Sermons On The Mound

2010 Dodgers Preview: Third Baseman

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 18:32:00 +0000

By Raymond

Opening Remarks:

-I am holding with the 20.5 and the over for homeruns on James Loney, and that is firm.

-I looked into getting a print of the Willie Davis photo. Limited Edition 16" x 20" print is $1,250, plus $50 shipping.

-Vin is getting up there, and I have come to accept it. I notice the verbal miscues a little more now, and the story of his fall was scary. But I also realize that the man has been the voice of baseball for probably three generations of boys growing up. I have never known another voice, neither has my dad and if I had kids when I was young they would be used to Vinny too. But I accept that all the great must move on. I just hope and pray it happens gracefully.

-I am excited about the game we will attend in June, I already have a special pregame activity planned.

-And now on with the countdown.

Los Angeles Dodgers Third Basemen for the 2010 Season

The Starter: Casey Blake

Uniform Number: #23

Former Dodger to Wear #23: Derek Lowe. Let's get a picture of the Derek Lowe face up here for fun. Yea!

Bio/Fun Facts: He has always played either first of third base, except for a brief period in 2005 when he was bumped to right field for Aaron Boone. He was a four sport athlete in High School playing baseball, football, basketball and track. Best beard on the Dodgers and perhaps the best in baseball.

Strengths: A very good fielding third baseman, he has a little bit of pop so that is you make a mistake he can punish you sometimes. He does put the ball into play when he has to as he had 10 sac flies last year and on balls batted in play he gets on base about 30% of the time.

Achilles' Heel: Barbasol, Gillette Mach 3 Razors and sore hamstrings.

Best Third Baseman Now: I really have to go with Eva Longoria's brother Evan Longoria. I know a famous actress and a superstar third baseman all in one family…how crazy is that. I wonder if Evan and Tony Parker get real competitive at family get-togethers over their individual sports prowesses. Suffice to say Longoria may not be the ultimate hitting threat of some other third basemen out there, but he is a good hitter none the less (Steroid Free too) and if you really nerd it up, by the numbers he is the best fielding third baseman in the game even more then Adrian Beltre. So I think he is a safe bet for being the best.

Best Third Baseman Ever: There have been so many great men to call the hot corner their home that this is a hard subject to remain objective on. If you want to pick the best fielding third baseman you go with Brooks Robinson. If you want the best hitting third baseman you call on Mike Schmidt. But if you want a character. And man who defined toughness and drive and the spirit of how baseball should be played you go with George Brett. 3,154 hits, 665 doubles, and 317 jimmy jacks. Out of 11,624 at bats he struck out only 908 times, that is ungodly, not to mention an a career BA of .305 and career OPS of .857. And he gave us these two quotes: "If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother with her teeth out." And "I don't think I can play any other way but all out. I enjoy the game so much because I'm putting so much into it."

Wild Card: He is getting up there in years and he is going to need a day or two off a week to keep him fresh and healthy. Which is a good reason to have:

The Backups: Ronnie Belliard & Jamey Carrol which have already been covered.

He is Risen!

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 13:35:00 +0000

He is Risen Indeed!

Resurrection: Rob Bell from The Work of Rob Bell on Vimeo.

Happy Easter Everybody! -Raymond

Coming Soon: Third Base, Left Field, and Some Pitching

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 16:28:00 +0000

By Raymond

You will have to forgive me but I have been busy with work, church and other personal matters and I have allowed my dedication to our 2010 Dodgers Preview fall by the wayside. Fear not though, as I am voraciously finishing and polishing my third baseman, left fielder and bottom half rotation previews and I hope to have them all up by opening day. Which I know does not leave me much time but I think I can do it. So Ben, if you have any material, now would be a good time to post it.

2010 Dodgers Preview: Shortstop

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 01:31:00 +0000

By Benjamin

Los Angeles Dodgers Shortstops for the 2010 Season

The Starter: Rafael Furcal

Uniform Number: 15

Former Dodger to Wear #15: This is the part of the column where I take the opportunity to describe the Dodgers legendary infield of Cey (10), Garvey (6), Russell (18) and Lopes (15). The infield that my mom still refers to as the “golden years.” Instead, let’s talk Shawn Green. A member of the Orange County Jewish Sports Hall of Fame and having hit more home runs by any Jewish ballplayer not named Hank Greenberg, we thought Shawn Green was “The Chosen One” when he signed a marquee deal with our boys in blue back in 2000. He even set a great example for the kiddies, sitting out a game during a heated pennant race back in 2001 so that he could observe the most holy day on the Jewish Calendar, Yom Kippur. But no amount of atonement would make up for his sins at the plate. Oy! Expectations were too high. He was too close to home. He made far too much money and he never lived up to his million dollar billing. But it sure was fun those few instances when we were lucky enough to see him hit one out in person and we’d rise to our feet ringing out, “Light the menorah and spin the dreidle! It’s a home run!”

