celebrating

As Dodgers players packed in for Clayton Kershaw’s retirement news conference last Thursday, Freddie Freeman waved the Kershaw family to a row of seats at the front of the room.

He wanted Kershaw’s wife, Ellen, and their four kids in front of the pitcher right when he sat down at the dais at Dodger Stadium.

How else, Freeman joked, could they get the future Hall of Famer to cry?

Turned out, in a 14-minute address announcing his retirement from baseball at the end of this season, Kershaw did get choked up from behind the mic. But, it happened first when he addressed his teammates. They, he told him, were who he was going to miss most.

“The hardest one is the teammates, so I’m not even going to look at you guys in the eye,” Kershaw said, his eyes quickly turning red. “Just you guys sitting in this room, you mean so much to me. We have so much fun. I’m going to miss it.”

“The game in and of itself, I’m going to miss a lot, but I’ll be OK without that,” he later added. “I think the hard part is the feeling after a win, celebrating with you guys. That’s pretty special.”

Days later, that message continues to reverberate.

For the Dodgers, it served as a reminder and a reset.

Ever since early July, the team had lived in a world blanketed by frustration and wracked with repeated misery. Many players were hurt or uncharacteristically slumping. The team as a whole endured an extended sub-.500 skid. Behind inconsistent offense and unreliable bullpen pitching, a big division lead dwindled. Visions of 120-win grandeur were meekly dashed.

Amid that slump, the club’s focus drifted. From team production to individual mechanics. From collective urgency to internal dissatisfaction.

“Everyone on this team has been so busy this year trying to perfect their craft,” third baseman Max Muncy said, “that sometimes we forget about that moment of just hanging out and enjoying what we’re going through. “

Or, as Kershaw put it after his final regular-season Dodger Stadium start on Friday, “the collective effort to do something hard together.”

“All that stuff is just so impactful, so meaningful,” Kershaw explained.

And if it had gone missing during the depths of mostly difficult summer months, Kershaw’s retirement has thrust it back to the forefront.

“I do think it helps reset,” Muncy said. “Over the course of seven, eight months, you see each other every day and sometimes you take that a little bit for granted … It’s not something that anyone forgot. But sometimes you need a refresher. I think that was a good moment for it.”

Don’t mistake this as a “Win one for Kersh!” attitude. The Dodgers insisted they needed no extra motivation to defend their title, even after what’s been a turbulent repeat campaign.

Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershaw announces he will retire at the end of the season during a news conference at Dodger Stadium.

But, both players and coaches have noted recently, their efforts this year have sometimes felt misplaced. The togetherness they lauded during last year’s championship march hadn’t always been replicated. A pall was cast over much of the second half.

“When you’re not winning games, it’s not fun,” veteran infielder Miguel Rojas said earlier this month. “But at the end of the day, we gotta put all that aside. … We have to come here and enjoy ourselves around the clubhouse, regardless of the situation.”

The Dodgers did that and more this past weekend, when a celebration of Kershaw — which included nearly team-wide attendance at his Thursday news conference, several on-field ovations Friday, and Kershaw’s address to Dodger Stadium on Sunday — was accompanied by three wins out of four against the San Francisco Giants.

“Watching him get choked up when he started talking about the teammates — it was just a crazy feeling in that room,” pitcher Tyler Glasnow recounted from Thursday’s announcement.

Added Muncy: “You hear when he talks about the stuff he’s gonna miss the most, the stuff that he enjoys the most: It’s being a part of the team. It’s being with the guys. It’s being in the clubhouse.

“To hear a guy like him just reinforce that, I think it’s a good message for a lot of people to hear.”

In Muncy’s estimation, the Dodgers have “seen a reflection of that out on the field” of late, having moved to the verge of a division title (their magic number entering play Monday was three with a 10-4 record over the last two weeks.

“There’s been more of an effort to try and enjoy the moments,” Muncy said. “Make sure we’re still getting our work in, but try to enjoy the moments.”

