So I'm at the Dodger home opener. It's taken me an hour to get from the off-ramp to my seat, I got scalped hard for the ticket and my car smells like a bar-b-que gone horribly wrong, but the view is nice and a cool breeze is blowing through the shade where I'm sitting. I'm behind the plate, upper deck, just to the right, enough to see the Hollywood sign around the overhang.

It's a good day. Sunny, warm. Chavez Ravine is green and pretty. Fifty-four thousand people took the afternoon off (either today specifically or, heh, months ago in general) to be here and there's a good feeling in the air.

It's the kind of day where the woman two rows in front of me can have ice dumped down her back by the young child one row in front of me and not care too much.

It's the kind of day where the first paper air plane that sails out over the dugout inspires a dozen more, all swooping and lunging crazily, all making batboys scamper and leap.

It's the kind of day that inspires men who should not take their shirts off in private to do so in public and get nasty burns they'll regret in the morning.

It's the kind of day where someone, a few rows back, can get a little too drunk and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" with lusty exuberance during the 7th inning stretch.

It's the kind of day when you'll see one of just about everything: a homer, a steal, an error, a double-play, a leaping catch.

It's the kind of day where you can hear Vin Scully reassuring you that the fire at the Farmer John warehouse didn't hurt the availability of Dodger Dogs and not only not giggle, but care a little somehow.

It's the kind of day that should happen more often.

Dodgers win, 4 to 3.