Bio/Fun Facts: In 2000, Rafael Furcal jumped from Single-A to the The Show after Braves starting shortstop Walt Weiss went down with an injury. All he did was win the Rookie of the Year Award. The next season, he bunted for a double during a game against the New York
Mets, rolling the infield two-sacker past third baseman Robin Ventura. Two seasons later, he would complete the 12th unassisted triple play in baseball history. With the game tied at 1 and runners at first and second with no outs, Furcal leaped to snare a line drive by Cardinals
pitcher Woody Williams, stepped on second base for the second out, and tagged out a runner for the third. With the count 1 and 1, Cardinals Manager Tony LaRussa lifted the bunt sign and let the pitcher swing away. “It’s a bad memory,” LaRussa said, “so I don’t think about it much.” Wonder if that’s his policy on McGwire too. Ironically, it was a brain fart by Furcal that put the runners on in the first place. With a runner at first, the batter attempted to sacrifice, the runner headed to second but looked slow, a chance for a double play was in the mix. But Furcal failed to cover second, no throw was made, everybody safe.

Strengths: As exemplified by the inning in which he completed the unassisted triple play, Furcal is a dynamic defensive infielder with a flair for the dramatic. He is an excellent leadoff man with the ability to set the table and even create his own runs, ala another Dodger shortstop and base stealing guru Maury Wills.

Achilles’ Heel: As exemplified by the inning in which he completed the unassisted triple play, Furcal is known for his occasional mental lapses that cost the club base runners. He’s also been bitten by the injury bug over the past few seasons, missing almost all of the 2008 season after opening like gangbusters. At 32, his body is aging, and his stolen base numbers have dropped considerably since signing with the Dodgers. It makes you think the next two seasons in which he is under contract will likely be the last two we see him in a Dodgers uniform.

Best Shortstop Now: Hanley Ramirez. Dude’s got it all. A real 5-Tool All-Star. Finished 2nd in the NL MVP voting last season, won the Silver Slugger Award by hitting .342, has nearly reached 1.000 OPS each of his last three seasons as a Florida Marlin and is still rising. I know Josh Beckett led the Red Sox to their second world championship in four years after Boston suffered an 86-year long title drought, BUT, Hanley Ramirez is the elephant in the room ‘round New England. No one wants to say it, but 37 opening day shortstops later, you can cut the tension with a knife. In a town well known for revolting, I’m utterly shocked no one has hung Theo Epstein for the trade that brought Beckett but dumped what may turn out to be the greatest offensive shortstop in baseball history.

Best Shortstop Ever: It’s hard to admit, but if Alex Rodriguez was still turning double plays with Robinson Cano, it would be hard to leave him out of this conversation. But he’s a hot corner now and since packing up and moving to The Bronx. So you gotta give the nod to Honus Wagner. Tough old John McGraw once said of Honus, “I think he could have been the number one player at any position he might have selected.” Well known as “The Flying Dutchman” he once appeared in a film, providing batting tips for youngsters. The little boy Honus tutored? Went on to be “Moe” as in “Three Stooges Moe.” Honus was the first ballplayer to sign an endorsement deal with Louisville Slugger and his 1909 American Tobacco Company T206 baseball card is probably the most coveted item in all of sports memorabilia (outside of maybe a Red Sox fan’s desire for the bloody sock).

Wild Card: He and his baby boy were once photographed together with Andruw Jones. This may explain Furcal's dip in batting average over the past few seasons. Furcal's still got the Andruw Stink on 'em. As for the baby Furcal, radiation couldn't have been more damaging.

The Backup: It’s more likely that if Rafael needs to rest a spell that Jamey Carroll or even Ronnie Belliard and Blake DeWitt could fill in at the 6-hole. Back in ’08, when Furcal spent nearly the entire season on the Disabled List, the Dodgers filled the position with a cocktail of Angel Berroa, Nomar Garciaparra and the illustrious Chin-lung Hu. We’ve covered Carroll, Belliard and DeWitt extensively in our preview, so let’s take a peek at the shortstop in waiting, Taiwanese sensation Chin-lung Hu

Uniform Number: 60

Former Dodger to Wear #60: Got me there.

