Just when Dodger Baseball was going to fall behind the Galaxy in terms of relevance, the Red Sox give Manny Ramirez to the Dodgers. It was a nice gesture. Bean town Renegade Frank McCourt, spurned when trying to buy the Red Sox, buys the Dodgers instead. He is a parking lot guy and Dodger Stadium has one big ass parking lot so it was love at first stripe.
The Yawkey family trust rebuffed Frank’s substandard, heavily leveraged offer to buy the Red Sox in 2002. Those New England Bluebloods certainly had an issue selling the historic tragedy that had been the Red Sox to the parking lot guy. He lost out and immediately turned to Fox in an effort to buy the Dodgers. Fox does not have any Bluebloods and Aussie Rupert Murdoch has gone BK at least once. Leverage and substandard are part of News Corp’s heritage, pedigree and HR manual. Fox not only sold him the team but took back a $120 million second secured with a Boston parking lot.
The McCourt’s have done a nice job marketing the Dodgers, selling seats and hot dogs. Attendance and concessions are at all time highs. There is not an award for that category but Frank and Jamie are buying nice homes and making all the right lists. When they are done upgrading their lifestyle, we are all confident that they will make a concerted effort to upgrade the team right after the Dodger Stadium Mall and parking lot remodels are completed.
The Dodgers will draw 40,000 a game if they are in last place. They were the first real professional sports franchise in LA. The Dodgers were the first local team to have their own stadium named for them. They brought the first World Championship to Los Angeles in any professional sport. Actually, it was any professional sport in all of California, but no need to gloat.
Baseball was the game of our youths and we will always show up late, leave early and are committed to talk on our cell phones at the game in utter deference to this great game. I ditched school to watch the 1974 World Series Dodgers vs. A’s at Mike McGuire’s house. Please do not tell his parents, we were up to some hijinks back then and Mr. Dukakis cut me some slack on the ensuing detention.
Ok, ok back to Manny. We are star-f---er’s in LA. We are not cheering the Lakers with Eddie Jones and Elden Campbell, we need Kobe and Shaq. The Kings have been solid but who was going to the games before Wayne Gretzky? The Dodgers have grinded it out with home grown talent for years. But the last Dodger World Series was 1988 with Orel, Kirk, epic home runs, Bash Brothers and Tommy. There were not many personalities on those teams but Tommy Lasorda could light up the building on his own. He took the heat off the players and provided the sound bites and charisma that we need in LA or you are not in the discussion. Who has created any electricity in the Ravine since Gibby’s epic blast in the fall of 1988?
Manny has lit the building. I love a 36 year old, Hall of Fame baseball player with two months left on his contract all day long. We have only socialized one time and he was no nice and respectful, that I thought it was more about my powerful audience than his true inner self. Regardless, he hit a 92 mph fast ball into the left field pavilion on Saturday night with such speed and power, that the D’back left fielder noticed that the ball had just landed 47 feet behind him, 10 rows up in the bleachers when he saw it on Sports Center later that night at the Sheraton. I watched the pitch and missed the bomb as well but I do not get paid for or highlight my cat like reflexes on my current resume.
Manny is probably just here through the end of the season. GM Ned Colletti pissed his budget on Andruw Jones and Jason Schmidt. Hello, Ned, nice calls. Enjoy Manny and do not factor him being here next year based on your allegiance. Sign up, tune in and watch a superstar earn next year’s payday each game. Andruw Jones is getting $18 Million for his efforts and he is off the Subway diet and just plain miserable. Manny already has more homeruns with the Dodgers in less than a week than payroll busting Jones has since April.
Manny works hard. He looks like he might burn a blunt, raise a ruckus, and have some fun with his peer group. But Manny has never been in the news for any unsavory events. He might have been a cancer in Boston but he could be the cure in LA. Boston had not won a World Series since 1918. In 2004 Manny lead the American League in Homeruns, slugging percentage and was the World Series MVP leading the Sox to their first Title in 96 years. He was not named in the Mitchell report. He is not doing kabala or banging Madonna. He is one of the best clutch hitters in all of baseball. And there is not one team that makes it to the World Series who would not replace their left Fiedler with Manny Ramirez if they got the chance at the dance.
