The Dodgers Did What DHS Wouldn’t

In the middle of Trump’s federal overreach, Dodger Stadium quietly told ICE: not here. That matters.

If you know me, you know I ride for the Dodgers. I was seven years old when they won the World Series. I wore that win like armor—held it close as proof that magic could live in Chavez Ravine. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. The 2020 title came, but it felt like a Zoom World Series. Pandemic ball. Cardboard fans. No parade. It didn’t hit. But 2025? Oh, that one hit. That one meant something. I was ready to high-five strangers, get a little emotional over Mookie, and blast “I Love LA” until my neighbors filed noise complaints.

And then they went to visit Donald Trump.

Nothing kills a buzz faster than watching your team honor the very man whose policies have harmed so many of their fans. A man who, by 2025, wasn’t just “controversial” or “polarizing,” but literally convicted. Criminal. Not in the metaphorical, “this guy’s a crook” sense. I mean legally criminal. The guy’s rap sheet could take up an entire Baseball Almanac at this point. So yes, my celebration was abruptly canceled the moment I saw the Dodgers, all smiles and tailored suits, cozying up to the criminal-in-chief like he hadn’t spent years attacking immigrants, Latinos, and anyone who dared ask for a more just America.

So when news broke on June 19 that the Dodgers had blocked ICE from entering Dodger Stadium, I was—if I’m being honest—shocked. Shocked in the same way you’re shocked when someone who owes you money randomly zells you with interest. I had to reread the headline twice. The Dodgers? Those Dodgers? The ones who just let Trump breathe all over their trophy? Yes. Those Dodgers.

Apparently, immigration agents showed up in the parking lot and were promptly told to take their deportation cosplay elsewhere. And I mean that literally. They were not allowed inside. The team said nah. Not here. Not at our stadium. Not tonight. And in a city like Los Angeles—where the legacy of deportation terror has left generational trauma in communities of color—that matters. Even if it was temporary, even if it was performative, it mattered. Because this was the same week ICE was out here doing what ICE always does: ruining lives and calling it homeland security.

Let me pause here and make something clear for the folks in the back: I. Hate. ICE. Always have. Always will. I hate ICE, the presidents who fund it, the officials who enable it, the people who dream of joining it. And if you think that’s too harsh, go read my article “ICE Terrorized Los Angeles While You Were Distracted” and then come back to me. ICE is not “just doing their jobs.” They are doing violence in the name of bureaucracy. Kicking down doors, separating families, leaving children parentless. They don’t deport “criminals.” They deport neighbors, co-workers, parents, and teenagers trying to finish high school. If ICE showed up at your tailgate, you’d never be able to eat a Dodger Dog without flinching again.

So when the Dodgers told them to turn around, I was stunned. And I wasn’t alone. City Councilmember Eunisses Hernandez helped coordinate the pushback, and Governor Newsom—who, let’s be real, hasn’t always stuck the landing on immigration—at least gave the right kind of applause this time. This wasn’t just about optics. It was about finally drawing a line between entertainment and complicity.

And let’s talk about complicity. Let’s talk about how evil becomes ordinary. There’s a Latin phrase I want you to know: Obsequium voluntarium. It means “voluntary obedience.” It describes the kind of complicity that doesn’t come from fear—but from comfort. From laziness. From wanting to avoid trouble or blend in. This is the mindset of the person who says, “Well, ICE is just doing their job,” or “Trump’s not perfect, but…” It’s not that they’re terrified of punishment. It’s that they’d rather not have to think too hard. Obsequium voluntarium is how democracies rot from the inside out—not with violence at first, but with shrugs. With silence.

This is deeply tied to status quo bias, that little voice in your head that says, “It’s always been this way, so maybe it’s not that bad.” Or the mere exposure effect, where the more we see something—even something vile—the more normal it feels. Trump screams about immigrants every day? Eh, that’s just him being him. ICE raids a neighborhood? Happens all the time. You see? That’s how it starts. Not with jackboots. But with desensitization.

And when you push back? When you try to scream that this isn’t normal? People will accuse you of being dramatic. Because they’ve succumbed to what psychologists call system justification theory—the need to believe that the system, even a broken one, is fundamentally fair. They don’t want to feel the discomfort of realizing they’ve been co-signing cruelty, so they tell themselves a prettier lie: “Maybe those families really did do something wrong. Maybe ICE is just protecting us. Maybe Trump didn’t mean it that way.” That’s not logic. That’s copium.