Bio/Fun Facts: Well, for one…he’s Taiwanese. He’s one of six big leaguers and the first infielder to hail from the newly independent nation. Half of those six Taiwanese big leaguers are Dodgers. There’s Hu, Chin-Feng Chen and Hong-Chih Kuo. In fact, in 2007, Hu became the first Taiwanese born position player in big league history to homer. The first Taiwanese player to go yard no matter what the position? His teammate and pitcher Hong-Chih Kuo, who did it earlier the same season. Which probably explains the Dodgers jet setting halfway across the planet to play exhibitions in Taiwan a third of the way through spring training. Just what L.A. needed less than a month before Opening Day… jet lag. After a 15-hour flight from Arizona, the Dodgers lost the first game of a 3-game series with the Taiwanese All-Stars. Hu plated two runs with a single in the 8th but no one in L.A. noticed because it took place at 3:26 in the morning pacific standard time. If a tree falls in the middle of Taiwan but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Game 2 was cancelled due to rain and Kuo, the Game 3 starter, was scratched due to injury. Was the trip worth all that lost sleep? At least McCourt piled up some miles to use on “business trips” to Europe.

Strengths: Playing after long plane rides.

Achilles’ Heel: The Chinese Government.

Wild Card: Totally dig the Taiwanese phenomenon of hyphenating the kids’ first names. Call me ignorant, but if it’s not their surnames placed first, I say we adopt the custom in the States. In fact, I say we start a game. “How do you determine your Taiwanese name?” It could be kinda like “How do you determine your Pornstar name?” Here’s how the game works. Take the first syllable of your first name and the first syllable of your middle name, then hyphenate it to create your Taiwanese first name. To determine your sur name, simply use the first syllable of your last name.

Por exemplo...

Benjamin Andrew Chamberlin = Ben-An Cham
Raymond Wilson McCormick = Ray-Wi Mc
Jose Alberto Pujols = Jo-Al Pu
Timothy Leroy Lincecum = Tim-Lee Lin
Barack Hussein Obama = Bar-Hu O
Allan Huber “Bud” Selig = Al-Hu Se (which oddly translates as “The Syphilis” in Taiwanese)

Postscript: Make the over/under 19.5 on James Loney Jimmy Jacks and I’m in.

Grand-Postscript: Five days after we previewed the 2010 Dodger centerfielders, the greatest Dodger centerfielder of all time, Willie Davis, died. He was 69. Davis holds franchise records in hits, extra-base hits, at bats, runs, triples and total bases. He had break neck speed. While in the minor leagues, he scored from first on singles a dozen times. Felipe Alou recalled a game at Dodger Stadium when Davis hit a hard single over first base that Alou chased down and threw to second and threw him out. "I saw the umpire call him out and I said, 'I finally got that guy trying to stretch a single into a double.' The next day I saw the newspaper and it said Willie Davis had a double. I said, 'I threw him out.' My teammate said: 'We tagged him out. He had passed second.' He was that fast." He was once arrested for allegedly threatening his parents with a samurai sword and ninja stars. Former Dodgers general manager Buzzie Bavasi once said of Davis: "There was nothing more exciting than to watch Willie run out a triple. ... He could have been a Hall of Famer, but he had million-dollar legs and a 10-cent head." He may have had a 10-cent head and wandered the streets of Los Angeles with a sword, but he was photographed sliding into second base in what may be the greatest picture of The Stadium or any Dodger ever.

Great-Grand-Postscript: By now all Dodger fans in the universe (including Taipei) know that our beloved Vin Scully had a little spill while getting out of bed this week. He spent the night in the hospital, but was back on his feet and at Spring Training a day later, calling Sunday’s game as scheduled. The 82-year-old sportscaster claims that he got up out of bed too quickly, fell and hit his head. My brother, a health care professional with a bachelor's degree in nursing offers another opinion, “I hate to diagnose Vin Scully but I don’t believe that getting up too fast and falling is a reason for hospitalization. I get these exact cases on a daily basis. He is an old man, probably with heart, blood pressure conditions. He may be on a long regiment of beta blockers, diuretics, stool softeners, and BPH meds. He got dehydrated because of a Urinary Tract Infection and then passed out. Now the bump on the head could be as serious as a subdural hematoma. Who knows if he is on blood thinners? That is the real reason for the hospitalization. It’s time for Vinny to either have 24 hour care, which he could afford, or be placed in a skilled nursing facility. Don’t take this lightly. He probably has a mild case of dementia. Damn that divorce.”

Upon reading this, I didn’t know if my tears were from laughter or the sadness that our lifelong hero is fading fast before our eyes.

2010 Dodgers Preview: The Bullpen

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 22:22:00 +0000

By Raymond

1. The Bullpen, because Reid asked and because Ryan can suck it.

2. No, sadly not the actual Dodger shower room, but I still think Doug does that with his medal, probably helps him get chicks too.

3. Lots of people are projecting a big year for Loney. If I am to bet a steak on this, I want to set a bigger number on his home run total. 15 is boring, put your set on the table and lets set it at 20.5 I take the under. What do you say?

