The remnants of a great organization left to smoulder for an offseason and two of the worst people on the planet preparing to do bloody battle over their riches. The McCourts deserve each other. Jaimie is a uniquely horrible woman. I liken her to Eva Braun, Sarah Palin and Lizzy Borden. Frank is even worse. He's sickeningly rich but constantly cries poor, even before the divorce. I detest that kind of man, forget that kind of owner. I'm talking about his character. For the last two years all the Narcissist needed to do to get his team into a World Series for the first time in over 20 years was to acquire a starting pitcher worthy of being called an ace. He had his opportunities. He simply chose not to spend the money. Now, he has the divorce as a convenient excuse to grip his wallet even tighter. Let's face it. The 2 consecutive NLCS appearances are Frank McCourt's World Series. He cares only about his profits asnd nothing about the 3.6 million who flock to his ballpark like loyal lemmings every season. Meanwhile, he lobbies - yes, lobbies - for philanthropic recognition. All the while, rumors and testimony abound about his trying to pick up on women in the Dugout Club. In my friend's case, he hit on his wife while my friend was standing right there! He's the quintessential outoftowner LA jerk. The best thing that could happen for Dodger fans is if he loses the sole ownership battle and is forced to sell the team to someone who actually wants to win. Even the talking heads on the MLB Network are not so quietly wondering why the Dodger owner did NOTHING to replace the departed Randy Wolf in their rotation and did NOTHING to acquire a corner infielder with pop. Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News have also chimed in with their predictions of Dodger doom in 2010. This year, the year the Dodgers should be rising to the top with their young talent supossedly reaching their potential, will be a throw away year. So will next year. And McCourt and his cronies will cite their NLCS appearances in '08 and '09 as huge victories while the Phillies and other organizations continue to improve and catch and pass the Dodgers. It makes me sick.
So, where will the Dodgers finish in 2010? So many ifs have to go right for this team to repeat as Western Division Champs. In my opinion, all of these ifs MUST become reality:
1) IF Clayton Kershaw becomes the bona fide ace he's supposed to become and has a Cy Young type of year.
2) IF Chad Billingsley becomes the bona fide ace hes supposed to become and has a Cy Young type of year.
3) IF Vicente Padilla can have a solid full season and win 15 games
4) IF Manny Ramirez can regain most of his 2008 form.
5) IF Andre Ethier can repeat or improve on the great year he had in '09.
6) IF Matt Kemp emerges as the superstar he's supoosed to become
7) IF James Loney can get his head out of his butt and focus, improve his average and hit some damn home runs
8) IF Rafael Furcal can make the damn plays and get on base. (Not looking too good thus far in the Cactus League. Look for Dee Gordon or Ivan De Jesus to get an early call-up)
9) IF Russell Martin can drive the ball again, hit to all fields, keep his head in the game and not stink
10) IF Jonathan Broxton can overcome his deer in the headlights mentality and go after people, like, for instance Matt Stairs?
11) IF their bullpen can repeat last year's performance
12) IF they can remain virtually injury-free
13) IF their cheapskate owner will get the arm or arms they need by the trade deadline.
Look, the Dodgers didn't win last year and they have essentially the same team. There's no reason to believe, as other teams improved, that they can do BETTER than in previous years. That would be assuming way too much about the players they have. I think they'll falter right from the gate. I think, as the season unfolds, Manny will be a distraction and, his skills diminished, will be gone by 7/31 for warmer climes in the AL DH market. The Rockies have excellent starting pitching, more resolve and a strong lineup. The Giants have Lincecum and Cain and a much improved lineup. The D Backs have Edwin Jackson and Connor Jackson back. If Brandon Webb can pitch again along with fulls seasons from Miguel Montero and a scary Justin Upton, I think they can also be a force. I just don't think the Dodgers will have the pitching necessary to stay in contention. So, here it is:
1) Rockies
2) Giants
3) D Backs
4) Dodgers
5) Padres
Thanks a lot, Frank. You're a real civic treasure.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
My First Post of the 2010 Season
"Dad, are you getting too hot, ya wanna go into the Dugout Club for awhile, get out of the sun?"