This is why I’ve said before—and will say again—don’t talk to me about “just following orders.” That’s the language of cowards. Hannah Arendt called it the banality of evil, and she was right. Evil doesn’t always look like a supervillain twirling a mustache. Sometimes it looks like a guy in khakis and a clipboard checking off names. Or a stadium security official saying, “Well, they have badges, so we have to let them in.” No you don’t. And thankfully, on June 19, the Dodgers didn’t.

We’ve seen this before. Stanley Milgram proved in the 1960s that ordinary people will do horrifying things if a person in authority tells them it’s okay. Shock the learner. Press the button. Deport the family. We don’t do these things because we’re monsters. We do them because we’re conditioned to obey. But obedience isn’t neutral. It’s not harmless. In the face of injustice, obedience is complicity.

And if anyone should understand that, it’s the Dodgers. This is an organization built on the legacy of Jackie Robinson, a man who endured unspeakable racism to break baseball’s color line. So it was especially painful when, just two months ago, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar publicly called out the team for their hypocrisy. On Jackie Robinson Day, no less. Kareem asked—loudly—how the Dodgers could celebrate Robinson’s legacy while aligning themselves with a man like Trump, whose values are the antithesis of everything Robinson stood for. It wasn’t just a jab. It was a moral reckoning. You don’t get to drape yourself in civil rights symbolism while shaking hands with someone who spent his presidency demonizing Black athletes, immigrants, and anyone who dared to kneel.

So yeah, when I say I was shocked that they blocked ICE, I mean it. I was ready to be cynical forever. But maybe—just maybe—they’re waking up to the stakes. Maybe someone in the front office realized that “shut up and dribble” energy doesn’t work in a city like L.A., where our communities are the very ones targeted by ICE’s cruelty. Maybe they finally heard us.

To be clear, this doesn’t absolve the Dodgers. One good act doesn’t erase cowardice. But it’s a start. And in a time when ICE raids are treated like admin duties and Trump’s criminal record gets spun like a badge of honor, I’ll take a start.

I still haven’t forgotten that White House visit. I still can’t look at some of those post-game pictures without getting nauseous. But on June 19, something happened. Something real. And I’ll be damned if I don’t give credit where it’s due.

As for ICE and Trump? They can go to hell. No Latin translation needed.If you know me, you know I ride for the Dodgers. I was seven years old when they won the World Series. I wore that win like armor—held it close as proof that magic could live in Chavez Ravine. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. The 2020 title came, but it felt like a Zoom World Series. Pandemic ball. Cardboard fans. No parade. It didn’t hit. But 2025? Oh, that one hit. That one meant something. I was ready to high-five strangers, get a little emotional over Mookie, and blast “I Love LA” until my neighbors filed noise complaints.

And then they went to visit Donald Trump.

Nothing kills a buzz faster than watching your team honor the very man whose policies have harmed so many of their fans. A man who, by 2025, wasn’t just “controversial” or “polarizing,” but literally convicted. Criminal. Not in the metaphorical, “this guy’s a crook” sense. I mean legally criminal. The guy’s rap sheet could take up an entire Baseball Almanac at this point. So yes, my celebration was abruptly canceled the moment I saw the Dodgers, all smiles and tailored suits, cozying up to the criminal-in-chief like he hadn’t spent years attacking immigrants, Latinos, and anyone who dared ask for a more just America.

So when news broke on June 19 that the Dodgers had blocked ICE from entering Dodger Stadium, I was—if I’m being honest—shocked. Shocked in the same way you’re shocked when someone who owes you money randomly zells you with interest. I had to reread the headline twice. The Dodgers? Those Dodgers? The ones who just let Trump breathe all over their trophy? Yes. Those Dodgers.

Apparently, immigration agents showed up in the parking lot and were promptly told to take their deportation cosplay elsewhere. And I mean that literally. They were not allowed inside. The team said nah. Not here. Not at our stadium. Not tonight. And in a city like Los Angeles—where the legacy of deportation terror has left generational trauma in communities of color—that matters. Even if it was temporary, even if it was performative, it mattered. Because this was the same week ICE was out here doing what ICE always does: ruining lives and calling it homeland security.

