On a sunlit Saturday in a modest Echo Park garage, Ricardo “Rico” Alvarez sanded a slot for a tiny bench while his 10-year-old daughter mixed Dodgers-blue paint and his 7-year-old son tracked precise measurements. The handmade dugouts—rough-hewn, lovingly painted, and finished with tiny benches and nameplates—were more than toys. For Alvarez, a 42-year-old auto mechanic and lifelong Dodgers devotee, they were the tool that resurrected a dormant affection for a sport he feared he had outgrown.

“I used to go to games with my dad and talk about everything,” Alvarez said in an interview following a CBS News feature that ran on Sept. 25. “For years I felt too busy to care. Building these with my kids brought all that back. We’re teaching them how to use tools and how to cheer again.”

The segment has since circulated online, drawing thousands of comments from fans who saw their own family rituals reflected in Alvarez’s project. The moment highlights a confluence of cultural currents: the resurgence of hands-on maker culture, a premium on shared family experiences after pandemic disruptions, and the continued centrality of sports fandom as a repository for identity and communal memory.

Local businesses have noticed. Maria Lopez, who runs a small woodworking shop two blocks away, said foot traffic and inquiries about custom miniature stadiums have increased since the television spot aired. “People want something real, something they can pass down,” Lopez said. “We’re getting calls from parents who want to make a weekend out of it—supply the wood, teach them how to stain it, they go home with a memory.”

There are business implications beyond the artisan market. Major-league clubs, including the Dodgers, have invested heavily in fan experience as a growth strategy—expanding digital content, in-stadium activations and community outreach. Grassroots projects like Alvarez’s create organic engagement that national marketing teams covet but cannot easily manufacture. Such initiatives also raise practical questions about licensing and merchandise rights; while small handmade creations typically skirt commercial scrutiny, a surge in demand could prompt more formalized partnerships between clubs and local makers.

Culturally, the project reflects how sports rituals adapt. The dugout, a symbol usually reserved for players and coaches, is reclaimed here as a domestic object, mediating conversations about masculinity, fatherhood and legacy. “It’s a tactile way to transmit fandom,” said a UCLA sociologist who studies sports culture. “You’re not just watching a game; you’re embedding it in family practice.”

Beyond trade and trend, Alvarez’s story underscores a social function long ascribed to sports: repair. Many viewers wrote that the footage reminded them of neglected traditions and the simple power of making time for kids. For Alvarez, the project has already expanded beyond his garage. He plans to teach a weekend workshop at a local community center this fall, hoping to help other families reconnect.

“We built more than a dugout,” he said. “We built Saturdays again.” In a city where fandom is often measured by attendance figures and merchandising dollars, Alvarez’s workshop is a quiet reminder that some of the most valuable returns on sports investment are human—and handmade.