A Dream, Weekend in Dodger Blue -Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

A Dream, Weekend in Dodger Blue:

From Grandma’s Transistor Radio to the Owner’s Suite

By Arlo Agogo

Some childhood memories wrap around your heart like a favorite blanket. For me, those memories are soaked in Dodger blue, the crackle of a transistor radio, and the gentle voice of my grandma. 

Months ago, I wrote a blog post about those precious afternoons and evenings. As a 5 year old boy, it was my special job to make sure Grandma had her little transistor radio right next to her pillow. 

We’d sip tea together, chatting about everything and nothing while Vin Scully’s golden voice called the game. “It’s time for Dodger baseball,” he’d say, and the world felt right.

Being a Dodger fan with Grandma wasn’t just about the scores. It was about love, routine, and connection. She grew up in London, far from the sun-soaked fields of Chavez Ravine, yet she adored the team. 

I’d fetch the newspaper each morning to check the game times, and me mum had given me the lifetime task of keeping that radio in perfect shape—fresh batteries, good signal, ready for every pitch. 

On days Grandma felt tired and drifted off, I’d tiptoe back later to tuck the radio safely on her bedside stand, ready for tomorrow. 

Those quiet moments shaped me into a lifelong Dodger fan. The blog captured that heartwarming bond, and somehow, it found its way to the right people.

To my absolute astonishment, the entire Dodgers ownership group—including Chairman Mark Walter—read it. 

They sent me a personal note inviting me to watch a Saturday night game from the owner’s suite. They connected me with their publicist, and just like that, everything was arranged: special tickets, VIP parking, a luxurious hotel suite, and first-class treatment all the way. 

Chairman Mark Walter asked if he could read the blog post to the team.

It felt like a fairy tale for a desert kid who once guarded a transistor radio. Now, who do you take on an adventure like this? 

For me, there was only one choice: Doris Day.

My desert darling of daredevil deeds. Not the movie star (though the name always brings a smile), but my British friend, a retired banker with a heavy English accent and a spirit as wild as the Mojave.

We both own bright yellow 1968 Volkswagen dune buggies and often tear across the desert on spontaneous escapades. She’s a bucket of fun, quick with a laugh and faster on the gas pedal than I am.

I rang her up: “Doris, love, fancy an excursion to Los Angeles for a Dodgers game? 

We’ve got tickets to the owner’s suite, a fancy hotel—everything covered.” Without missing a beat, she replied, “Let’s roll!” 

We could have flown from Vegas, but dodging airport lines sounded miserable. Instead, we opted for a proper road trip. She offered her rugged Land Rover, and off we went on a lovely morning drive from the desert into the sprawl of LA.

The Dodgers treated us like royalty from the start. 

Our hotel suite was the nicest I’ve ever seen—spacious, elegant, with views that made us feel like we’d stepped into another world. 

Doris, usually happiest kicking up dust in the desert, looked at me after a bit of cruising around town and said with wide eyes, “What the heck? Are we on another planet?” 

I laughed and replied, “Let’s head to the stadium and get to the good stuff. ”We arrived early, pulling into VIP parking off Vin Scully Avenue. The name alone gave me chills. Security stopped us a couple of times, but our special passes turned every interaction into friendly waves and offers of iced tea or golf cart rides. 

We strolled the ballpark grounds, soaking in the electric pre-game atmosphere—the smells of grilled hot dogs, the buzz of fans in blue jerseys, the towering palm trees framing the field.

Heading up to the owner’s suite felt surreal. 

Along the way, we spotted celebrities: Magic Johnson, Corey Seager (wait, Bellinger in my memory, but the stars kept coming), and Orel Hershiser. 

The entire ownership group was there—Mark Walter and the big wigs—warm and welcoming. 

They asked me to share more about the blog. I told them about fetching the paper, checking game times, ensuring Grandma’s radio was battery-ready, and how Vin Scully’s famous line would fill her room. 

I described sitting beside her on the bed as she lay there, older but still mobile enough to chat about her London childhood or who was pitching that night.

“Those days cherishing her stories while the game played on—they’re treasures I’ll carry forever,” I said.The room grew quiet. The owners were visibly moved by the image of a young boy caring for his grandma, making sure she never missed a pitch. 

It was an honor to share that piece of my heart with the people who now steward the team I love.

Introducing Doris was a highlight. Her unique name—pure coincidence, as her English parents had no idea about the famous actress—drew smiles everywhere. She charmed everyone with her heavy accent and lively personality, quickly becoming the toast of the suite.

Her "London English" that she loves to add a little bit of differently pronounced words just to make people wonder "What". Shohei Ohtani asked in Japanese what language she was speaking.

Then came the game itself, watched in absolute luxury. The spread was incredible: lobster tacos, Wagyu beef hot dogs, fresh guacamole, chips, and more. We even enjoyed a cold Guinness to wash it all down. 