Let me pause here and make something clear for the folks in the back: I. Hate. ICE. Always have. Always will. I hate ICE, the presidents who fund it, the officials who enable it, the people who dream of joining it. And if you think that’s too harsh, go read my article “ICE Terrorized Los Angeles While You Were Distracted” and then come back to me. ICE is not “just doing their jobs.” They are doing violence in the name of bureaucracy. Kicking down doors, separating families, leaving children parentless. They don’t deport “criminals.” They deport neighbors, co-workers, parents, and teenagers trying to finish high school. If ICE showed up at your tailgate, you’d never be able to eat a Dodger Dog without flinching again.

So when the Dodgers told them to turn around, I was stunned. And I wasn’t alone. City Councilmember Eunisses Hernandez helped coordinate the pushback, and Governor Newsom—who, let’s be real, hasn’t always stuck the landing on immigration—at least gave the right kind of applause this time. This wasn’t just about optics. It was about finally drawing a line between entertainment and complicity.

And let’s talk about complicity. Let’s talk about how evil becomes ordinary. There’s a Latin phrase I want you to know: Obsequium voluntarium. It means “voluntary obedience.” It describes the kind of complicity that doesn’t come from fear—but from comfort. From laziness. From wanting to avoid trouble or blend in. This is the mindset of the person who says, “Well, ICE is just doing their job,” or “Trump’s not perfect, but…” It’s not that they’re terrified of punishment. It’s that they’d rather not have to think too hard. Obsequium voluntarium is how democracies rot from the inside out—not with violence at first, but with shrugs. With silence.

This is deeply tied to status quo bias, that little voice in your head that says, “It’s always been this way, so maybe it’s not that bad.” Or the mere exposure effect, where the more we see something—even something vile—the more normal it feels. Trump screams about immigrants every day? Eh, that’s just him being him. ICE raids a neighborhood? Happens all the time. You see? That’s how it starts. Not with jackboots. But with desensitization.

And when you push back? When you try to scream that this isn’t normal? People will accuse you of being dramatic. Because they’ve succumbed to what psychologists call system justification theory—the need to believe that the system, even a broken one, is fundamentally fair. They don’t want to feel the discomfort of realizing they’ve been co-signing cruelty, so they tell themselves a prettier lie: “Maybe those families really did do something wrong. Maybe ICE is just protecting us. Maybe Trump didn’t mean it that way.” That’s not logic. That’s copium.

This is why I’ve said before—and will say again—don’t talk to me about “just following orders.” That’s the language of cowards. Hannah Arendt called it the banality of evil, and she was right. Evil doesn’t always look like a supervillain twirling a mustache. Sometimes it looks like a guy in khakis and a clipboard checking off names. Or a stadium security official saying, “Well, they have badges, so we have to let them in.” No you don’t. And thankfully, on June 19, the Dodgers didn’t.

We’ve seen this before. Stanley Milgram proved in the 1960s that ordinary people will do horrifying things if a person in authority tells them it’s okay. Shock the learner. Press the button. Deport the family. We don’t do these things because we’re monsters. We do them because we’re conditioned to obey. But obedience isn’t neutral. It’s not harmless. In the face of injustice, obedience is complicity.

And if anyone should understand that, it’s the Dodgers. This is an organization built on the legacy of Jackie Robinson, a man who endured unspeakable racism to break baseball’s color line. So it was especially painful when, just two months ago, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar publicly called out the team for their hypocrisy. On Jackie Robinson Day, no less. Kareem asked—loudly—how the Dodgers could celebrate Robinson’s legacy while aligning themselves with a man like Trump, whose values are the antithesis of everything Robinson stood for. It wasn’t just a jab. It was a moral reckoning. You don’t get to drape yourself in civil rights symbolism while shaking hands with someone who spent his presidency demonizing Black athletes, immigrants, and anyone who dared to kneel.

So yeah, when I say I was shocked that they blocked ICE, I mean it. I was ready to be cynical forever. But maybe—just maybe—they’re waking up to the stakes. Maybe someone in the front office realized that “shut up and dribble” energy doesn’t work in a city like L.A., where our communities are the very ones targeted by ICE’s cruelty. Maybe they finally heard us.

To be clear, this doesn’t absolve the Dodgers. One good act doesn’t erase cowardice. But it’s a start. And in a time when ICE raids are treated like admin duties and Trump’s criminal record gets spun like a badge of honor, I’ll take a start.

I still haven’t forgotten that White House visit. I still can’t look at some of those post-game pictures without getting nauseous. But on June 19, something happened. Something real. And I’ll be damned if I don’t give credit where it’s due.

As for ICE and Trump? They can go to hell. No Latin translation needed.