“Are you a fan?” asked the parking attendant at the beach.

“I’m wearing the hat, aren’t I?” responded dad. He handed him some money.

“I guess so,” said the man in the booth.

He handed dad his change with the parking ticket. We drove off to find a spot closer to the beach.

In the back of the maroon van, I sat with Danny, Lori and Adrian. I was confused. Being a metiche, I had listened in, but the short conversation didn’t make sense.

“Dad, why did he call you a fan? Did he mean fan, like un abanico?”

“No. A fan is someone who really likes a team. He asked if I was a fan because I’m wearing my Dodgers cap.”

“Oh. I like the Dodgers. Does that mean I’m a fan?”

“Yup! You better be!”

I was seven years old. The year was 1988.