Go Pads while listening to sports talk radio. Wonder to myself when they’re going to get TiVo for this medium.

4:15 p.m.: Arrive outside of Dodger Stadium nearly three hours before the first pitch and rendezvous with a friend. Because the stadium doesn’t open for another hour, we find a nearby park to waste some time and fraternize with fellow Dodger faithful. I listen while some guy in a Paul Lo Duca jersey tries to explain to me the correct pronunciation of Yhency Brazoban, but my mind wanders to a nearby grill. I convince a guy to give me one of his burgers if I’ll help him get into the game. My friend and I sneak away toward the stadium just minutes later.

5:15 p.m.: Arrive at ticket office. Turns out the elderly guy working the computer has a habit of finger pecking (striking every key with his right index finger) and lacks proper use of the home row. Rather than try to correct his form I patiently wait for my free ticket. My friend and I discuss who could type more words-per-minute back in high school. I win with 74.

5:45 p.m.: Arrive in seat along third-base line with Dodger Dog in hand. The Arizona Diamondbacks are taking batting practice and one of their players hits a screamer down the line that ricochets off a seat and lands directly in my row. A bit shaken and still gripping a foot-long hot dog, I sprint down the aisle to beat a hoard of oncoming fans.

Just seconds before I’m in reaching distance the ball turns back toward me and heads straight toward my flip-flop covered feet. I clumsily kick the ball, ala Bill Buckner, to a nearby senior citizen and what I expected was his granddaughter. Guess I couldn’t feel too bad, although I still felt rather stupid and couldn’t help but I curse the fact that I wasn’t able to find that glove. Turned out to be my first fielding error since high school.

6:45 p.m.: Decide there’s just enough time to retrieve one more pre-game beverage before I get too comfortable. When I ask where I can find an ATM one of the vendors directs me to go right outside the stadium. After I get my money a security guard threatens to not let me back in the game because I didn’t get a stamp on my hand when I left.

"What is this, a junior high dance?’ I ask.

He doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor, but he senses my panic and decides to let me in anyway. Crisis averted.

7:10 p.m.: Derek Lowe tosses his first pitch to the Diamondbacks’ Craig Counsell. I’m still waiting in line for that beverage. By the time I get to my seat, Counsell is on second and Alex Cintron is rounding first with a single. A Troy Glaus double and a Shawn Green single later and it’s Arizona 3, L.A. 0. Not a great start, but the guy from Lakewood with three kids sitting next to me assures me that the Dodgers are going to have a big night at the plate. I add in the fact that the Dodgers are 5-1 in games where I am in attendance. He chuckles out of consideration and returns his attention quickly to the play on the field.

8 p.m: Despite efforts to keep my concentration on the game at hand, I get distracted by one of those plastic beach balls that always get passed through the stands at Dodger games. Just as I rise out of my seat to give that multi-colored ball one strong swat for good measure, J.D. Drew sends a Javier Vasquez pitch over the fence for a home run. I turn around just in time to see him round second and curse the man who brought the beach ball.

9 p.m.: Fans break out in a frenzy after Jeff Kent’s seventh-inning home run pulls the score to within one at 3-2. My friend and I slap high-fives with everyone around us though we’ve never exchanged names or even greetings. In classic fan form, the guy next to me claims to have called the shot. Too bad he couldn’t call Jose Valentin’s inning-ending strikeout two plays later. Way to go Sylvia Brown.

9:33 p.m.: The game ends 4-2 in favor of the D’Backs on a Bradley fly ball to left field. Frustrated and exhausted, I muster up enough energy to sprint to my car and beat out most of the traffic. I guess there was one victory on this night.

I enjoy my beef jerky on the way back and reflect on what had been a pleasant afternoon off.