The Dodgers made a similar transformation last October, when they used their first-round bye week to build the kind of cohesion they had lacked in previous postseason failures — one the team credited constantly in its eventual run to the World Series.

Kershaw’s retirement might’ve provided a similar spark, highlighting the significance of such intangible dynamics while lifting the gloom that had clouded the team’s last two months.

“There’s obviously been a lot of things to point [to this season], as far as adversities, which all teams go through,” Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said. “But I think that as we’ve gotten to the other side of it … guys have stuck together and they’ve come out of it stronger, which a lot of the times, that’s what adversity does.”

More adversity, of course, figures to lie ahead.

The Dodgers ended the weekend on a sour note, with Blake Treinen suffering the latest bullpen implosion in a 3-1 loss on Sunday. They’ll still enter the playoffs in a somewhat unsettled place, needing to navigate around a struggling relief corps and overcome a hand injury to catcher Will Smith.

It means, like last year, their path through October is unlikely to be smooth.

That, after a second half full of frustrations, they’ll have to lean on a culture Kershaw emphasized, and praised, repeatedly over the weekend.

“To have a group of guys in it together, and kind of understanding that and being together, being able to have a ton of fun all the time, is really important,” Kershaw said. “The older I’ve gotten, the more important [I’ve realized] it is. Like, you can’t just go through your day every day and go through the emotions. You just can’t. It’s too hard, too long to do that.”

“You gotta have Miggy doing the mic on the bus. You gotta have Kiké. You gotta have all these guys that are able to keep us having fun and energized every single day. That’s what this group is, and it’s been a blast.”

‘Do you think I’m going to be cold?” asks my friend Ellie as we navigate the winding roads of Mosedale, on the north-eastern reaches of the Lake District, while rain batters against the windscreen. It’s a fair question. Both the Met Office and Mountain Weather Information Service are clear – being in the Lakeland hills will not be pleasant this Friday night, due to a sudden cold and wet snap. But there’s another reason she’s asking. I’m taking her to stay in her first bothy – that’s a mountain shelter left open, year-round, for walkers, climbers and outdoor enthusiasts to use, free of charge, with no way to book.

Unlike mountain huts in other parts of Europe and the world, they weren’t built for this purpose. They are old buildings left to ruin in wild places – former coastguard lookouts, gamekeepers’ cottages, remote Highland schoolrooms – before the Mountain Bothies Association (MBA) began to maintain them, offering shelter in a storm. And during this particular storm, shelter is definitely needed.

Before we left, Ellie was worried about what to pack, and well she might be. Despite a bothy having four walls, a roof, windows and a front door (they range from tiny, one-room affairs to sprawling, multi-bedroom structures), they are still very basic. There is no running water (there’s usually a stream nearby for this), no toilet (each has a bothy spade so you can dig your own) and no electricity (tealights and a headtorch are a must), and the one we are heading to, Great Lingy Hut, doesn’t even have the usual bothy stove for warmth.

Yet it’s precisely for these reasons that I’ve chosen it to be Ellie’s first. I know that because of the bad weather it’s unlikely we’ll have to share with anyone else. We park at the base of Carrock Fell, where the River Caldew is now a raging torrent. It is past dusk; the rain has eased to a mere mizzle and we can just make out the shape of the building on the skyline. With backpacks shouldered we begin uphill, keeping our eyes open for signs of walkers who may have potentially beaten us to it.

“Visitor numbers have definitely gone up in recent years,” the chair of the MBA, Simon Birch, tells me when I speak to him the night before. “Of course, back in the day they were kept a secret – some old documents I was going through have ‘confidential’ written across them. But people can’t keep secrets like this.”

