The Ghost of Dodger Stadium

On this Labor Day, I am reminded of Steve Garvey’s story. Born in Tampa, Florida, and raised in a hardworking family, Garvey learned early that nothing was going to be handed to him. At Michigan State, he became a two-sport athlete, playing both baseball and football, before the Dodgers selected him in the first round of the 1968 draft. He reached the Dodgers in 1969 and spent his first few seasons trying to find a permanent home on the field, moving around the infield before finally settling in at first base. Once he did, hermano, something clicked. Garvey wasn’t flashy in the modern sense. He wasn’t built around swagger or spectacle. He was built around routine. Show up. Take your ground balls. Take your cuts. Play nine innings. Do it again mañana. That blue-collar rhythm became his identity.

By the mid-70s, Garvey had become one of the faces of the Dodgers. He won the 1974 National League MVP, made eight straight All-Star teams from 1974 through 1981, collected four Gold Gloves, and became the steady anchor of an infield that included Davey Lopes, Bill Russell, and Ron Cey. But the number that says the most about Garvey might be 1,207 consecutive games played. That streak wasn’t built on luck. It was built on preparation, toughness, and an almost stubborn belief that if the team had a game, he had a job to do. No excuses. No drama. Solo trabajo. He played through the bumps and bruises, through slumps, travel, pressure, and the grind of long summers, and he did it with that clean, compact swing and a professional presence that made him feel dependable before the first pitch was even thrown. Garvey eventually left Los Angeles for San Diego after the 1982 season, but by then his Dodger legacy was already carved into the dirt around first base.

Today, Garvey remains closely connected to baseball history and to the memories of the fans who watched those great Dodger teams of the 70s and early ’80s. His career finished with 2,599 hits, 272 home runs, 1,308 RBI, a .294 batting average, 10 All-Star selections, and four Gold Gloves, numbers that still keep his Hall of Fame case in conversation, but how he's not in is very frustrating. Numbers only tell part of it. The Ghost remembers the repetition, the same uniform, the same first-base bag, the same willingness to answer the bell. Steve Garvey played baseball like a man punching a time card with pride. And maybe that’s why, decades later, his name still feels connected to the working man. Porque some players are remembered for the one night they were spectacular. Garvey is remembered because for years, he simply kept showing up. 👻

On this Labor Day, the Ghost wants to tip his cap to all the hardworking fans who grind through long days, early mornings, late nights, time away from family, and everything life throws between the lines. Whether you’re building, teaching, driving, selling, serving, creating, raising a family, or simply doing what it takes to keep moving forward, today belongs to you. Gracias for the work you do, for the pride you carry, and for still finding time to cheer for Dodger Blue. The game may give us an escape, but it’s the people in the stands—and the work they do every day—that give it meaning. If I had the power, I would give all of you tickets to the game. Happy Labor Day from the Ghost of Dodger Stadium.👻

Certain names still seem to drift through the outfield when Dodger Stadium gets quiet.

Matt Kemp is one of them.

I finally put that story into a book.

Matt Kemp: Echoes in Center Field is now available on Amazon.

For those who remember 27 roaming center field, stealing bags, launching baseballs into the pavilion, and carrying a little piece of that era with him — this one is for you.

Some players leave. The echoes don’t. 👻

https://www.amazon.com/Matt-Kemp-Ghost-Dodger-Stadium-ebook/dp/B0HHK1TNJJ/ref=sr_1_1?crid=24O1NE8CX88YG&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.BeeG5qSwjp9xQfnh2D8DQhAPHbpqF1qPQGi1CL797P4VohZyh0VSnF849YqhZTzXmcMpRF4txez5pEaoGyX2ZGrhqrehK3oVnTB4nYfzqy3rs8TDLrs8w1U62qQkFE0vKP0ATs98fad958ZTXVxbLABtathIBQ4jWtJM5IMyNMb9hXcJOLnG1BmlZ-mPRZuKDBO4AKrdDEKt3tNOEjnlv7CGJWAifZN6ZrxBqCntEsc.YmlQYe2YpF5_z25YSRh0SZGk8KwlENXArdmOTYoGNVs&dib_tag=se&keywords=matt+kemp+book&qid=1788792329&sprefix=matt%2Caps%2C1810&sr=8-1

The late-afternoon sun slipped behind the third-base side as Mark took his place in the infield, that familiar dirt beneath his cleats, glove low, eyes fixed on home plate. The crowd was restless in that familiar Chavez Ravine way—half watching the pitcher, half waiting for something to happen. Then came the crack of the bat. A hard grounder shot through the middle, the kind that already looked like a base hit. Grudzielanek broke left, crossed behind second, reached down on the move and somehow came up with it clean. One step. Throw. Out. No celebration. No chest pounding. Just a quick toss of the ball back toward the mound and another quiet reset. Así trabajaba Grudzie.

