Abby’s Father’s Day present this year didn’t come wrapped in paper. It came with ballpark hot dog fumes, a borrowed Angels jersey, and the realization that my Dodgers-leaning daughter might actually be a fan of “the Angels experience.”
She and Andrew are about to disappear for three weeks on the kind of Mediterranean Disney honeymoon I used to daydream about for myself—Italy, Greece, Barcelona, and then three nights in Paris for Disneyland. Since they’ll be somewhere between gelato and Euro Disney on actual Father’s Day, she texted and said, “Hey, can we steal you for a game?”
So Friday night, we walked into Angel Stadium just in time. No pregame wandering, no warmup pitches—just the three of us hustling in, hot dogs and beers in hand, and stopping in the walkway between the seats and the concessions as the national anthem started. One hand over our hearts, the other carefully guarding our dinner like true patriots. Somewhere, our founding fathers nodded in approval.
We climbed up to our seats in the 400 section, straight behind home plate—the sweet spot where you can see everything and still afford parking on the same day. We sat down just before first pitch, three people with varied Angels jerseys in a sea of fans. I’d outfitted Abby and Andrew properly, of course; if my daughter’s going to cheat on the Angels with the Dodgers, she’s at least going to do it while wearing an Angels jersey and a rally-bucket hat. Consider it spiritual correction.
On the field, our rookie starter immediately decided to test my blood pressure. He loaded the bases early, and you could feel that familiar Angel Stadium “oh no, here we go” energy starting to hum. But somehow he pitched his way out of it without giving up a run, like he suddenly remembered his parents were probably watching and he didn’t want to get grounded on live TV.
We made short work of the food. Abby committed the unforgivable sin of putting ketchup on her Angels dog, while Andrew and I did it the only correct way: mustard, onions, and jalapeños. As we were devouring them, the place absolutely exploded—Mike Trout and Jo Adell slapped back-to-back singles and Trey Mancini ripped a triple into right-center, and suddenly the Angels were somehow up 2–0 on the Rays. I glanced over at my Dodger-fan daughter, wearing borrowed Angels gear, cheering a Trey Mancini triple like she’d grown up in Anaheim, and thought, “Lord, I have done my best with this child.”
For the next few frames we just settled in. We nursed our beers while I gave them the full “Dad Stadium Tour” from our seats: the transportation station you could see clear as day from up in the 400s, the Honda Center where the Ducks play sitting off in the distance, the spots around the park where you can actually get good food. I pointed out the sections we normally sit in with Traci because they’re wheelchair accessible, and how we’ve learned to pick left-field seats behind the bullpen so we’re not baking in the right-field sun. It was that quiet, perfect middle part of a game where the action slows down just enough for you to tell stories.
By the time the third rolled around, the Angels decided 2–0 wasn’t nearly stressful enough. Oswald Peraza kicked things off with a double, and a couple of beautifully basic, small-ball singles later, two more runs had crossed and it was somehow 4–0 Angels. Between bites of questionable ballpark cuisine and my running commentary, I was watching the scoreboard like, “Who are we and what have we done with the real Angels?”
It was middle innings now and I was feeling the need to enrich Abby and Andrew’s experience with a desert. So we left our seats and cut through the crowd for the next adventure, but paused halfway down to take in the sunset. From up there I pointed out the tiny tip of the Matterhorn and the Ferris wheel at Pixar Pier—Abby and Andrew realized, all at once, how close the park actually was to the stadium, and for a minute they just stood there, looking like kids again.
From there we cut down into the second level and wandered through the Angels Hall of Fame. I walked them past the jerseys and plaques, every Rookie of the Year and MVP, the tributes to the 2002 championship team that still feels holy ground to Angels fans. I gave them the quick version of Angels history—how this franchise hasn’t always been a punchline, even if the last few years have done their best to erase that from memory.
Angels fandom is kind of its own religion, but it’s a really weird, fun one. Dodgers games are like paying a premium ticket to watch a machine do what it’s built to do—wins, dominance, everything measured on the scoreboard. Angels games are way more “we’re here for the atmosphere,” where the night is about the view, the goofy in-between-inning stuff, the food, and the people you’re with, and if they win it’s almost a bonus.
You could see the difference in real time when that little kid did the “steal third base” thing between innings. Our whole section was losing it, cheering like this tiny human had just won the World Series, and for a minute nobody cared about the actual Rays or Angels—just that kid living his best life in the middle of the diamond.
After we completed our tour of the Hall I said, “alright—time for indoctrination,” then led them down to Walk Off Waffles. We continued through the airy hum of the second level and threaded through the crowd, the sunset still hanging over the parking lot like it was auditioning for a slow‑motion movie. When the waffle stand came into view it was ridiculous—stacks of steam and sugar, sauces glinting under the lights—and a line that basically said this was a sacred stadium rite.
So I brought them up to the counter at Walk Off Waffles and let them draft their orders like it was the first round of the dessert draft. I went classic with strawberries and cream—because why mess with perfection—Abby went full chaos with the s’mores waffle, and Andrew locked in the Godiva chocolate like he was signing a treaty. When the plates landed in front of them—huge, ridiculous, dripping with sugar—they just stared for a second like, “there is no way this is stadium food,” and then took that first bite and it was over; whatever happened in the game after that, the waffles had already won the night.
