LOS ANGELES – The left arm of God, upper-case G in Dodgertown, bounced the ceremonial pitch early Monday afternoon. It will be recalled as a perfectly carved curve ball, rightfully buried, the way he did, the way he still does, even at 77, because the left arm belongs to Sandy Koufax.
In this town, on this field, in that uniform – Koufax's jersey was yellower than the rest, like he travels with his own bucket of sepia – there is and will forever be only one Koufax. Whittled from a fungo bat, sainted over six near-perfect seasons in the early years of the Dodgers in L.A., then gone too soon, Koufax still reduces grown men to wobbly-legged fanboys.
So when Magic Johnson freezes mid-delivery, stopped by Don Mattingly in a wonderfully tacky and scripted pre-game performance …
So when Mattingly takes the ball and waves to the dugout …
So when the number on that milky jersey is 32, and the man behind it is both stooped and willowy, then it could only be the mysterious and magical
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