That time I threw out the first pitch at Dodger Stadium? It gets a spot here because it bumps the everyday ways I’d longed to be accepted as a kid into the magical ways I’ve been embraced as an artist and performer.
Also, it’s pretty fucking cool.
It is April 2015. The Southern California sun is shining. The soft, sweet blue of the late afternoon sky sets off the distinctive Dodger blue of my cap—of the caps all around. I play a mini-set on the Dodger dugout before the opening pitch ceremony, to a half-empty stadium. Just a couple songs, using the stadium sound system. People are into it. A lot of the players, they’re into it. (Some of them can move, man!) It’s not something you expect to see or hear when you head out to the ballpark, and I’m digging that aspect, reminds me of those pop-up, surprise-type sets we used to play back in high school.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve been to Dodger Stadium to see a ball game, but when you live in Newport Beach, when you buy into the SoCal vibe and try to move around like you belong, the Dodgers are a big part of that. They’re in the air and all around. It’s baseball—America’s game, apple pie, hot dogs … all of that. I’ve always been big into sports, but as I got older I started paying attention to mixed martial arts, skateboarding, extreme sports where the athletes were pushing themselves beyond human boundaries. Doing all this crazy, wild shit—that’s more my thing. But underneath all of that, there is baseball, football, basketball … those traditional team sports that bring people together, knit one generation to the next, connect us to our childhoods.
So, yeah … the Dodgers, man. The fucking Dodgers. When I get the call inviting me to throw out the first pitch, I think my head will explode. Like, really. This is huge, unexpected … cool.
It’s an actual color, Dodger blue. There it is, listed in a database of colors, putting it out there that it’s a knowable, touchable, replicable thing, and I stand on that pitcher’s mound and close my eyes to the moment. People say it’s the loneliest spot in all of team sports, the pitcher’s mound, and I get what they mean by that. You’re standing out there, raised a couple feet higher than everyone else on the field. It falls to you to set the game in motion, to dictate what happens next. All eyes are on you.
The DJ booth is like that, I think. The loneliest spot in the fucking club, only it’s on you to whip the room into a fantastic frenzy, to put yourself out there in a way that lets you connect, collide, combust with all that energy.
And so beneath the bill of my cap I am shaded by the blue of loneliness, the blue of expectations, set against the blue of hope and possibility. I think of all the great Dodger legends who wore the team color with pride, with distinction. I think of those who stood on this very mound. Sandy Koufax. Don Drysdale. Fernando Valenzuela. I know enough of the game to know these names, to know what they mean.
I breathe the air they once breathed, kick the dirt they once kicked …
Someone thinks to hand me a cake—because, hey, that’s how I’m known. If you don’t know my music, if you live outside the reach of EDM or hardcore, maybe you know a little of my story, maybe you know my father’s story, maybe you know about the cakes. It’s the kind of thing, it seeps through the subculture and into the mainstream. And yet this isn’t one of those great sheet cakes I typically throw. No, it’s just a basic cupcake, tiny, topped with icing to make it look like a baseball, and I’m asked to stand on the mound and toss it to the catcher. It’s a little corny, yeah—but, hey, this is baseball. Our national pastime. Wouldn’t work if it wasn’t a little hokey, a little corny.
There are cameras all over. I go into my windup … and the cupcake falls short of the plate. I don’t even reach the catcher! I’m humiliated, a little bit. Disappointed, a little bit. Was hoping the thing would thwop and splatter against the catcher’s mitt, make a big ol’ mess—same way the cakes explode against the faces of my fans. But it just kinda lies there, a couple crumbs splattered in the dirt in front of the batter’s box.
Oh, well …
Next, I take an actual ball and go into my windup. I have rehearsed this motion in front of a mirror—not a lot, but some. I have taken a couple practice throws—not a lot, but some. I want to look the part. I used to play some, as a kid, so I figure it’ll be no big deal. But it is. A very big deal. There are all those cameras. There are all those eyes on me. There is all that history.
And … so … I choke.
I short-hop the plate on this toss, too. I am humiliated, disappointed again—not a lot, but some.
The catcher runs out to congratulate me and hand me the ball. There is polite applause. The announcer says something hokey and corny over the PA, and I am walked off the field and returned to my regular life.
Jump ahead to where I am now, three years later, pen in hand, setting these thoughts to paper, and I am still struck by the rich, deep blue of the Los Angeles Dodgers. You can’t move around LA without seeing ball caps here and there. Shit, you can’t move around the country without running into Dodger fans. I’ve been halfway around the world, performing in out-of-the-way places, and come across fans in Dodger gear—in Japan, lately, where the Dodgers are known for all the Asian players who wear the uniform. Each time I do, I’m taken back to this moment on the mound at Dodger Stadium. A moment that has come to signal my arrival. A moment that stands now as a reminder of how much work I still have to do if I mean to make my mark.