It was in 2009 that the MBA decided to publish grid references to its 100-strong network on its website – despite some internal protests. After that, the “cat was out of the bag”, says Birch. When the MBA celebrated its 50-year anniversary in 2015, I asked and was granted permission to write the first guidebook about bothies – as a love letter to them, rather than a definitive guide. There was a lot of pushback, though. When The Book of the Bothy was published, I experienced online trolling (from MBA members and others), abusive emails, complaints to my publisher and even threats. But at the same time, one of the MBA’s co-founders, Betty Heath, told me how much she loved my passion; Birch told me that younger members began to sign up (when there was a real danger of membership ageing out); and now there is even a female thirtysomething trustee.

Out of the 105 bothies they currently look after, only two are owned by the MBA. All the others are on leases. “Ultimately, we could lose all our bothies, if the owners decided to take them back,” says Birch – which proves just how special the network and ethos of bothies is.

The hut we head to in the Lakes was originally used by miners at the nearby and now disused Carrock Mine (which dates back to the 16th century). It was relocated to its higher location on the moor as a shooting box. During the 1960s it was leased to the “Friends” Quaker boarding school in Wigton as an outdoor base and was fitted with a sleeping platform. When that school closed in 1984, it became an open shelter, and eventually the Lake District national park took responsibility for its maintenance before handing it over to the MBA in 2017.

We pass the mine workings under a starry sky, so they appear only as silhouettes. We ford the stream with the help of walking poles and mutual words of encouragement. Finally, we reach the door and experience the anticipatory few seconds that anyone who’s ever stayed in a bothy will know – when after hours of walking you knock on the door with mild trepidation, to discover if anyone else has beaten you to it. The door swings open. It’s empty. We have it to ourselves.

“The biggest change has been the impact that the growing popularity of long-distance trails has had on the bothies,” Simon tells me. “Some of the spots are incredibly well used, and we now have a sanitation officer in the MBA.”

I give Ellie a brief rundown of bothy etiquette. Put candles and the camping stove in the designated area so as not to cause a fire risk. Use the spade for the toilet – well away from the building and any watercourses. Set up a bag for waste. As a countryside girl, she has a good idea of the code – but Birch says a problem the MBA is facing in its 60th year is that content creators are showing people the bothies on social media but not teaching good practice. As such, in a very modern move, the MBA is seeking creators to collaborate with it, to demonstrate responsible bothying.

We settle in, heating a pre-made tagine and making hot chocolates to keep us warm. I also fill hot-water bottles. We chat for hours, me regaling Ellie with stories of previous bothy visits – including the time I inadvertently crashed a stag party in Scotland.

The wind whistles through the cables that hold Great Lingy Hut down, but despite this, as mothers of young children, we both sleep well away from the madness of our day-to-day lives.

Recent figures put the MBA membership at 3,800 – with many more users who don’t pay the annual £25 donation to join. We’re staying at one of the newer buildings in the network, but Birch tells me there are no plans to take on any more.

We enjoy our breakfast beside the window, where a lifting fog offers tantalising views down this little-visited valley.

As we leave, I feel hopeful for the next 60 years of bothies in Britain. We pack not only our own rubbish but empty packets and used candle holders left by others. “I love it,” says Ellie, “leaving it better than we arrived.” She may have begun this adventure worried about feeling cold but, thanks to the magic of bothies, is leaving as many do, warmed by the whole wild and wonderful experience.

For more information visit the Mountain Bothies Association. The Book of the Bothy by Phoebe Smith is available for £12.95 from guardianbookshop.com

Zilisch is widely considered to be a future star of the sport and is expected to secure a full-time drive in Nascar’s top tier, the Cup Series, in 2026.

He has dominated in his rookie year in Xfinity, and won at Watkins Glen, New York, after emerging unscathed from a dramatic 16-car crash in the closing stages.

Zilisch was forced to miss a race after injuring his back in a crash at Talladega in June but bounced back in style and his win on Saturday was his fifth victory in eight races.

No timeline has been put on his return by Zilisch or his JR Motorsports team, which is run by former driver Dale Earnhardt Jr, but the Xfinity Series championship play-offs begin at Portland on 31 August.

He was set to make his fourth top-tier Cup start of the season on Sunday at Watkins Glen but will miss that race as a result of the injury.