4. No pictures this post due to computer issues.

Los Angeles Dodgers Relief Pitching for the 2010 Season

The Closer: Jonathan Broxton

Uniform Number: #51
Former Dodger to Wear #51: Larry Sherry, former relief pitcher for the Dodgers and MVP of the 1959 World Series. Of Jewish persuasion, with his brother Norm Sherry who played with the Dodgers too, formed the first all kosher battery.

Bio/Fun Facts: From Georgia, he is a big boy at six foot four and weighing in at 290 pounds during the season. He has been referred to at times by Charlie Steiner as “The Human Eclipse.” Signed right out of high school and was picked up in the second round of the 2002 draft. Broxton has been the most dominant closer for the Dodgers since the chemically induced demise of the Eric Gagne.

Strengths: Heat! He regularly tosses at 98 to 101 mph. And last year he was known to hit 103 mph at least once. Also… The K!; amongst all regular pitchers in the MLB Jonny B had the highest Strikeout to 9 inning ratio of any pitcher at 13.50; he also an impressive K to walk ratio of 3.93. He was 12th in all of the MLB in saves at 36. And he can also go two innings if needed, pitching 76 innings last year, which is more than just about every other top tier closer. Even his blown saves and ERA are in acceptable limits when compared to other top tier closers.

Achilles’ Heel: Matt Stairs, big game playoff situations.

Best Closer Now: If you had asked me a year ago I would of easily said Francisco Rodriguez. But last season I think reiterated the fact that Mariano Rivera is still perhaps the best closer in baseball. Hardly gives up home runs, has only balked three times ever, throws maybe…maybe… one wild pitch a year. And the man is old and still doing it, he has World Series Rings to show how good he is. And might we add he pretty much does all this with one pitch a cut fastball.

Best Closer Ever: See above.

Wild Card: The Iron Man is not going anywhere anytime soon. He is a fire breathing horse that goes in and gets those final out and he does it by blowing batters away. He stays healthy and maintains his control we will ride back into the playoffs. Real question is can he mentally get over the hump of two previous failures in the playoffs. If he can do that we easily have one of the top 5 closers in baseball to finish out games.

The Setup Man: George Sherrill

Uniform Number: #52

Former Dodger to Wear #52: The recently retired Al Reyes was a relief pitcher for the Dodgers in 2000 and 2001. Fun note, one night Reyes got in a bar fight in Tampa. Got tasered twice by police officers and still pitched in the game the next day and got the win.

Bio/Fun Facts: His middle name is Friederich, and he went to a Christian High School like us. He is one of those guys who banged it out in the independent leagues, he played for 5 years in the independents before he got his break with Seattle. He wears the bill of his cap flat as a statement of independence.

Strengths: Good fastball with movement, a slick slider and a decent curve. He could be a closer for many other teams and we get to have him as our setup guy.

Achilles’ Heel: Perfect Curve Hat Curving Device

Best Setup Man Now: Obscure question, no? But Jeremy Affeldt of the Giants had 33 holds, never blew a save and seemed to be the perfect setup man for Brian Wilson (Whom I wonder if his entrance theme is a Beach Boys song).

Wild Card: His nicknames in the past have included "The Gangsta-Redneck", "The Brim Reaper", "Flat Breezy", and "Duckbill".

The Middle Reliever: Ramon Troncoso

Uniform Number: #38

Former Dodger to Wear #38: Eric Gagne (Hrmmmm…)

Bio/Fun Facts: From the Dominican, good fastball, reliable.

Strengths: He doesn’t suck?

Achilles’ Heel: Sometimes he sucks?

Wild Card: How much can we really know about some of these pitchers?

The Left Specialist: Hong-Chih Kuo

Uniform Number: #56

Former Dodger to Wear: #56: Pedro Astacio

Bio/Fun Facts: From Taiwan, been in the organization since 1999.

Strengths: Quick fastball, good movement. In general he throws hard.

Achilles’ Heel: Fragile Elbow Tendons, Hard R’s and Communism.

Wild Card: His nickname is The Bionic Taiwaniac!

2010 Dodgers Preview: Second Baseman

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 23:41:00 +0000

By Benjamin

1. Is that really a picture of the Dodgers clubhouse shower?

2. I’ve got a steak bet for you. What’s the over/under on James Loney home runs this year? 13.5? 14.5? Let’s decide, because I’ll take the over. And if nearly 15 years of friendship serves me well, you’ll take the under. Whaddya say?