While louder names grabbed the headlines around him, Mark Grudzielanek built his reputation one clean play, one hard single, one ordinary-looking moment at a time. And sometimes, compa, those are the players a ballpark remembers the longest. Born in Milwaukee and raised in El Paso, Texas, Grudzielanek was a three-sport athlete at J.M. Hanks High School, earning all-state honors in baseball and basketball while also playing football. The Mets drafted him out of high school in 1989, but he chose college instead, later attending Trinidad State Junior College before Montreal selected him in the 11th round of the 1991 draft. He reached the majors with the Expos in 1995, became an All-Star in 1996, and by the summer of 1998, the road brought him west to the Dodgers.

Grudzielanek became the kind of player managers love and highlight reels tend to forget. He could handle shortstop or second base, turn the double play, move a runner, shoot a line drive the other way and give you a professional at-bat without trying to be something he wasn’t. In 2001, he hit .271 with a career-high 13 home runs and 55 RBI, then hit .271 again in 2002 while appearing in 150 games and posting a .989 fielding percentage at second base. He was never built around one towering statistic. His value lived in accumulation. One single here. One double-play turn there. One smart baserunning decision. One clean inning that disappeared into the box score.

Over 15 major-league seasons, Grudzielanek finished with 2,040 hits, a .289 batting average, 90 home runs, 640 RBI and 133 stolen bases. That is a serious baseball life, hermano. No era el hombre del póster, but he was the kind of player who helped keep the machine running. Years later, after leaving Los Angeles, he would even win a Gold Glove with Kansas City in 2006, proof that the quiet work had always been there.

Off the field, his full name is Mark James Grudzielanek, and baseball took him through Montreal, Los Angeles, Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City and Cleveland. He built a family life away from the game and supported charitable causes during his career, but when the Ghost thinks of Grudzielanek, the picture still comes back in Dodger blue. Eric Karros at first. Adrian Beltre growing into himself at third. Shawn Green in the outfield. Those late-’90s and early-2000s Dodger gem teams were caught between eras, not quite the old guard and not yet the next great wave.

Grudzielanek fit that time perfectly. Steady. Useful. Unselfish. And maybe that is why he feels so right to remember now. Some players leave behind towering home runs. Some leave MVP's. Mark Grudzielanek left something quieter, 2,040 little reminders that showing up, putting the barrel on the ball, and doing your job every damn day can build one hell of a baseball career. Y aquí en Chavez Ravine, the Ghost still remembers the ones who made the game fun to watch and Mark was that guy,,,. 👻

The sun was beginning to sag behind the left-field pavilion when Hale stepped toward the plate, a young left-handed hitter trying to look calmer than he probably felt. Dodger Stadium has a way of making rookies feel small, compa. The blue seats seem taller, the mound looks farther away, and every sound carries a little more weight when you are trying to prove you belong. Hale had come out of California’s Central Valley with a big frame, a strong swing, and enough athletic ability to convince the Dodgers to take him in the 14th round of the 1971 draft. He had been a multi-sport standout at Wasco High, the kind of kid scouts looked at and saw possibility before polish. Then came September 1974. First trip up, hit. Next one, hit. Then another. And another. Four official at-bats, four hits. Perfecto. One of those knocks helped bring home the run that clinched the National League West. For a brief stretch, John Hale did not look like a rookie trying to survive. He looked like a kid who had kicked open the clubhouse door and announced, aquí estoy.

But baseball rarely gives a young player a clean road. Hale spent the next few years trying to carve out room in a Dodgers organization that already had experienced bats, established outfielders, and little patience for inconsistency. He showed flashes in 1975, playing in 71 games with six home runs and 22 RBIs, but the rhythm never settled the way that perfect introduction suggested it might. The big league game has a cruel habit of exposing the smallest cracks. A fraction late on a fastball. A breaking ball chased off the plate. One bad week turning into two. Hale bounced between the Dodgers and Triple-A Albuquerque, where his bat often looked freer and more dangerous. By 1977, he had worked his way back into 79 games for the Dodgers and hit .241 with a .331 on-base percentage, useful numbers for a young player still fighting for oxygen on a talented roster. He could move around the outfield, handle first base, and give the club another left-handed option. But another prospect is always coming, another veteran is always hanging around, and another roster decision is always waiting in a front office somewhere. Así es este juego. Talent gets you noticed. Timing decides how long the door stays open.