"No, I'm fine. I got my hat," he said. He did have his hat. His big straw golf hat, a la Chi Chi Rodriguez.
"Pretty amazing, these seats, huh?"
"Unbelievable," he said, and he gazed out at the field from the second row of my friend Danny's Dugout Club seats. They were amazing seats. Best in the Ravine. Dan had them for years but gave them up a few years back because the Dodgers doubled the cost! They were 60 grand for the season for the two of them, now they wanted 120 grand. But at least he had them long enough for me to take my dad just once, on a Sunday afternoon in mid-summer. All the celebs and luminaries sat around us. Rob Reiner's seats were a few feet to our right, but ours were the best. The first row was too low. The second row was perfect. But mostly, they were the best because I was with my dad. Can't remember if the Dodgers won or lost, but I remember my dad had a great time. He had a Dodger dog or two, a beer, some peanuts. The only thing missing was Vinny's play by play and maybe, me being twelve.
I remember all the games my dad took me to as a kid. An Angel game where we almost caught a foul pop-up but it ended up glancing off something and hitting my dad's bald head. (Yes, I was an Angel's Fan when I was very, very young. Jim Fregosi was my favorite player) Dad was fine. Embarassed, but fine. The stadium staff checked on him. After the game, the Angels arranged for us to wait outside the players exit and have the ball autographed. Jim Fregosi signed that ball. I was floating. But my dad's courageous but failed attempt made it all happen. His bad hands and his bald head gave me the biggest thrill of my young baseball life. The biggest thrill in my later life was being able to take my dad to one Dodger game in the Dugout Club seats.
I played the game. I remember all the games I played in from my first game in little league til my last game at UCLA. There was my dad, sitting there in the heat, the cold, often watching others play as I rode the pine. Then when I played years of semipro ball after that, there, often, was my dad, wondering why that dumb kid was playing and I wasn't. As recently as a few years ago, I was playing third base in a wood bat league in Beverly Hills and as I just made a nifty play on a ball to my left, (a play I seriously doubt I could make anymore - I could barely make it then) I caught a glimpse of dad making it into the bleachers and giving me a thumbs up. Ya know something? I was just as proud to have my dad see me do well as I was after I got my first hit in little league. My dad coached me and my brother one year. We were the Indians of the Westdale Mar Vista Baseball Association. We had green sleeves and hats under grey flannel uniforms and green windbreakers. I still have my dad's windbreaker in my closet. It has a patch on the front that reads, "Manager Lee." My dad was born and raised in the South side of Chicago and moved to LA when he was in college. He never really played the game at an organized level, himself, but my dad knew things. He could break down a swing and a throw. He was an industrial engineer, so he knew movement and efficiency. He was an outdoorsman - a trout and bass fisherman, a hunter, a sailor, a pilot, a golfer. But most importantly, he was a dad. That was credential enough as far as I'm concerned.
My dad, who gave me the stars and the mountains and the trees, who gave me evenings listening to Vin Scully as he tinkered in the garage, and everything I would experience on a daily basis, passed away on March 4th from a rare form of lymphoma. He was 82 and a half to the day. He had only been diagnosed last July. Before that, I would sometimes see him teeing off as I drove past the golf course. I would call on weekends but he'd be gone - out sailing on his friend's boat. I'd call in the evenings, but often he couldn't talk because he was running a HAM radio net. My dad never became an old man and he never stopped being my dad. His youngest son, choosing to be a writer and therefore, a pauper, still needed his dad way too much for a man his age. As recenly as last May, my dad paid for my new engine when my Honda practically exploded. My dad was there for the breakups, the shows that didn't get past the pilot stage, the thrills and the disappointments. My dad was still there whenever I needed his advice, with that authoritative, resonant, but calm and pleasant radio voice I miss more than I can articulate.
I was young and busy the last time the Dodgers won the World Series in 1988. Don't remember where my dad was when they recorded that final out. I just know how nice it would've been to sit with my dad and turn the sound down on the TV and listen to Vin Scully announce the Dodgers are World Champions just one more time. I would have loved to see the smile on his face. And he would have loved to see the smile on mine. I love you, dad. And I miss you.
