The Ballparks: Dodger Stadium—This Great Game (2024)

The City of Angels felt the need to give the Dodgers the best chunk of available real estate in the Southland, literally moving mountains to wedge a jewel of a ballpark into the sloping, sun-baked Earth amid palm trees and Pacific breezes. Within sight of Downtown and the towering San Gabriel Mountains in the distance, it’s a ballpark you can only love but cannot label. It’s not retro. It’s not modern. It’s just…perfect. It’s time for Dodger Stadium.

Some ballparks sell themselves well on TV. Viewers see Boston’s Fenway Park and decide they’ve got to make an appointment to see the Green Monster for themselves. Or the ivy at Chicago’s Wrigley Field. Or downtown Pittsburgh from PNC Park. But the Dodger Stadium experience, or the fantasy of it, doesn’t translate well on the screen for those who’ve never been there. Watching from a couch, barstool or bus seat, they might see a ballpark with bland symmetry and no quirks or special points of interest like a swimming pool or locomotive. Dodger Stadium, to them, may look like just another ballpark.

If that was the truth, then El Capitan is just another rock.

To understand Dodger Stadium, to absorb its simple perfections, you have to be there. And once you do, you’ll get the picture you don’t see on TV: The cascading parking lots that surround and practically cradle the venue, built not on a flat slab of land but, uniquely, into the side of a hill; the straightforward yet brilliantly realized seating structures, allowing pristine views of the action; and the rich atmosphere of pure baseball, free of faux frills and unnecessary kitsch which can turn any first-time spectator‘s blood into Dodger Blue.

Built over 50 years ago, Dodger Stadium has stood the test of time. It has never felt old or outdated, nor has it been known to be excessively modern or cutting edge. Some may give it a quick glimpse and call it ‘generic,’ while others prefer the term ‘classic.’ But let’s be honest; Dodger Stadium defies description. It is and always has been what it was meant to be, first, foremost and only: A ballpark. It doesn’t matter if the crowds—constantly among the largest in baseball—are coming from the Hollywood mansions, the burbs or the projects; they’re all there to see a ballgame, and nothing more. And because the Dodgers have constantly rewarded them with a winning performance, there’s little reason to seek a side attraction.

The Sad Ballad of Chavez Ravine.

The prescript to Dodger Stadium is mostly tied to the bitter and controversial tale of Chavez Ravine, the land it would be built upon.

A rugged hilly landscape that overlooks downtown Los Angeles, Chavez Ravine was for years home to a tight-knit, mostly poor Latino community. The area otherwise didn’t attract much attention; it was so relatively anonymous, the joke went around that those who’d never heard of Chavez Ravine thought it was the name of a Mexican strip tease dancer.

But as Los Angeles experienced explosive postwar growth, it was decided that Chavez Ravine needed a makeover. The area was originally to be upgraded as a public housing development named Elysian Park Heights—an ironic name, given that the first organized baseball game took place at Elysian Fields in New Jersey—but the project died under the weight of the Cold War and the anti-Soviet furor it engendered, as housing projects were increasingly considered “communistic.” Never mind that most of the existing neighborhood had already been bulldozed.

Under pressure from the Federal Government, Los Angeles politicians were told to develop the property for some sort of public use. Taking that cue, the city leaned in the direction of something recreational, with a proposed ballpark as the prime concept. The first interested suitor would not be the Dodgers—still figuring out their future in Brooklyn—but the Hollywood Stars of the Pacific Coast League. Bob Cobb, who owned the Stars and the local Brown Derby restaurants (yes, the ones actually shaped like a brown derby), idealized a 30,000-seat facility that according to The Sporting News would include “radiant floor heating, escalators, theater-type box seats…and a Farmer’s Market-type food concession.” That wasn’t all. Cobb also called for the property to include a golf course, indoor arena, tennis courts, swimming pools, a zoo and parking for 30,000 cars. How all of that would fit in less than 300 acres must have been an afterthought.

Soon after Cobb showed interest in Chavez Ravine, Walter O’Malley began showing interest in Los Angeles. The astute, calculating owner of the Dodgers, frustrated with his inability to build an ideal Brooklyn replacement for the aging and suffocating Ebbets Field, quietly began talks with Los Angeles officials to bring the team out west. City reps were feverish to help O’Malley out, and at one point gave him a helicopter ride around town to suggest possible sites for a new ballpark. When they pointed out Chavez Ravine, O’Malley salivated. It was everything Brooklyn could never offer: A plethora of land in a prime location, surrounded by a confluence of freeways built or being built to supply an endless automotive stream of fans from all points of a growing metropolis. For O’Malley, there was no second choice; Chavez Ravine was it.