Hale’s Dodger run ended after the 1977 season, and he finished his major-league career with Seattle in 1979 while still only 25 years old. In six seasons, he totaled 137 hits, 14 home runs and 72 RBI with a .201 average. Those numbers don't demand a statue, and they aren't supposed to. The Ghost has never been interested only in statues. John Hale belongs to the quieter part of Dodger history, where careers flicker instead of blaze. The kid from Wasco arrived with power in his hands, hope in his chest, and a first impression that almost sounded fictional. Then baseball did what baseball does. It tested him, moved him, and eventually carried on without him. But somewhere inside Chavez Ravine, beneath all the louder memories, those first four swings still echo for eternity. Four at-bats. Four hits. Cero outs. For one little stretch in September 1974, John Hale wasn’t a prospect, a bench player, or a question mark. He was simply perfect. 👻

Sunday Spotlight: Get to Know Will Klein

Will is the kind of player who can sneak up on Dodgers fans. He doesn’t have years of name recognition yet, but at 6-foot-5 and 230 pounds, the right-hander is hard to miss once he takes the mound. Born in Bloomington, Indiana, Klein starred at Bloomington North High School before pitching at Eastern Illinois University, where he began turning a big frame and a powerful arm into a legitimate professional future.

The Kansas City Royals selected him in the 5th round of the 2020 draft, beginning a baseball journey that would eventually take him through Kansas City, Oakland, Seattle and finally Los Angeles. He made his MLB debut on April 28, 2024, and by June of 2025 the Dodgers had acquired him from the Mariners for left-hander Joe Jacques.

But getting to know Will Klein means looking past the fastball. Klein is a collector, and not just of baseball cards. Pokémon has been part of his life since he was a kid, and in recent years he and his wife Carson have gotten heavily back into the hobby together. When the Dodgers are on the road, and Klein has some free time, don’t be surprised if he finds a local card shop.

During the offseason, card shows have become part of the routine as well. His favorite Pokémon is Tyranitar, and that eventually led to one of the coolest pieces of equipment you’ll see around a major-league clubhouse. After Klein ripped Pokémon packs on the field during a Dodgers trip to Toronto, 44 Pro, the company that has made his gloves throughout his professional career, surprised him with a custom glove featuring a sleeved Tyranitar card built right into the webbing. Klein loved it so much that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to use it in a game and risk damaging the card.

And Pokémon is only part of it. Klein has talked openly about loving the collecting hobby in general. His collection stretches into baseball, soccer, Marvel, Disney and Star Wars, and he has even admitted that becoming a major leaguer hasn’t changed the feeling of being a fan himself. Imagine that for a second. You’re sitting in the Dodgers clubhouse with Shohei Ohtani, Mookie Betts and Yoshinobu Yamamoto, but part of you is still the kid wondering whether you should ask one of those guys for an autograph.

Klein has even said he was once too nervous to ask Ohtani for one before eventually becoming his teammate. That little detail tells you a lot about him. The uniform changes, the stadium gets bigger, but sometimes the fan inside never completely disappears.

The baseball side of Klein’s story has been just as interesting. His path to Dodger blue wasn’t exactly a straight path to Chavez Ravine. Organizations changed, opportunities came and went, and he kept grinding until Los Angeles gave him another one. Then came the 2025 World Series. Klein hadn’t appeared during the first three rounds of the postseason, but when he was added to the World Series roster and eventually called upon in Game 3, he delivered four scoreless innings with five strikeouts and earned the win. For a game with such weight on it Klien delivered. For a pitcher whose longest outing since college had not reached that length, it became one of those nights that can change the way a player is viewed inside a clubhouse. Cuando llegó el momento grande, Klein didn’t blink.

That carried into 2026. Before landing on the injured list with right elbow discomfort in August, Klein had appeared in 36 games, made three starts, posted a 3.67 ERA and struck out 49 hitters in 41⅔ innings while recording two saves on a dare I say a struggling Bull Pen. Those numbers show progress, but they’re still only part of the story. Klein remains a developing arm with plenty left to prove, yet he’s already gone from organizational traveler to World Series champion to a recognizable piece of the Dodgers bullpen.