He pushed Red Sox owner John Henry’s buttons for sure. If you have seen John Henry, you would want to push his button as well. John Henry attended four different colleges and never got a degree. His company JWH & Company had $3.8 billion in customer assets when he became majority owner of the Red Sox’s. Today, JWH has $292 million in total assets under management. That is still a substantial sum of money but a surprising 90% decline for such a self important man and his reputable company. He looks like he only comes out at night and he has reputation as such. Under his ownership, the Sox have won 2 World Series and increased value exponentially. John, keep ya’ yap shut, and pay Theo Epstein well to make you look good.
He is part of the new breed of short term owners who lust for the spotlight that their contrived wealth affords them while they have it. Frank McCourt may be no different. Surprisingly, George Steinbrenner may be the last of the old school owners even though he gave the O’Malley’s, Yawkey’s and the Wrigley’s heartburn in his day with his antics. If the chips are down, I want Manny at the plate rather than John Henry in the suite.
Get your money for nothing and Manny for free!
Friday, August 8, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Baseball Blog
The summer has already afforded us an epic Wimbledon, an amazing US Open, and a bizarre Brett Favre episode. But all I have on my mind is baseball. Easy tiger, back in your seats it is not the 7th inning and you do not have to beat the traffic. We are still serving beer so let me paint a Norman Rockwell moment or maybe a Jackson Pollock moment just work with me.
Baseball was the first team sport played in the fields and dreams of this country dating back to the Civil War. Baseball was the only thing when I was a kid. Soccer was a sport on Channel 8. UCLA Bruin Basketball was on TV more than the Lakers. And the Rams were losing to the Minnesota Vikings for the 17th consecutive year in the snow. But the Dodgers had Sandy, 3-Dog, Walter, Tommy, Wes, Big Don, Maury and if you know one of those names, you know them all.
Each of my friends had a mitt and we had three bats between the seven of us. The mitts were leather and made in the US. The bats were all made of wood and from Louisville. We carried around three beat up old Rawlings baseballs. We walked two miles to the park and played 7 hours of over the line, five days a week in the summer. I had to be home before the street lights came up. No one worried when I did not always make it on time. No cell phones, no IM’ing, no sunscreen or Gatorade. We drank from the water fountain and peed behind the backstop. No one kept stats but I think Randy Carlson was the all-time Brand Park Homerun Leader. Larry Kennally announced more innings of nonsensical games than any living human. And although, I have a prestigious position today in the sports blogosphere, I was always a late pick on the second day of the draft most afternoons. The Seber’s are scrappy, just not particularly gifted.
My 12 year old hopes and dreams for baseball ended at age 11. I was disappointed for a few weeks and then I lived vicariously through the Dodgers and battled the bastards who victimized my beloved Boys of Summer. The champions of my youth became everlasting even with the McCourt’s now owning the team. I read that sports page like a history book only with more focus and attention.
The history and tradition of baseball are unparalleled in all of sports. There are statistics dating back to the 1870’s. Hits, runs, wins, losses, stories, legends and nicknames like no other sport. Shoeless Joe, Lefty, The Babe, The Iron Horse, Tinkers to Evers to Chance, are the names in history that I studied.
Baseball is a microcosm of life. The rules are complex; there is a lot of standing around and then suddenly “Boom” it is your moment to shine. Someone always has to make the last out in an inning, a game or the championship. Unlikely heroes emerge when all seems lost. Split second decisions are made that immediately affect outcomes and emotion. Hopes and fears, laughs and tears. In baseball, there is not a midfielder that is going to clear that ball that it is hit to you in right field, there is not a free safety to run down the play, there is no zone defense or West Coast offense. You either make the play or you do not, based on your efforts at that moment. And the score is always tallied.