When O’Malley traded his minor league territorial rights in Ft. Worth, Texas for those the Chicago Cubs owned in Los Angeles, he was halfway home. The L.A. City Council ensured the other half on October 7, 1957—just two weeks after the Dodgers played what would be their final game at Ebbets Field—by officially welcoming the Dodgers and giving them clearance to build a new ballpark at Chavez Ravine.

Acquiescing was Bob Cobb, who realized his Hollywood Stars would be no match for the incoming Dodgers and graciously stepped aside. Less acquiescing was L.A. citizens who opposed a Chavez Ravine ballpark and generated enough signatures to put the matter to a vote, not because of the money (O’Malley was going to finance Dodger Stadium from his own wallet) but because they claimed the land was preserved for public recreation—and the Dodgers, a private organization, didn’t count toward that. Far, far less acquiescing would be the remaining residents of Chavez Ravine, who were ready to aggressively hold onto to their properties come hell or high court eviction notices.

The campaign for and against Dodger Stadium was bitterly waged. Anti-ballpark foes complained that calling the measure Proposition B was unfair because “B” stood for ‘ballpark’ and thus constituted some sort of free publicity in favor of the measure. The pro-ballpark forces, sweating out a possible close outcome as the vote drew near, held a five-hour TV show—a telethon, really—in support of the measure, a program that included O’Malley and numerous Hollywood celebrities. On June 3, 1958, a record turnout of voters cast their votes; a bare majority of 51.8% gave their approval for Dodger Stadium to be built.

The fighting continued after the vote, with no less than six lawsuits filed in the wake of Proposition B’s passage. One made it to the California Supreme Court, where it lost by a 7-0 count. “First shutout of the season,” bragged O’Malley.

The more ominous battle continued to be fought in the trenches where the ballpark would be built. Eleven remaining Chavez Ravine homeowners defiantly held their ground, rejecting a combined $93,000 in carrot stick money from the city to scat; at one point, O’Malley offered to sweeten the pot five-fold, but still the residents held firm. One of them was literally dragged out of her home by County sheriffs while bulldozers, ready to begin demolishing, idled patiently nearby. Another pitched a tent on his destroyed home and vowed to stay, managing as long as he could because he was accompanied by a loaded shotgun. Another resistant family drew enough sympathy from outsiders, some of whom brought in supplies to help them stay. But even with the doors boarded and nailed shut, authorities barged in and dragged them out. The sob story, reaching nationwide proportions, soured when it was discovered that the family actually owned 11 other homes in the Los Angeles area.

The Taj O’Malley.

O’Malley’s initial vision for Dodger Stadium was a more focused variation on the recreational paradise Bob Cobb had dreamt up—and not too different from the “ballpark villages” being built in the 21stCentury. He conceptualized a mall, a plush restaurant atop the upper deck with views of both the ballgame and downtown L.A., novelty and souvenir shops, drive-thru ticket booths, an auto repair shop, car wash, a tram that would ferry fans from the farthest reaches of the parking lots, and a water fountain display behind center field that would feature dancing colored lights—a thought the Kansas City Royals would later tap into for Kauffman Stadium. All this Disneyana would be curtailed by the City Council, who told O’Malley to pump the imaginary brakes and leave Dodger Stadium as a place for baseball—and nothing more.

A solid architectural team for Dodger Stadium was officially led by New York-based “Captain” Emil Praeger, known for designing a concrete floating breakwater used to unload Allied supplies onto Omaha Beach following the D-Day invasion; he also blueprinted the Dodgers’ spring training facility in Florida and would eventually draw up Shea Stadium. Joining him was L.A. architect Edward Fickett, a prolific architect of homes—designing everything from affordable housing communities to lavish estates of the stars. While Praeger focused on the Big Picture, it was Fickett who gave Dodger Stadium its clothing through pastel-colored seats and interior embellishments, all decidedly Californian in style. O’Malley himself was a hands-on participant in the process, making many suggestions that would work its way into the final product, dubbed by some as The Taj O’Malley.