Los Angeles Dodgers Second Basemen for the 2010 Season

The Starter? Blake DeWitt (Question Mark to be Explained Later)

Uniform Number: #33

Former Dodgers to Wear #33: Jeff Hamilton, Eddie Murray

Bio/Fun Facts: 2B or Not 2B. Poor Blake has been the second baseman in waiting for 2 seasons now. A 24 year-old Missouri high school standout who used to play the hot corner. DeWitt was promoted four spots to become the Dodgers’ Opening Day third baseman in 2008 when Nomar Garciaparra, one of the LaRoche Bros. and Tony Abreu all went down with injuries during spring training. DeWitt thrashed National League pitching during his first few months in the bigs, turning a cup of coffee into a three course meal. But as the season wore on, DeWitt’s numbers came back to earth, the Dodgers signed another Blake to play 3B, Casey Blake, and DeWitt was sent back to Triple-A. But the fast start to DeWitt’s career had many singing his praises and with Jeff Kent off the books, everyone expected DeWitt to be the 2009 starting second baseman. Not so fast! Insert Orlando Hudson. The Dodgers go shopping, pick up O-Dawg and give DeWitt a one-way ticket to Albuquerque. Hudson has a standout year, hits for the cycle on Opening Day, even earns a Gold Glove. But he gets hurt late in the second half and the Dodgers are left with a hole at second base. DeWitt sits by his phone and waits for the call, fully expecting to be back in the majors to fill the role till Hudson heals. Think again! The Dodgers bring in Ronnie Belliard, the roly poly middle infielder. DeWitt can’t believe his eyes, and proceeds to gauge out his corneas with the blunt end of a butter knife. To everyone’s surprise, Belliard tears the cover off the ball. When O-Dawg returns from the disabled list, he’s found that his position has been usurped by the pudgier Belliard. The playoffs begin, and whose starting at the #4 position on the diamond? Our Gold Glove winner? No. Ronnie Friggin’ Belliard. (It turned out to be a stroke of genius, as Belliard singled in the tying run in the bottom of the 9th in Game 2 of the ALDS, as the Dodgers went on to an improbable victory). But with the season over, Hudson out of the picture and Ned Colletti doing his best bear impersonation, basically hibernating all winter; DeWitt MUST have been thinking, “Second base is mine.” Fast forward to the off-season when the Dodgers do the inexplicable and re-sign Belliard and pick up ANOTHER middle-infielder, 36-year-old Jamey Carroll. To be honest, it’s still DeWitt’s job to lose. But are the Dodger signings simply a self-fulfilling prophesy? He’s RUDY at this point. I swear, if someone other than Blake is starting at second base Opening Day, I’m flying out to L.A. to start a chant in the stands, “DEW-ITT! DEW-ITT! DEW-ITT!”

Strengths: Quality left-handed bat, sure handed fielder, young and fleet of foot.

Achilles’ Heel: His own franchise’s lack of faith.

Best Second Baseman Now: I love me some “Pedroia the Destroyah” bumper stickers but Chase Utley is the best second baseman in the bigs today. Dude hits 30 jacks and drives in 100 every year, has finished in the top 8 of the MVP voting three times and does it all from a position not expected to have any offensive output. And what kills me is how could the SoCal kid get looked over by our boys in blue?!?! Dude was born in Pasadena, raised in Long Beach and went to UCLA. Drafted in the first round by the Phils in 2000. Who did WE draft in the first round of 2000? Some dude name BEN DIGGINS. Ever heard of him? Yeah. Me neither.

Best Second Baseman Ever: Lotta possibilities here. A very “arguable” category, much like all three outfield positions. There’s Bobby Doerr, Eddie Collins, Rogers Hornsby, Jackie Robinson, Frankie Frisch, Ryan Sandberg, Nellie Fox, even (*gulp) Jeff Kent. But I’m gonna go with Nap Lajoie here. For two reasons. One, he was baseball’s very first “best player ever.” He became so popular that the Cleveland ballclub he played for changed its name to the Cleveland Naps in his honor. Can you imagine that happening in sports today? The St. Louis Alberts or the Cleveland LeBrons? It’s crazy. But intriguing. I’m willing to call our boys in blue the Kemps for a season if you are. The Pirates can just be renamed the Sinkholes. And two, on the last day of the 1910 season, Nap trailed Ty Cobb (baseball’s second “best player ever”) 4 percentage points for the batting crown. The opposing manager hated Cobb so much that he allowed Nap to reach safely seven times on bunts to win the title. Some would say Nap’s 4th batting title was a farse, but 70 years later, the debate was re-opened when it was discovered that Cobb had illegally re-entered a game that season and gone 2 for 3, granting Nap the batting title even without the 7 bunt singles.

Wild Card: While playing Winter League Ball in the Dominican Republic this year, DeWitt didn’t shack up with an exotic girlfriend like his teammates… he got food poisoning. “I lost quite a bit of weight,” he reported to L.A. Times’ Dylan Hernandez, “I’m not sure what it was. I ate something the first week I was down there and I really couldn’t eat after that.” Who was his manager? JOSE. OFFERMAN.