"No, I'm fine. I got my hat," he said. He did have his hat. His big straw golf hat, a la Chi Chi Rodriguez.
"Pretty amazing, these seats, huh?"
"Unbelievable," he said, and he gazed out at the field from the second row of my friend Danny's Dugout Club seats. They were amazing seats. Best in the Ravine. Dan had them for years but gave them up a few years back because the Dodgers doubled the cost! They were 60 grand for the season for the two of them, now they wanted 120 grand. But at least he had them long enough for me to take my dad just once, on a Sunday afternoon in mid-summer. All the celebs and luminaries sat around us. Rob Reiner's seats were a few feet to our right, but ours were the best. The first row was too low. The second row was perfect. But mostly, they were the best because I was with my dad. Can't remember if the Dodgers won or lost, but I remember my dad had a great time. He had a Dodger dog or two, a beer, some peanuts. The only thing missing was Vinny's play by play and maybe, me being twelve.
I remember all the games my dad took me to as a kid. An Angel game where we almost caught a foul pop-up but it ended up glancing off something and hitting my dad's bald head. (Yes, I was an Angel's Fan when I was very, very young. Jim Fregosi was my favorite player) Dad was fine. Embarassed, but fine. The stadium staff checked on him. After the game, the Angels arranged for us to wait outside the players exit and have the ball autographed. Jim Fregosi signed that ball. I was floating. But my dad's courageous but failed attempt made it all happen. His bad hands and his bald head gave me the biggest thrill of my young baseball life. The biggest thrill in my later life was being able to take my dad to one Dodger game in the Dugout Club seats.
I played the game. I remember all the games I played in from my first game in little league til my last game at UCLA. There was my dad, sitting there in the heat, the cold, often watching others play as I rode the pine. Then when I played years of semipro ball after that, there, often, was my dad, wondering why that dumb kid was playing and I wasn't. As recently as a few years ago, I was playing third base in a wood bat league in Beverly Hills and as I just made a nifty play on a ball to my left, (a play I seriously doubt I could make anymore - I could barely make it then) I caught a glimpse of dad making it into the bleachers and giving me a thumbs up. Ya know something? I was just as proud to have my dad see me do well as I was after I got my first hit in little league. My dad coached me and my brother one year. We were the Indians of the Westdale Mar Vista Baseball Association. We had green sleeves and hats under grey flannel uniforms and green windbreakers. I still have my dad's windbreaker in my closet. It has a patch on the front that reads, "Manager Lee." My dad was born and raised in the South side of Chicago and moved to LA when he was in college. He never really played the game at an organized level, himself, but my dad knew things. He could break down a swing and a throw. He was an industrial engineer, so he knew movement and efficiency. He was an outdoorsman - a trout and bass fisherman, a hunter, a sailor, a pilot, a golfer. But most importantly, he was a dad. That was credential enough as far as I'm concerned.
My dad, who gave me the stars and the mountains and the trees, who gave me evenings listening to Vin Scully as he tinkered in the garage, and everything I would experience on a daily basis, passed away on March 4th from a rare form of lymphoma. He was 82 and a half to the day. He had only been diagnosed last July. Before that, I would sometimes see him teeing off as I drove past the golf course. I would call on weekends but he'd be gone - out sailing on his friend's boat. I'd call in the evenings, but often he couldn't talk because he was running a HAM radio net. My dad never became an old man and he never stopped being my dad. His youngest son, choosing to be a writer and therefore, a pauper, still needed his dad way too much for a man his age. As recenly as last May, my dad paid for my new engine when my Honda practically exploded. My dad was there for the breakups, the shows that didn't get past the pilot stage, the thrills and the disappointments. My dad was still there whenever I needed his advice, with that authoritative, resonant, but calm and pleasant radio voice I miss more than I can articulate.
I was young and busy the last time the Dodgers won the World Series in 1988. Don't remember where my dad was when they recorded that final out. I just know how nice it would've been to sit with my dad and turn the sound down on the TV and listen to Vin Scully announce the Dodgers are World Champions just one more time. I would have loved to see the smile on his face. And he would have loved to see the smile on mine. I love you, dad. And I miss you.
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