LOS ANGELES — I didn’t grow up bleeding Dodger blue.
Born and raised in the Midwest, my baseball loyalties were as scattered as the cornfields of my youth. I was an Orioles fan at first (they had a rookie league team in my hometown), then became a Twins fan when I went to college in Minnesota, but neither fandom stuck. And when I moved to Los Angeles, the Dodgers were in the midst of their long drought of October success. Then came the Frank McCourt years, and who wants to be a fan of that?
I appreciated the game, respected the legends, but I never had a team that really pulled me in—until May 25, 2008. That was the day a 20-year-old kid with a whip of a left arm and a curveball from another universe took the mound at Dodger Stadium.
His name was Clayton Kershaw.
And just like that, I was hooked.
I wasn’t the only one whose jaw dropped that day. The St. Louis Cardinals didn’t know what hit them. They had no tape, no scouting reports—nothing but rumors. In today’s USA Today, Bob Nightengale recounts the tale of his first strikeout. “He might be the next Rick Ankiel,” someone joked to leadoff hitter (and future Dodger coach) Skip Schumaker. Schumaker stepped in the box, fully intending to humble the rookie. Instead, he struck out—Kershaw’s first of what would become 3,000 and counting. Seventeen years later, Schumaker still laughs about it. “He brings it up every time I see him,” he says. And who could blame him? When you’re the first victim of a legend, you become part of baseball lore.
But it wasn’t just the numbers that made me a fan. It was the way Kershaw pitched—like every game mattered. Even then, with just two pitches in his arsenal, he was electric. And by 2009, when he added that now-iconic slider to his fastball-curveball mix, he transformed from a raw talent into a complete pitcher. Brad Ausmus, his veteran catcher that year, remembers it clearly in an article in today’s LA Times: “He said, ‘Brad, I wish you would call more sliders.’ I realized then he wasn’t just talented. He had a vision.”
From that moment on, Kershaw began a stretch of dominance almost unheard of in the modern era: three Cy Young Awards, a National League MVP, 10 All-Star selections, 11 seasons with an ERA under 3.00, and—finally—a World Series title in 2020. Through it all, he was the heartbeat of the Dodgers, the guy who always took the ball, even when his back was barking or his shoulder stiffened or his toe throbbed. When others folded, he competed.
Some fans like the flamethrowers. The guys who hit triple digits and rack up highlight-reel strikeouts. Kershaw wasn’t that. Not in his later years, anyway. But even as his velocity dipped and his body aged, he never lost his edge. If anything, he got better. Smarter. More precise. “He’s always a step ahead,” pitching coach Mark Prior tells Jack Harris in the Times. And it’s true. Kershaw’s greatness has never just been about his stuff—it’s about his brain, his will, and his refusal to give in.
When I think about all the moments that cemented my fandom—the 2014 no-hitter, the 15-strikeout games, the gutsy playoff performances on short rest—it’s not just the stats I remember. It’s the image of him pacing behind the mound, brow furrowed, eyes locked in. It’s the way he held himself accountable after a bad outing, the way he lifted up teammates, the way he signed autographs for every kid, every fan, every charity that asked.
Indeed, even more than his Hall of Fame, resume, it was Kershaw the person who drew me in. Committed to his family, active in the community, always willing to step up for what he believed in, even if it was against the grain of his adopted California home. His work with Kershaw’s challenge in the community, and his devotion to Ellen and his kids makes the fact that he could destroy your soul with a slider even more meaningful somehow.
That’s what makes 3,000 strikeouts so special. Not the milestone itself, but what it represents: consistency, resilience, and class. He’s just the 20th pitcher in MLB history to reach it. Only the fourth lefty. And only the third to do it wearing one uniform.
Kershaw has pitched in 441 games for the Dodgers—438 of them starts. And every time, he’s represented the city, the franchise, and the fans with dignity. There’s no telling how much longer he’ll pitch. His body has taken a beating. But he’s still out there, still delivering, still figuring out ways to dominate without his best stuff.
Justin Verlander, one of the few active pitchers with 3,000 Ks himself, put it best: “You don’t know if you’ll ever see this again.”
And I agree.
Because there won’t be another Clayton Kershaw.
Not just for the Dodgers, but for baseball. He’s more than a strikeout machine or a trophy shelf. He’s a reminder of how beautiful and brutal the game can be. He’s a model of perseverance, grace, and quiet greatness.
So yeah, I didn’t grow up a Dodger fan.
But Clayton Kershaw made me one.
And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
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