Conspiracy Theory: Could it be that the former All-Star is trying to get back to The Show by poisoning Dodger prospects then attempting to earn a Spring Training invitation as their replacement?

Wild Card II: Blake DeWitt's doppleganger... Marilyn Monroe

The Backup: Ronnie Belliard

Uniform Number: #3

Former Dodger to Wear #3: Steve Sax was my first love. He came packaged in an 8X10 photograph when I became a member of the Blue Crew. I begged my dad to trade for him in his fantasy league (My dad later swapped Ozzie Smith for my boyhood hero). Years later, I would find myself working for Fox Sports Net, logging baseball games for highlights on the now defunct National Sports Report. One of the analysts on the show? None other than ol’ #3, Steve Sax. Our first close encounter occurred in an elevator. I was taking it down to the first floor, my shift was over. He stepped on at the 3rd floor, he was bound for the studio on the 2nd. He wore a dapper grey suit and smooth black wingtips.

Three thoughts crossed my mind while I savored the few moments Steve and I shared the same air.

1. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.
2. Wow. He’s short.
3. It’s just one floor, why won’t he take the stairs?

My first close encounter with the highly annoying Fox Sports Anchor Man Van Earl? At a urinal. No thoughts there.

Bio/Fun Facts: So Colletti comes out of his coma just in time to re-sign Belliard. Only there’s a very interesting “catch” in the contract. Ronnie has to weigh in at 209 pounds (his weight during the 2009 playoffs) or he loses the $875,000 he’s signed for and the contract’s reduced to a minor league deal. Maybe the strangest deal ever. If he’s represented by anyone more credible than Gumby, he doesn’t sign that deal. But this is Ronnie Belliard. Ladies and Gentleman, your 2009 Playoff Second Baseman. Ronnie showed up at camp weighing 211 and he’s got three weeks to shed two pounds. His answer? “I’m still eating whatever I want, I’m just trying not to eat too late.” If I’m Blake DeWitt, I’m stuffing Ronnie’s locker with ho-hos and telling him the Dessert Fairy came.

Strengths: Hot Dog Eating Contests.

Achilles’ Heel: Twinkies.

Wild Card: Besides Man-Ram, Ronnie Belliard is the only Dodger with a World Series ring. He was a member of the 2006 St. Louis Cardinals. There’s a lot to be said for having “winners” on your team, especially when your club is in the thick of it at the end. And nothing is more gravitating or more motivating than when a ballplayer shows up to camp with his World Series ring and he struts around the clubhouse, rallying his teammates around him with, “Hey! Get on my back! I know how to win one of these!” But you can bet Ronnie ate his ring.

The Other Backup: Jamey Carroll

Uniform Number: #14

Former Dodger to Wear #14: My dad used to say nobody blocked the plate better than Mike Scoiscia. He steadily wore the tools of ignorance for our boys in blue throughout the ‘80s, teaming up with some of the best hurlers in club history like Fernando Valenzuela and Orel Hershiser. He hit an improbable homerun off Doc Gooden in Game 5 of the 1988 World Series. It extended the game and the series, eventually resulting in a victory and our last world championship to date. He was next in line to sit at the helm of Dodger blue, but a band of idiots took over the club and foolishly cast Mike off like a useless piece of garbage. So the former catcher drove himself and his ’88 teammates a few miles south on The 5 to manage the Angels. All he’s done since then is win a World Series, collect countless division titles and, coupled with a billboard owner, turned the Angels into the consummate baseball franchise in Southern California. Yuck.

Bio/Fun Facts: He’s a third stringer, so I won’t spend too much time here. The Dodgers are his 4th club. He was drafted by the Expos. He finally made it to The Show as a 29 year old rookie, 7 seasons ago. He has maybe the most feminine name in baseball. He’s married and is the father of fraternal twins.

Strengths: For a guy who’s been a backup his entire career, his .276 lifetime average ain’t too shabby.

Achilles’ Heel: He’s 36. He can’t play every day. And if DeWitt doesn’t get the starting job, Carroll and Belliard will have to split time at second base.

Wild Card: This doesn’t exactly pertain to Carroll, but I learned something new while researching this “preview.” Did you know that second base is also referred to as “the keystone sack”? Great name for a bar, don't you think? “Hey Ray! Meet me down at the Keystone Sack. First round’s on me!”

Postscript: Got an email from my dad today. It reads, "Andruw Jones reported to the Chicago White Sox camp early, 25 pounds lighter and in great shape. He emphatically stated he was the best center fielder in camp. Joey Cora a bench coach looked up to him and said. You'd better be there are only pitchers and catchers in camp right now."