Whereas most ballparks are built upon a flat expense, Dodger Stadium would pose the challenge of being placed onto a more undulating terrain. Construction crews moved eight million cubic yards of earth in order to grade the hillside around the ballpark; the resulting topography consisted of a gentle slope that rose from a low point behind the bleachers to an apex 120 feet higher at the other end, allowing those parking behind home plate to literally walk upon the concourse of the upper deck without so much as climbing a handful of steps. Which leads to this important tip: When parking at Dodger Stadium, grab a spot that’s at the same elevation as the entry gate of your level. Otherwise, you might be in for a climb. For example: If you nab a space at field level near the bleachers and have a fifth-level ticket, you’ll end up hiking around the side of the ballpark in what seems an endless parade of steps. (The Dodgers give a little push at the end of the climb by providing an escalator for those potentially in need of oxygen once reaching the top.)

The architects would clearly and correctly do their homework when it came to Dodger Stadium’s seating arrangements. The field level would be closely topped by a loge section which, even today, remains the majors’ best second-level viewing—so low and close that at times you feel like you are seated in the first deck. A petite third level, hung under an expansive fourth deck, has since been converted into luxury boxes. Finally, a sky-high fifth level stretches from first to third base and sometimes provides the game’s most exciting moment for those seated there when a towering pop fly manages to rise above their eye level.

Behind the outfield walls, two sets of bleacher pavilions are each topped by a useless accordion roof that has the look of a postwar Grapefruit League grandstand and hardly reaches outward to provide shade to spectators. Nevertheless, it has evolved into one of Dodger Stadium’s more recognizable features.

Another early signature element of Dodger Stadium would be its sub-level dugout boxes, placed between the team dugouts behind home plate. O’Malley loved the idea ever since he saw something similar in Japan while the Dodgers toured there, and insisted it be included in the new ballpark.

One of the dugout boxes’ most memorable occupants was Mike Brito, a Cuban-born Dodger scout who for over 20 years showed up clad in his Panama hat, pastel-colored suit, sunglasses (day or night), cigars and radar gun to capture the speed of every pitch. Brito became a familiar ornament in the background of any Dodger Stadium telecast until the team removed the dugout seating in 1999, but he remained a heralded scout, landing the Dodgers top Latin American talent from Fernando Valenzuela to Yasiel Puig.

The Oval Stopgap.

As construction commenced at Dodger Stadium, the Los Angeles Dodgers had to seek temporary quarters elsewhere in town. The only existing ‘ballpark’ in the area, Wrigley Field—no, not that Wrigley Field, but the one in central L.A. built by Cubs owner Phil Wrigley in 1925 as he also owned the PCL’s Los Angeles Angels—was a non-starter for O’Malley because of its small (20,000) capacity. Seats, lots of seats, was what O’Malley sought in the interim to increase revenue and help pay off the new ballpark—and he found a whole lot of seats at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, which held over 90,000 people.

One problem: The Coliseum was an oval facility designed for football, soccer and track and field. Wedging a ballfield into its available playing space was bound to lead to a disproportionate experience unlike anything seen in baseball. There was give—it was a mere 250 feet to a 42-foot left-field screen that resembled a driving range net—and there was take, with right field opening out some 440 feet out to the far end zone. Not surprisingly, over 80% of the home runs hit at the Coliseum departed over the left-field netting. It didn’t matter to the fans, some of whom sat as far as 700 feet away from home plate in the cavernous facility; they welcomed major league baseball to the West Coast by clicking the Coliseum’s turnstiles eight million times over the Dodgers’ four years there. And it certainly didn’t matter to O’Malley, happily running all the way to the bank with baseball’s biggest profits of the day.

Besides the Coliseum lucre, O’Malley had to find additional revenue to help pay off the $20 million bill on Dodger Stadium. He found an investor in Union 76, an oil company which gave the Dodgers $11 million in return for exclusive ballpark and broadcast ad rights over a 10-year period. Thus, in stark contrast to the bulletin board-like advertising that saturated Ebbets Field’s outfield walls, the only plug to be found at Dodger Stadium was the orange Union 76 logo atop the two hexagonal outfield scoreboards, like a cherry atop a cake. The Dodgers even allowed Union 76 to plant a gas station in the parking lot, and even though it closed in the mid-2000s, the partnership between the Dodgers and 76 continues to this day.