Off the field, he’s William Boone Klein, husband, collector, Pokémon fan and a guy who still seems genuinely excited about the things he loved before Major League Baseball became his job. On the mound, he’s a 6-foot-5 right-hander trying to establish himself with one of baseball’s most demanding organizations. Those two sides are what make Will Klein interesting. He may not be one of the household names yet... Pero dale tiempo. Behind the fastball is still a kid who loves opening a fresh pack of cards, and behind that kid is a pitcher whose story in Dodger blue may only be getting started. 👻

The bat came off his shoulder like he had been waiting all night for that one pitch. No wasted motion, no trying to launch the ball into the pavilion, nope! Just a short left-handed stroke, and another baseball found the grass at Chavez Ravine. By the time Vic Davalillo arrived in LA in 1977, most players his age were already figuring out what came after baseball. Davalillo was doing the opposite. The Venezuelan outfielder, known back home as “Vitico,” had already played for the Indians, Angels, Cardinals, Pirates and Athletics, won World Series rings with the 1971 Pirates and 1973 A’s, and then disappeared from the majors for more than three years while continuing to rake in Mexico.

In 1977 he hit an absurd .384 for Aguascalientes, and the Dodgers looked at the tiny 5-foot-7 veteran and essentially said, órale, todavía puede batear. They brought him back to the majors late that summer, and Davalillo responded by hitting .313 in 24 games for a Dodgers club headed for the World Series.

What made Davalillo valuable wasn't power. Across 16 major-league seasons, he hit only 36 home runs. His gift was putting the barrel on the baseball. He could come off the bench cold, face a pitcher who had been dealing for seven innings, and somehow look as if he'd already seen him three times. That skill made him especially dangerous as a pinch hitter. Years earlier with St. Louis, Davalillo collected 23 pinch hits in 1970, one shy of the then-recognized single-season record. In LA, Lasorda had both Davalillo and Mota available off the bench, two aging professional hitters who could turn one late-inning plate appearance into something uncomfortable for the other dugout.

Davalillo was even better in his second Dodgers season, batting .312 in 75 games in 1978, mostly in a reserve and pinch-hitting role, as Los Dodgers captured their second consecutive National League pennant. Between 1977 and '78, when the Dodgers needed one swing, one runner moved, one ball dumped into shallow right, Vitico estaba listo.

Davalillo stayed with the Dodgers through 1980, finishing a remarkable major-league journey with 1,122 hits, a .279 career average and 125 stolen bases. But numbers don't completely explain why a player like him belongs in the Ghost's stories. Davalillo had already been released, had already left the major leagues, had already gone south to Mexico and reached the age when baseball normally tells a man, gracias, amigo, that's enough. But he simply kept hitting. Then he came back and helped two Dodger teams reach the World Series. He wasn't Garvey, Cey, Lopes or Baker. He wasn't supposed to be. Vic Davalillo was a specialist, he was the man Lasorda could reach for when the game got late and one good at-bat might change everything. No spotlight needed, no superstar billing required, just hand him a bat and let the old Venezuelan remind everybody that sometimes the toughest out in the lineup is the man who has spent eight innings sitting on the bench. El viejo todavía tenía magia en ese bate. 👻

The left-handed swing came through the zone clean, almost effortless, and the ball jumped toward the gap before the outfielders had a chance to move. Len Gabrielson was never the main threat in the Dodgers lineup, and he was never the guy whose picture filled the front page. But when he stepped into the box, especially during the late 1960s, he gave Los Dodgers something every club needs: a professional at-bat and a bat that could quietly do damage.

Born in Oakland in 1940, Gabrielson came from baseball blood; his father, also named Len, briefly reached the majors in 1939. The younger Gabrielson starred at Oakland Technical High before attending USC, where he played under legendary coach Rod Dedeaux. He signed with the Milwaukee Braves organization and debuted in the majors at only 20 years old in 1960. His road to Chavez Ravine wasn't a straight line, though. Milwaukee, Chicago, San Francisco, and the California Angels all came first. In 1965, splitting the season between the Cubs and Giants, Gabrielson hit a career-best .293, including .301 after landing with San Francisco.

Then, on May 10, 1967, the Dodgers sent infielder Johnny Werhas to the Angels and brought Gabrielson across town to Los Angeles. By then, the great championship machine of Koufax, Drysdale, Wills and company was changing fast. Sandy had retired, Maury was gone, Tommy Davis was gone, and the Dodgers were trying to figure out what came next. Gabrielson became one of those transitional players who helped keep the lineup together while a new era was forming. He hit .261 with seven homers in 90 games for the Dodgers in 1967, then turned in his best Dodger season in 1968. In a year when pitching suffocated offense across baseball, Gabrielson hit .270 with 16 doubles, 10 home runs and 35 RBI. Those 10 homers actually led the Dodgers, while the club as a whole hit only .230. No era fácil para los bateadores, hermano, 1968 became known as the “Year of the Pitcher,” and Gabrielson's production stood out even more because of it.