2010 Dodgers Preview: First Baseman

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 01:01:00 +0000

By Raymond

Catchers, done; Center Fielders, done. I feel my next natural position was first base, I did occasionally play left field, but I have the mobility of an arthritic tortoise with a broken leg. So it is at first base I was placed. Stand here and don’t move, a good gig if you can get it. Sadly they normally require some sort of good offensive production to be a starter at this position, hence my always fleeting occupation of said position. Fortunately for the Los Angeles Dodgers, they do not have such a problem.

Los Angeles Dodgers First Basemen for the 2010 Season

The Starter

Name: James Loney

Uniform Number: #7

Former Dodgers to

Wear That Number: Jose Vizcaino (By the way I had no idea that Jose stuck around the Bigs for 18 seasons, no idea), nd he is actually working for the Dodgers currently as a spring training coach. At least he is not still trying to play and manage in the Dominican and knocking out umpires (Like some other former Dodger middle infielders we know). Another #7, he whose name should not be mentioned: J.D. Drew. Who is perhaps my least favorite former Dodger of all time. Even writing about him is making me throw up a little in my mouth, so I better stop.

Bio/Fun Facts: James Anthony Loney from Houston, Texas. There is not much to say about young James. He was a high school star hitting over .500 and pitching with a sub 2.00 ERA in his senior year. He was picked as the Gatorade Baseball Player of the Year for Texas that same year. In the minors with the exception of one injury plagued year in Double A, he saw similar success and his hitting continued to shine. He was brought up in 2006 after Nomar hurt himself for the first time. It was then a matter of waiting for Nomar’s 90 day warranty to elapse and the position of first base was his and probably will be for a long time to come

Strengths: Solid defense and average offense from the right corner of the infield. He has gotten better defensively each year as a full time starter. And when you look at his offensive numbers he is better hitter at this age in his career then Wes Parker was at the same age.

Achilles' Heel: Without a beard he looks like he is 12 years old and should be getting balls for the umpire. Also his power numbers since joining the club, while not bad have been disappointing on the whole. Many say this could be a breakout season for James, but I think they have been saying that for the past three years. While it would be nice to see more power from him, I am not sure if it will happen any time soon.

Best Player in MLB at 1B: Without a doubt Albert Puljos, the best natural hitter in baseball right now. Phat Albert is one of the few players who is a true threat to win the triple crown every year. If it weren’t for Matt Holliday and Ryan Ludwik, Puljos would easily be seeing 200+ walks a season. As long as he isn’t found to be injecting cow growth hormone or some other P.E.D. this is the guy I will be proud to say I saw play first hand when I tell stories to my children.

Best 1B Ever: I was really leaning towards Kevin Maas, but I think you have to give it to the “Iron Horse” Lou Gehrig, or as his team mates called him “Biscuit Pants”! I feel like there is nothing I can say about him that hasn’t been said, other than to mention that more guys like him are need in baseball today.

Wildcard: James is widely recognized as the funniest guy in the Dodger’s clubhouse. And when you look at the guy you can kinda see how he could be the funny kid. Also there is a large internet following of female fans looking to become James’ number one fan. He does supposedly have a girlfriend but he keeps it under wraps unlike some other Dodger players.

The Backup

Name: Casey Blake

Uniform Number: #23

Former Dodger to Wear

That Number: Don Zimmer, the last former Brooklyn Dodger still serving on a major league field in some capacity.

Bio/Fun Facts: He is really our starting third baseman, and will probably only fill in in case of an injury. So this will be a light analysis at best.

Strengths: Probably the best beard in baseball.

Achilles' Heel: Razor blades.

Wildcard: When asked about his beard, he answers that he grows it simply because he does not like to shave and that the beard also helps camouflage him while participating in one of his favorite hobbies, duck hunting, a man after my own heart.

The Other Backup

Name: Doug Mientkiewicz

Uniform Number: #13

Former Dodger to Wear

That Number: Joe Ferguson, Dodger catcher from the early 70’s.

Bio/Fun Facts: Born in Toledo, Ohio Doug is essentially a washed up first baseman who is playing to try and make the team as a backup first baseman and pinch hitter. Doug is one of the few players left who does not use batting gloves, and is an oddity as he hits lefty and throws righty.

Strengths: A good line drive hitter and a great defensive first baseman.

Achilles‘ Heel: He has a bad shoulder that could keep him from making the club, while a good defensive first baseman, he will need to hit well if he hopes to make the opening day roster over other spring training invitees.

Wildcard: Doug has a gold medal from the 2000 Olympic Games, I wonder if he ever walks into the Dodger shower room wearing nothing but his shower shoes, his gold medal and a smile? I know I would.