Baseball is unique and special to our heritage as Americans. It is our sport and it is now played in almost as many countries as soccer. Those pesky Euros, still refuse to feel the call but our Latin amigos have not only felt the call, they are defecting, lying about their ages and making up 25% of the MLB Rosters. Baseball draws more fans than any other professional sport in America. Do not confuse TV viewing with attendance. Baseball can not compete with the NFL on your 52 feet of 1080 DPI heaven. Baseball competes at the turnstiles and the concession stands.
Baseball is deliberate and cerebral. Each pitch, each moment is executed with strategy and expectation. It can tax our attention on certain nights but it is game of subtleties. Moves on one side precipitate moves on the other. Plans are disguised and bluffs are made. It is a chess match with bats and balls and everyone has a uniform on. It is the only sport where the teammates spend so much time side by side during the game in the dug out. It is the only sport where the team with the ball can not score. It is the only sport where that team has to vacate the field so that they can try and score. It is the only sport where the managers and coaches have to dress like their players no matter how ugly those uniforms might be. And it is the only sport that truly reflects the struggles, history and persona of this nation.
Forget the steroids, the congressional hearings, labor strikes and prima donnas of the last twenty years. Baseball will never be as simple as it was in my youth. There is too much money at stake now. But underneath that high priced veneer, there is still the kernel that is the game of our youth. Search for the grace of a hit and run play. Teach relevant youth to learn how to play over the line. Stop and watch a Little League game when you chance upon it. Bring your mitt to the park and play catch with a friend. Travel back to a time of greater innocence and effort where we did very much with very little. It was a scrappier time. There were winners and someone has to lose but there was a lot less whining.
Baseball has no clock and my team can always win if they can keep scoring. Baseball always affords hope. Much like the American existence of the 1800’s that gave birth to baseball; we still always have that passion to keep the rally alive. Baseball is not just our national pastime, it is our legendary heritage. Since the beginning of this great country, normal people have stared down adversity and stepped up to the plate to achieve exceptional results. At times like these, we can still pound our mitts, swing our bats and make the plays. Americans never quit. Even with two outs in the bottom of the 9th, we will never run out of time. That is just how we roll….
“Since baseball time is only measured in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; Keep hitting, keep the rally alive and you have defeated time. You remain forever young.” Roger Angell
Baseball was the first team sport played in the fields and dreams of this country dating back to the Civil War. Baseball was the only thing when I was a kid. Soccer was a sport on Channel 8. UCLA Bruin Basketball was on TV more than the Lakers. And the Rams were losing to the Minnesota Vikings for the 17th consecutive year in the snow. But the Dodgers had Sandy, 3-Dog, Walter, Tommy, Wes, Big Don, Maury and if you know one of those names, you know them all.
Each of my friends had a mitt and we had three bats between the seven of us. The mitts were leather and made in the US. The bats were all made of wood and from Louisville. We carried around three beat up old Rawlings baseballs. We walked two miles to the park and played 7 hours of over the line, five days a week in the summer. I had to be home before the street lights came up. No one worried when I did not always make it on time. No cell phones, no IM’ing, no sunscreen or Gatorade. We drank from the water fountain and peed behind the backstop. No one kept stats but I think Randy Carlson was the all-time Brand Park Homerun Leader. Larry Kennally announced more innings of nonsensical games than any living human. And although, I have a prestigious position today in the sports blogosphere, I was always a late pick on the second day of the draft most afternoons. The Seber’s are scrappy, just not particularly gifted.
My 12 year old hopes and dreams for baseball ended at age 11. I was disappointed for a few weeks and then I lived vicariously through the Dodgers and battled the bastards who victimized my beloved Boys of Summer. The champions of my youth became everlasting even with the McCourt’s now owning the team. I read that sports page like a history book only with more focus and attention.
The history and tradition of baseball are unparalleled in all of sports. There are statistics dating back to the 1870’s. Hits, runs, wins, losses, stories, legends and nicknames like no other sport. Shoeless Joe, Lefty, The Babe, The Iron Horse, Tinkers to Evers to Chance, are the names in history that I studied.
