The home uniforms remind me of my tormented youth — blue and red trim, “Dodgers” written in script at an angle across the front.
But the numbers throw me off. What is that admirable Clayton Kershaw doing wearing Johnny Podres’ No. 22? The super-sub Enrique Hernandez wearing Gil Hodges’ No. 14?
O.K., Curtis Granderson — who graced both the Yankees and Mets — wearing Carl Furillo’s No. 6? I can live with that.
The Dodgers are the team of my youth, their names and numbers etched in my brain but gone from Brooklyn since the end of 1957.