Disappointed, But Still Bleeding Blue: A Love Letter To My Dodgers

I’ve loved the Dodgers for as long as I can remember.

Before I understood what RBI stood for or how to keep a scorecard, I knew the electric feeling of a Dodger home run, the crisp white jersey with “Los Angeles” stitched in that iconic script, and the deep roar of the crowd that echoed through Chavez Ravine like a Sunday sermon. My love for this team is stitched into the fabric of my childhood, rooted in family, summer nights, transistor radios, and hope.

I was just a kid when the Dodgers won it all in 1988. I can still see it—Kirk Gibson limping around the bases, one of the most iconic moments in sports history. I was 14. I jumped, I screamed, I cried. That World Series win wasn’t just a title—it was magic. A memory that anchored my loyalty through every painful loss that followed.

From 2014 to 2019, the heartbreak was real. We were close. So close. Time and time again, we watched dreams crumble in October. Yet I never wavered. Never stopped believing. Never stopped loving. And then, 2020 came. In the middle of a global pandemic, our boys brought it home. Finally. I sat in my living room, mask hanging off one ear, eyes full of tears, heart full of pride. It meant everything.

Then last year, when Freddie Freeman hit that grand slam in Game 1 of the World Series, I wept. Again. Not because we won a game—but because that moment represented everything I’d ever loved about this team: heart, grit, electricity. It was beautiful.

So you can imagine the excitement I had for this season. A team stacked with talent. A fanbase that bleeds blue. A legacy to continue.

But lately, my love feels… complicated.

I paused when you visited the White House. I tried to ignore it, tried to understand, but it didn’t sit right. Then came the ICE protests—brave voices calling attention to injustice—and you were silent. Completely silent. No statement. No empathy. No acknowledgment. Just… silence. And in that silence, you said more than you realize.

I’ve always known the complicated history behind this franchise. I’ve read about the displacement of families, the stolen land where the stadium now stands. I know the pain that Chavez Ravine still carries for so many Chicano families. Some have forgiven. Some haven’t. But that history has always lingered just beneath the surface—an uneasy truth underneath our cheers.

But this? This season feels tone-deaf. Insensitive. I started to put on my Dodger jersey today—something I’ve done proudly for years—and for the first time, I hesitated. Should I? Can I?

I’m still a diehard. That hasn’t changed. But I’m a disappointed diehard. Because you can’t be a team that profits off the culture and loyalty of Latino fans and then go quiet when our voices demand to be heard. You can’t roll out Ohtani and put on a show to distract us from what’s really going on. Not anymore. Those “Latin American Heritage Nights” will hit different now. That mariachi music will echo differently in the stadium this year.

We are not props. We are not merch sales. We are the soul of this team. We’ve been here. We’ve stayed here. And right now, many of us feel unseen.

I still bleed blue. But I also demand better. And I know I’m not alone.

With love,

A forever fan—

Hurt, but still here.