The view from the suite was perfect—the green field glowing under the lights, the crowd roaring with every hit. It was Dodgers baseball at its finest on a Saturday night. 

After the final out, the magic continued. We joined ownership down to the club-level area where the team gathered before flying out. We walked around and met the players: Shohei Ohtani, Freddie Freeman, Mookie Betts, and the rest of the squad. Shaking hands with these legends as a lifelong fan? 

Pure pinch-me moments. 

Doris, with her British wit and warmth, fit right in—everyone loved chatting with her. What a night. From humble desert roots and Grandma’s bedside radio to rubbing shoulders with Dodgers royalty—it was a full-circle dream. 

The game, the food, the stories, the stars… everything blended into one unforgettable experience.

Then came the highlight of this simple storytellers life.

Chairman Mark Walter stood up to the podium with a microphone where management makes announcements to the team on travel schedules and a few comments on today's game

He starts "attention please I have a story to read you".

(To read this blog CLICK HERE)

It is titled " Me, Mum & Vin Scully"

Mr Walter read my blog to all the team , management and many press correspondents.

He read it slowly with pride and conviction.

When he was finished he pointed me as the author.

I got a standing ovation and never smiled so big.

WOW.

The next morning, we rose early, said goodbye to the big-city lights, and hit the road back to our peaceful desert lifes. 

Doris dropped me off with a goodbye kiss that lingered large and drove off waving with that trademark grin.

Life has a funny way of rewarding the simple things—like tea, transistors, and unconditional love between a boy and his grandma. 

Thanks to the Dodgers organization for turning a heartfelt blog into a lifetime memory. 

Dodger baseball still connects generations, and I’ll forever be grateful.

Blue forever.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Sponsored by .....

Start Your Search Here

70+ Farm to Table Ranches 

75+ Coffee Roasters Direct Sales

Channels from Arlo......

TalkingStorywithArlo.com

ArloMarketPlace.com

Arlo on YouTube

Arlo on X

Arlo on Substack

For E mail notification of new content subscribe at arloagogo.substack.com

Turning 70: Turn Down for What - Talking Story with Arlo

Talking Story with Arlo

Turn Down for What

By Arlo Agogo

Old man Jenkins stood in his quiet kitchen at dawn, coffee mug in one hand, the other hovering over the sleek black rectangle that ruled most lives these days. He chuckled to himself, the same raspy laugh that had carried him through sixty-odd years of the world trying to speed him up. “Turn down for what?” he muttered, as if the phone itself might answer back. It didn’t. It just sat there, innocent as a sleeping cat—until it wasn’t.

Back in his twenties, 

The push had been relentless and loud in a different key. Get a real job. Climb that corporate ladder like your life depended on it. Make money, and make it fast. Find a nice girl, settle down, become a father, build the perfect family portrait for the holiday card nobody really read. 

Society had barked at him like an overcaffeinated drill sergeant: faster, higher, more. Jenkins had tried. He’d run the race, sweated through the suit jackets, changed diapers at 3 a.m., and nodded along at meetings where the only goal seemed to be outpacing the guy in the next cubicle. He’d done the dad thing, the provider thing, the “responsible adult” checklist until the paper was worn thin.

Now, decades later, the drill sergeant had simply traded its megaphone for Wi-Fi and an app store. The demands never stopped; they just got smaller, brighter, and somehow more insistent.

“Subscribe!”

“Follow me!”

“Like this post or you don’t care about me!”

“Reply in the comments!”

“Join the live stream—don’t miss this drop!”

“DM me your thoughts right now!”

Notifications buzzed like a swarm of caffeinated bees trapped in his pocket. Every scroll promised connection but delivered only more noise. More voices. More opinions. More urgent little red bubbles demanding he keep pace with a world that had forgotten how to breathe.

One ordinary Tuesday, Jenkins had simply had enough. He’d already chatted with the neighbor over the fence about the weather and the price of tomatoes. He’d returned a phone call to his daughter—the one he actually wanted to take—laughing about her latest gardening disaster.

He’d even prepped dinner with care: a thick, beautifully marbled ribeye from Creekstone Farms, that premium Black Angus beef raised right here in the heartland on family ranches with respect for the animal and the land.

The kind of steak that didn’t need fancy sauces—just salt, pepper, a hot cast-iron skillet, and a little patience. The marbling promised juiciness and bold flavor that made you slow down and actually taste your food instead of inhaling it between meetings.

He seared it to a perfect medium-rare, let it rest, sliced into it, and savored that first bite while the evening light slanted through the window. No screens at the table. Just the sizzle memory, the rich beefy depth, and the quiet satisfaction of a meal done right.

Then he looked at the phone vibrating again on the counter like an angry Chihuahua that refused to be ignored. And Jenkins did what any self-respecting man who’d already had his fill of human exchange for the day would do.

He turned it off.