Baseball is a microcosm of life. The rules are complex; there is a lot of standing around and then suddenly “Boom” it is your moment to shine. Someone always has to make the last out in an inning, a game or the championship. Unlikely heroes emerge when all seems lost. Split second decisions are made that immediately affect outcomes and emotion. Hopes and fears, laughs and tears. In baseball, there is not a midfielder that is going to clear that ball that it is hit to you in right field, there is not a free safety to run down the play, there is no zone defense or West Coast offense. You either make the play or you do not, based on your efforts at that moment. And the score is always tallied.
Baseball is unique and special to our heritage as Americans. It is our sport and it is now played in almost as many countries as soccer. Those pesky Euros, still refuse to feel the call but our Latin amigos have not only felt the call, they are defecting, lying about their ages and making up 25% of the MLB Rosters. Baseball draws more fans than any other professional sport in America. Do not confuse TV viewing with attendance. Baseball can not compete with the NFL on your 52 feet of 1080 DPI heaven. Baseball competes at the turnstiles and the concession stands.
Baseball is deliberate and cerebral. Each pitch, each moment is executed with strategy and expectation. It can tax our attention on certain nights but it is game of subtleties. Moves on one side precipitate moves on the other. Plans are disguised and bluffs are made. It is a chess match with bats and balls and everyone has a uniform on. It is the only sport where the teammates spend so much time side by side during the game in the dug out. It is the only sport where the team with the ball can not score. It is the only sport where that team has to vacate the field so that they can try and score. It is the only sport where the managers and coaches have to dress like their players no matter how ugly those uniforms might be. And it is the only sport that truly reflects the struggles, history and persona of this nation.
Forget the steroids, the congressional hearings, labor strikes and prima donnas of the last twenty years. Baseball will never be as simple as it was in my youth. There is too much money at stake now. But underneath that high priced veneer, there is still the kernel that is the game of our youth. Search for the grace of a hit and run play. Teach relevant youth to learn how to play over the line. Stop and watch a Little League game when you chance upon it. Bring your mitt to the park and play catch with a friend. Travel back to a time of greater innocence and effort where we did very much with very little. It was a scrappier time. There were winners and someone has to lose but there was a lot less whining.
Baseball has no clock and my team can always win if they can keep scoring. Baseball always affords hope. Much like the American existence of the 1800’s that gave birth to baseball; we still always have that passion to keep the rally alive. Baseball is not just our national pastime, it is our legendary heritage. Since the beginning of this great country, normal people have stared down adversity and stepped up to the plate to achieve exceptional results. At times like these, we can still pound our mitts, swing our bats and make the plays. Americans never quit. Even with two outs in the bottom of the 9th, we will never run out of time. That is just how we roll….
“Since baseball time is only measured in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; Keep hitting, keep the rally alive and you have defeated time. You remain forever young.” Roger Angell
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Olympic Issue
Just when my seat got rocky on the Laker Bandwagon, I found window seats on Stub Hub for the Olympic Swimming, Track & Field, Women’s Softball, Gymnastics, US Basketball bandwagons amongst others. Nightly, Bob Costas will guide my pre-determined whims that ignite my game day sports patriotism. I have never watched a swim meet, gymnastics competition, or diving event that was not in the Summer Olympics. But when the Summer Games commence, I am as ardent a fan as John Nabor, Mary Lou Retton or Bud Greenspan.
The Summer Olympics are the soft edges of my eternal carbon calendar. The Winter Olympics are fun and enjoyable. The Summer Olympics are historic and epochal. Seminal moments from each generation have been cauterized by the quadrennial summer games.
Before TV, the internet and You Tube, the age of the modern era of the Olympics was hatched at the freshly minted Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in 1932. Thirty Seven nation competed and eighteen world records were set. Seventy-Six years later,the LA City Council is trying to get the NFL to use this historic facilitiy with its sturdy design and trough urinals but that is another blog. Babe Didrikson won Gold medals in the Javelin and the 80 Meter Hurdles during these games. I did not see any US women attempting that double this past weekend. Between her soy, no foam lattes, she won a Silver Medal in the high jump. There were only five women's track and field events and women could only compete in three individually. My father was born in January the following year.
