The Dodgers’ Latino Loyalty Problem

By Nick Valencia

LOS ANGELES — The Dodgers are in trouble. Not in the standings, but where it arguably matters most: in the hearts of their fans. More specifically, the generationally loyal Latino fans who have long been the backbone of Dodger Stadium’s roar. The team may not be asking about immigration status when fans buy tickets—but lately, the message has been hard to miss: You’re welcome here, but only if you play by our rules.

Over the last week, the club has come under fire after a string of tone-deaf decisions alienated one of the most devoted fan bases in sports. It began subtly, with signs being taken away at the gates. But the backlash didn’t begin in earnest until reports surfaced of fans being asked to remove serapes—traditional Mexican scarves—as if a symbol of cultural pride were somehow inappropriate for Chavez Ravine.

Then came the kicker: a young woman, slated to sing the national anthem at a recent game, reportedly informed the Dodgers she intended to do so in Spanish. Her request wasn’t just denied. According to people familiar with the matter, she was warned not to do it. She sang in Spanish anyway. And in doing so, reminded many Latinos why they fell in love with the team in the first place: not just because of what happened on the field, but because the team once seemed to understand who stood with them in the stands.

For an organization that proudly hosts Mexican Heritage Night, Salvadoran Heritage Night, and other cultural celebrations, the contradiction is jarring. It’s not hard to find the irony.

This is a club that famously opened its arms to Fernando Valenzuela—whose legacy still echoes through Northeast L.A. like a sacred chant—and that once brought out a mariachi band for Mexican-American pitcher Joe Kelly, turning him into a folk hero. But today, that goodwill is fraying.

The timing of it all only adds to the suspicion. Mere hours after the story of the anthem singer broke, Shohei Ohtani—arguably the greatest player in baseball—made a surprise pitching debut. After more than two years recovering from Tommy John surgery, and after the team had repeatedly emphasized they wouldn’t rush his return, Ohtani took the mound. The same night.

Coincidence? Some fans aren’t so sure.

If it was a distraction play, it didn’t work. Social media has been ablaze with criticism. Threads from Chicano organizers, broadcasters, and even Dodgers season ticket holders are gaining traction, not just for their frustration but for their grief. Because for many, that’s what this feels like: betrayal. And not the kind that comes from a blown ninth-inning save—but the kind that comes from seeing a beloved institution lose its way.

For me, this runs deeper than just another bad PR cycle. My grandfather, Fernando Plana, was one of the original 300 families displaced by eminent domain when the city bulldozed homes in Chavez Ravine to make way for Dodgers Stadium. They told people they were clearing the land for public housing. Then the public housing never came. The ballpark did. Still, my grandfather never stopped loving this team. He died a Dodgers fan. I’m not so sure he would be now.

Dodgers Stadium may sit atop a hill—but it rests on top of history. A painful one. And yet, through the decades, the team rebuilt that trust. Not just with championships, but with outreach, visibility, and culture. With Fernando. With Jaime Jarrín. With the Spanish-language broadcast that’s become a sacred ritual for abuelos and tíos who never missed a game.

For the Dodgers, it wasn’t just the talent on the field that made them a powerhouse—it was the passion in the bleachers. And if they’re not careful, that loyalty could turn into something far harder to recover than a sore elbow or a losing streak.

The Dodgers—and Major League Baseball as a whole—have long been one of the rare spaces where young Latinos could truly see themselves. On the mound. In the dugout. In the stands. For generations, that visibility wasn’t just symbolic. It was personal. It was powerful. It told us that we belonged.

But today, many are asking a harder question: Do we still?

And the fact that they’re even asking should be enough to make the organization stop and listen.