We ditched the climb back to the 400s and helped ourselves to open field-level seats about ten rows up by the right-field foul pole. The Rays squeaked two runs in and, honestly, nobody cared—we were too busy eating pure heaven in waffle form and cheering like that kid who stole third was the MVP.
By the seventh-inning stretch the game had settled into that easy groove, and Angel Stadium pulled out one of my favorite modern tricks: the QR-code light show. We scanned in with everyone else, belted “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and then the stadium voted in Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night.” A beat later, the place went dark and thousands of phones started firing in perfect sequence, waves of light pulsing around us while the song blasted—this goofy, pop-music rave layered over a fairly ordinary June baseball game, and it was honestly so cool.
Somewhere in the middle of the Katy Perry light show, I realized something had shifted. Abby and Andrew weren’t just politely enjoying Dad’s team anymore—the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Piazza were flat-out having a blast at an Angels game, yelling, laughing, phones up for the light show like they’d been doing this for years. Watching Abby lose her mind over waffles and synced stadium lights, I couldn’t help thinking maybe, just maybe, I was finally winning a little bit of the Dodger fan out of her.
Top of the ninth, I leaned over to Abby and said, “it would be the most Angels thing ever if the Rays scratched across three here and handed this game back.” Tampa immediately tightened it up when Jonathan Aranda punched a two-out RBI single off Mitch Farris to make it 4–3, and then Ryan Zeferjahn came in and walked Junior Caminero on four pitches to load the bases, because of course he did. For a second it felt like the collapse was already scripted—one-run game, two outs, full drama—but Zeferjahn reared back and struck out Cedric Mullins to end it. And just as the final out snapped into the catcher’s mitt, the fireworks started firing off from the rock pile waterfall in center field and the Angels spilled out to celebrate their third straight win. The whole place was lit up in red, smoke drifting over the outfield, music blasting, and we just high-fived each other and soaked in the moment, three goofballs in borrowed jerseys celebrating a hard-fought Halos victory.
We thought the night was over, but Angel Stadium had one more trick queued up: a full-on space-themed drone show. We settled back into our seats while this massive swarm of lights started painting the sky—planes, rocket ships, the big A literally landing on the moon—and then it all ended with the Angels logo just hovering there over center field like it owned the place. Good music, perfect weather, a Halos win, waffles, fireworks, drones, and the newlywed Piazzas grinning like kids… it was just a great night.
As we joined the slow shuffle out of the stadium, we got one last little piece of magic for the night: Disneyland’s fireworks blooming just over the horizon. Abby didn’t even have to see the castle to lock in; she started quietly singing along to the show, hitting lyrics and musical cues she’s had memorized since she’s seen every second of that show multiple times. I just walked beside her, listening to my grown, newly married daughter soundtrack walk to the car with the same Disney soundtrack and thinking that she used to play songs like that from the backseat when she was in a booster.
In that moment, watching her in an Angels jersey, humming along to Disney fireworks after a Halos win, I thought, “okay, this kid is really an Angels fan now.” The reality, of course, is more complicated. When I asked her about it, she was very clear: the Dodgers are still her team because, well, they’re just better at the whole “winning baseball games” thing. But the Angels experience? The goofy light show, the drone rockets, the rock-pile fireworks, Walk Off Waffles, field-level seats, the whole vibe of the night—that she loved.
So no, I didn’t steal her away from the Dodgers organization in a single Friday night at the Big A. But if a lifelong Dodger fan can walk out of Angel Stadium grinning, full of waffles, singing along to Disneyland fireworks and admitting she might be a fan of the Angels experience? As far as I’m concerned, that means she’s a fan of Angels baseball.
And for one borrowed Father’s Day night, under a sky full of drones, fireworks, and Disney smoke, that felt like a pretty big W.
As we inched our way out with the crowd and Disneyland’s fireworks stitched the perfect little bow on the night, I just kept thinking about how wild it was that this all started with a simple text from Abby and Andrew: “Hey, want to go to an Angels game?” They didn’t have to carve out that time before their insane honeymoon adventure, or spend the money, or think through the logistics of getting me out of the house for a full-on Father’s Day night, but they did. They handed me a break from Nurse Paul, a seat between them in the cheap seats, Walk Off Waffles in my hand, a Halos win in front of us, and Disney fireworks and drone rockets overhead.
I thanked them in the car, but it honestly didn’t feel like enough. This wasn’t just “a game” — it was a pocket of normal with my grown kid and her husband, a night where I got to just be Dad at the ballpark, telling stories and pointing out sightlines and celebrating a one-run win like it was October. So Abby and Andrew, if you’re reading this: thank you for the invite, the laughs, the waffles, the fireworks, the space show, the whole Angels experience.
It was one night at the Big A, tucked between hospital visits and honeymoon packing and all the unknowns that wait for us back home. But it was a really, really good night, and I’m going to be holding onto this Halos W for a long time.
Paul Ellis 
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