In 1936, with the US at the brink of WW II, Jesse Owens drove a stake or three into the heart of the Aryan Nation. Jesse won gold medals in all four events he entered while Uncle Adolph’s Boys of Summer won three gold medals in the seventeen events that they participated. My Father and mother are growing up in post Depression LA.
In 1956, Russia invaded Hungary, France got involved in world politics for the second to the last time in Suez and Rafer Johnson won the Silver Medal in Melbourne. My older sister is born.
In 1968, Bob Beamon became the first athlete to jump past 28 feet and 29 feet on the SAME jump. He shattered the world record by an unbelievable 21 ¾ inches. The record was the oldest standing record in Track and Field when it was broken by Mike Powell in 1991. Powell broke Beamon’s 23 year old record by two inches. Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their gloved fists in protest during the medal ceremony for the 200 meters in Mexico City. My 5th grade teacher blows but girls are becoming kind of cool.
Munich 1972, High School freshman year under my belt and my ethereal world of the Olympics and the political mayhem of the rest of the world, collided. My faithful LA Times had always provided Sections B and C as my personal firewall from Section A to protect my Dodgers, Lakers, Rams and Bruins from those pesky world events. Athletes died and I watched the world become a very scary place from the comfy confines of my family room.
Whenever the Sports page ends up on the front page as the lead story, I have come to learn, it is never good news. Sports can be referenced on the left or the right or at the bottom in that box that says ”What’s inside”. But if Sports is the lead article on page one, someone is testifying or driving a White bronco. On September 6, 1972 while Jim McKay informed all of us about terrorism, about Black September and about the end of Olympic innocence, the LA Times breached mine.
In 1980, we were pissed at the Russians for invading Afghanistan so we stayed home. 1984, Russia was pissed at us for being pissed at them and they stayed home. So now, we’ve invade Afghanistan, and now the Afghani are pissed at everyone and they are boycotting the Olympics for the 100th consecutive year. The 1984 Olympics were great without those pesky, still got my empire USSR-ites. I got to go to the Olympics and who needs those Russians! More gold for me and Flo-Jo!
So what does this history lesson mean and who cares? We all care! World moments mark personal milestones for each of our lives. There is a lot to be miserable about during these miserable times. The Olympics do not shape world events, it reflects them. This year, let us all pray for a warm, positive glow bouncing from Beijing. Let us hope for a Story on Page 1 that warms our hearts and tempers our wounds.
I hope there will be a young man from a small town in America who will snare our attention and capture our hearts with a surprising performance. The first place winner will finish less than a second ahead of the 4th place finisher. By a mere second, heroes will be created and legends written. Hopefully, we have another Dream Team in Basketball for both the men and the women. Softball is not on the schedule beyond this year and the US has won every gold medal anyway. I hope we win again. I hope I hear the Star Spangled Banner 86 times in 13 days.
And in pure bandwagon tradition in 2008, the Yard is sponsoring Dara Torres. She is not allowed to wear our logo but she it totally on board and just the kind of person, the Yard embraces. She should be and I hope will be that story on the Front page. She is a local girl who attended Harvard-Westlake and set numerous records including world records when she was just 14. She is competing in her 5th Olympics and she has already won nine Olympic medals. She was the oldest swimmer on the US team at THE 2000 OLYMPICS in Sydney. And she is the oldest swimmer ever, this year. She is training for the 50 and two relays. She bagged on the 100 meters even though she could have gone for four events. She has a two year old daughter so she has been busy. I know given the choice of 5:30 AM workouts, weight training, rigorous diet or raising a two year old, I am so in the pool with Dara.
“Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
The Summer Olympics are the soft edges of my eternal carbon calendar. The Winter Olympics are fun and enjoyable. The Summer Olympics are historic and epochal. Seminal moments from each generation have been cauterized by the quadrennial summer games.