Not silenced. Not “do not disturb” with the sneaky little half-moon icon. Off. Power button held down until the screen went black and the cheerful “goodbye” chime faded into glorious silence. 

The house seemed to exhale with him.

The next morning, when his daughter called the landline in a mild panic—“Dad, why aren’t you answering texts?”—he answered cheerfully. “Because I turned the damn thing off after dinner, sweetheart. You won’t get a response until tomorrow morning, if I feel like checking then. And that’s it for the day. No emails. No messages. No nothing.”

She laughed, half-worried, half-amused. “Are you okay?

Are you isolating yourself?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ with satisfaction. “Not isolating. Not antisocial. I still like people just fine in moderate doses. I waved at Mrs. Alvarez when she walked her yappy little dog this morning. Chatted with the mailman about the new stop sign. Even called old Pete back about that fishing trip we keep planning.

Had my human quota. Talked, listened, laughed a bit. Then I cooked that steak— pork chops tomorrow, maybe—and decided the volume of society had gotten way too loud again.”

He could almost hear her eye-roll through the phone. “Dad, everyone’s connected now. You’re supposed to stay in the loop.”

“Loop’s overrated,” he replied.

“When I was your age they pushed me to go faster for money, status, family, the whole checklist. Now it’s ‘be online, be visible, reply instantly, subscribe to my life.’ Same push, different costume. 

I’m pushing back with the world’s most powerful two-letter word: Off.”

Word spread through the family and the neighborhood like a gentle, slightly rebellious breeze. Jenkins became the quirky old guy who only checked his phone once—first thing in the morning, like a responsible citizen who refused to be responsible all day long. After that single glance (usually while sipping coffee on the porch), the device went back into the drawer or, on particularly glorious days, into the breadbox where it couldn’t even pretend to tempt him.

Friends learned quickly. “Don’t bother texting Dad after 7 p.m.,” his kids would warn. “He’s turned down for the night.” Colleagues from his retired life stopped expecting instant replies. The book club adapted; they’d joke that Jenkins operated on 

“Jenkins Standard Time”—one check-in per sunrise, and if you needed him urgently, you knew where the porch swing was.

It wasn’t loneliness. Quite the opposite. Mornings he’d sit with the paper (the real one, ink and all), watch the birds argue at the feeder, and feel the day stretch out without a thousand tiny digital tugs on his attention.

Afternoons he tinkered in the garage, read actual books with pages that didn’t refresh themselves, or walked the block and actually noticed how the light hit the maple trees.

Evenings were for real food—maybe those pork chops, brined just right, grilled slow so the natural sweetness and juiciness shone through—and conversation that didn’t compete with pings and dings.

Society kept screaming its updated script: Go faster! Connect more! Be seen! Be relevant! Post your dinner, rate your experience, share your thoughts in 280 characters or less. Jenkins just grinned wider, settled deeper into his porch chair, and pushed back with calm, deliberate effort.

“Off,” he’d say aloud sometimes, like a victorious old lion roaring at the modern jungle. The word felt solid in his mouth. Satisfying. Almost comical in its simplicity. In a world racing toward some invisible finish line of constant connectivity, turning the volume down wasn’t rebellion—it was survival with a side of steak.

He still remembered the exhaustion of his younger years, chasing the next promotion while the baby cried and the bills stacked up. The push had felt endless then. Now the push came in pixels and algorithms, but the exhaustion was the same if you let it in. So he didn’t. He chose the quiet comedy of an old man who’d finally learned the punchline: you don’t have to keep dancing just because the music’s too loud.

Neighbors started dropping by unannounced, knowing they’d find him present,.

His grandkids learned that when Grandpa said “I’ve had enough voices for today,” it wasn’t rejection—it was honesty. 

They’d sit on the porch steps, eat slices of that perfectly cooked beef he’d smoke low and slow, and listen to stories from a time before everything needed to be documented instantly.

One evening, after a particularly peaceful day of zero notifications, Jenkins raised his glass of iced tea toward the setting sun. 

“Here’s to turning down,” he toasted the empty yard. 

“For what? For sanity. For flavor that actually reaches your tongue instead of your timeline. For conversations that don’t need likes to feel real.”

He took another bite of dinner—tender, marbled, unhurried—and smiled at the silence that followed. No buzz. No flash. Just the soft creak of the porch swing and the distant bark of Mrs. Alvarez’s dog.

Turn down for what? Exactly.

Jenkins had spent a lifetime being pushed to conform—first to the fast-track American dream, now to the infinite scroll of digital obligation. Each time, he’d eventually found the same answer: slow down on purpose. Savor the good beef.

Talk to the people right in front of you. Return the calls that matter.

Then, with a deliberate thumb on the power button, push back.

Off.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

Sponsored by .......

Barbecued/Smoked Meats

Barbecued/Smoked Meats

Farm to Table Beef