Gabrielson remained in Dodger blue through 1970, working primarily in the outfield while also serving as a pinch hitter and occasional first baseman. Across nine major-league seasons, he finished with 446 hits, 37 home runs, 176 RBI and a .253 average. Those aren't Cooperstown numbers, and nobody needs to pretend they are. But that's exactly why the Ghost remembers guys like Len Gabrielson. Baseball history isn't built solamente by the superstars whose numbers hang above the stadium. It's also built by the men who took hundreds of at-bats, filled holes in the lineup, survived trades, rode buses and planes from organization to organization, and finally found a few good years wearing Dodger blue.

Gabrielson wasn't Parker, wasn't Davis, wasn't Wills. He was simply a ballplayer, a 6-foot-4 left-handed hitter who, for a short stretch in Chavez Ravine, quietly became one of the better bats the Dodgers had. Y a veces, those are exactly the ghosts worth remembering.👻

Dodger fans held back their roar, reserved for when the reliever stepped out of left field. The bullpen swung open, and a left-hander came out who didn’t need entrance music, smoke machines, or a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball to let hitters know they were in trouble. Jim Brewer walked toward the mound carrying something much more uncomfortable, a screwball that seemed to have a mind of its own.

Born in Merced, California, in 1937 and raised in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, Brewer was a two-sport standout before signing with the Cubs straight out of high school in 1956. His early major-league career was anything but smooth. In 1960, while pitching for the Cubbies, Brewer became tangled in one of baseball’s ugliest incidents when fiery Reds infielder Billy Martin, yeah, that Billy Martin, struck him during an on-field confrontation, leaving Brewer with a fractured bone beneath his right eye and ending his season. Three operations followed. His career could have disappeared right there. Instead, Brewer kept climbing. The Cubs eventually moved him, and by 1964 he had found his way to Los Dodgers. Sometimes the road to Dodger Stadium isn’t pretty, amigos. Sometimes you arrive carrying scars.

But Brewer still needed something more. His fastball and curve weren’t enough, and he knew it. Then came one of those beautiful little baseball moments that can change an entire career. Brewer spotted legendary left-hander Warren Spahn in a bullpen and asked him about the screwball. Spahn showed Brewer his grip and release, essentially a half-minute pitching lesson from a Hall of Famer. That was it. Treinta segundos, más o menos, and Brewer suddenly had the pitch that would define him. By 1968, after Ron Perranoski and Phil Regan were gone, the Dodgers handed Brewer the late innings. There really wasn’t a “closer” the way we understand the job today.

Brewer might enter with men already on base, work more than one inning, and sometimes finish two or three. From 1968 through 1973, he became Alston’s primary fireman, recording 118 saves over those six seasons. His finest statistical year came in 1972, when Brewer posted a microscopic 1.26 ERA and 0.843 WHIP, at one point retiring 25 consecutive hitters. Then, at 35 years old and after already having his elbow operated on twice, Brewer earned his only All-Star selection in 1973. No flashy entrance. No celebration rehearsals. Just give him the pelota and get out of the way.

Brewer remained a Dodger through part of 1975, having helped Los Dodgers reach the World Series in 1965, 1966 and 1974, including earning a championship ring with the ’65 club. Eventually Mike Marshall took over the heavy relief workload, and Brewer finished his career with the Angels before moving into coaching. Baseball even brought him back into the Dodgers organization years later, where he helped teach that mysterious screwball to younger pitchers, a fitting assignment for a man whose own career had once been rescued by the pitch. Tragically, Brewer was killed in an automobile accident in Texas in November 1987, only days after celebrating his 50th birthday.

And maybe that’s why the Ghost remembers Jim Brewer. He wasn't Koufax. He wasn't Drysdale. He wasn't the name kids necessarily begged their fathers to put on the back of a jersey or look to capture his baseball card. Pero cuando el juego got tight, Brewer was one of the men Alston trusted with the baseball. He pitched through pain, survived adversity, reinvented himself and quietly became one of the most dependable relief arms ever to wear Dodger Blue.

Today, when that bullpen gate opens at Chavez Ravine and another reliever begins the long walk toward the mound, listen closely. Somewhere beneath the roar of 56,000 people, you just might hear an old screwball whispering through the night.

Jim Brewer...The screwball specialist of Dodger Stadium. 👻