Before TV, the internet and You Tube, the age of the modern era of the Olympics was hatched at the freshly minted Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in 1932. Thirty Seven nation competed and eighteen world records were set. Seventy-Six years later,the LA City Council is trying to get the NFL to use this historic facilitiy with its sturdy design and trough urinals but that is another blog. Babe Didrikson won Gold medals in the Javelin and the 80 Meter Hurdles during these games. I did not see any US women attempting that double this past weekend. Between her soy, no foam lattes, she won a Silver Medal in the high jump. There were only five women's track and field events and women could only compete in three individually. My father was born in January the following year.
In 1936, with the US at the brink of WW II, Jesse Owens drove a stake or three into the heart of the Aryan Nation. Jesse won gold medals in all four events he entered while Uncle Adolph’s Boys of Summer won three gold medals in the seventeen events that they participated. My Father and mother are growing up in post Depression LA.
In 1956, Russia invaded Hungary, France got involved in world politics for the second to the last time in Suez and Rafer Johnson won the Silver Medal in Melbourne. My older sister is born.
In 1968, Bob Beamon became the first athlete to jump past 28 feet and 29 feet on the SAME jump. He shattered the world record by an unbelievable 21 ¾ inches. The record was the oldest standing record in Track and Field when it was broken by Mike Powell in 1991. Powell broke Beamon’s 23 year old record by two inches. Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their gloved fists in protest during the medal ceremony for the 200 meters in Mexico City. My 5th grade teacher blows but girls are becoming kind of cool.
Munich 1972, High School freshman year under my belt and my ethereal world of the Olympics and the political mayhem of the rest of the world, collided. My faithful LA Times had always provided Sections B and C as my personal firewall from Section A to protect my Dodgers, Lakers, Rams and Bruins from those pesky world events. Athletes died and I watched the world become a very scary place from the comfy confines of my family room.
Whenever the Sports page ends up on the front page as the lead story, I have come to learn, it is never good news. Sports can be referenced on the left or the right or at the bottom in that box that says ”What’s inside”. But if Sports is the lead article on page one, someone is testifying or driving a White bronco. On September 6, 1972 while Jim McKay informed all of us about terrorism, about Black September and about the end of Olympic innocence, the LA Times breached mine.
In 1980, we were pissed at the Russians for invading Afghanistan so we stayed home. 1984, Russia was pissed at us for being pissed at them and they stayed home. So now, we’ve invade Afghanistan, and now the Afghani are pissed at everyone and they are boycotting the Olympics for the 100th consecutive year. The 1984 Olympics were great without those pesky, still got my empire USSR-ites. I got to go to the Olympics and who needs those Russians! More gold for me and Flo-Jo!
So what does this history lesson mean and who cares? We all care! World moments mark personal milestones for each of our lives. There is a lot to be miserable about during these miserable times. The Olympics do not shape world events, it reflects them. This year, let us all pray for a warm, positive glow bouncing from Beijing. Let us hope for a Story on Page 1 that warms our hearts and tempers our wounds.
I hope there will be a young man from a small town in America who will snare our attention and capture our hearts with a surprising performance. The first place winner will finish less than a second ahead of the 4th place finisher. By a mere second, heroes will be created and legends written. Hopefully, we have another Dream Team in Basketball for both the men and the women. Softball is not on the schedule beyond this year and the US has won every gold medal anyway. I hope we win again. I hope I hear the Star Spangled Banner 86 times in 13 days.
And in pure bandwagon tradition in 2008, the Yard is sponsoring Dara Torres. She is not allowed to wear our logo but she it totally on board and just the kind of person, the Yard embraces. She should be and I hope will be that story on the Front page. She is a local girl who attended Harvard-Westlake and set numerous records including world records when she was just 14. She is competing in her 5th Olympics and she has already won nine Olympic medals. She was the oldest swimmer on the US team at THE 2000 OLYMPICS in Sydney. And she is the oldest swimmer ever, this year. She is training for the 50 and two relays. She bagged on the 100 meters even though she could have gone for four events. She has a two year old daughter so she has been busy. I know given the choice of 5:30 AM workouts, weight training, rigorous diet or raising a two year old, I am so in the pool with Dara.
“Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
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