"Look at Me! -- I Can Be! -- Centerfield!"

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 04:53:00 +0000

By Benjamin

Position: Centerfield

The Starter: Matt Kemp

Number: 27

Former Dodger to wear #27: Mike Sharperson Unlike other professional sports, Baseball requires at least one representative from every team in the All-Star game. This often means that bottom feeders like today’s Pirates, Nats and Royals end up sending forgettable All-Stars. In 1992, poor Mike Sharperson was one of those bottom feeder all-stars, amounting to the shiniest piece of trash on a garbage heap. I was 11 years old when Sharperson was elected as the lone Dodger representative in the 1992 All-Star Game. It was the first time I remember being embarrassed for my favorite team. Mike Sharperson? An all-star? It was the first time I had to really come to terms with what it meant to be a fan. To stick with your team through thick and thin. Mike Sharperson was the “thin.”

Bio/Fun Facts: Matt Kemp was not only a star baseball player back in high school, he was an Oklahoma state champion in Hoops his junior and senior years. One of his teammates, Sheldon Williams, was an All-American at Duke who now laces ‘em up with the Boston Celtics. Wonder if Kemp’s gonna spot his boy a pair o’ box seats when the Dodgers come to Fenway in June. Right now, it’s $200 a pair for Standing Room Only. It’s March and I’m showing restraint, but come June 18th it’s gonna boil down to seeing Dodgers-Red Sox or eating this summer. And if you wanna know which way I’m leaning, you can take a look at my Internet History and count the number of times I’ve searched “fasting” over the past 2 months.

Strengths: Coming off a Gold Glove/Silver Slugger season. ‘Nuff said. Hit .297, .490 slugging, 26 jimmy jacks, 101 ribbies, 34 steals…. And rising. Might just be the best player on the Dodgers, and might just be the best Dodger center fielder since Willie Davis (apologies to John Shelby).

Achilles’ Heel: The Whiff. 153 K’s in 2008, 139 in 2009 and his Strikeout to Walk ratio during those seasons is somewhere close to 3:1.

Best Centerfielder Now: Don’t look now, but I think we have the best centerfielder in the game today. In fact, the Southland has cornered the market at the position. The Orange County Angels of Disneyland boast Torii Hunter. Our boys in blue have Kemp. Hunter is probably a better defender by a highlight reel or two, but Kemp gets the edge because he steals more bases and drives in more runs. Plus, there might never be a name as annoyingly spelled as Hunter’s first…”Torii.” Yuck.

Best Centerfielder Ever: The position is stacked. Ty Cobb, Mickey Mantle, Tris Speaker, Joe DiMaggio, Duke Snider, even Cool Papa Bell, but I think the debate is a “no contest.” The incomparable Willie Mays is the best centerfielder ever. Jim Murray once wrote “The last time Willie Mays dropped a pop fly, he had a rattle in one hand, and a bonnet on his head.” He was a 5-tool player before the phrase was coined. He hit 52 homers, drove in over 130 runs and won the MVP when he was 35! His play was mythic in proportion, the stuff of legend. Like the day he raced toward the outfield wall in a dead sprint, caught a line drive over his shoulder, whirled around like a top and threw a frozen rope 350 feet to second base to keep the runner from advancing.

Wildcard: Russell wasn’t the only boy in blue sowing his oats this offseason. The paparazzi photographed Matt frolicking ‘round Cabo with pop sensation Rihanna. They rendezvoused in Miami for the Super Bowl, he threw Rihanna an big bash for in her honor for the pop star’s 22nd birthday but somehow the dude didn’t get an invite to the Grammy’s. Rihanna went stag. Maybe the most disappointing note of the Dodgers’ offseason, outside of the minor league contracts doled out to Russ Ortiz and Eric Gagne. I’d consider Rihanna stiffing Kemp the equivalent of you taking the wife to Disneyland, springin’ for dinner at Club 33 but her deciding to spend the night alone in the Grand Californian while you stay at the Jolly Roger.

The Backup: Jason Repko

Number: 17

Former Dodger to wear #17: Who caught the final strike of the Dodgers’ last championship over 21 years ago? Mike Scioscia? Nope. RICK. DEMPSEY. The veteran catcher replaced Sciosc in the middle of the 1988 World Series after Mike (who had the speed of an overweight heifer) missed a sign, attempted to steal second base and sprained his ankle in the process. Dempsey donned the tools of ignorance, guided Hershiser through Game 5 and hoisted Orel to the sky in celebrating the Dodgers 4th world title since moving to Los Angeles.

Bio/Fun Facts: As a pitcher in high school, Repko’s fastball was once clocked at 94MPH, which is probably 8 more MPH than Gagne throws today, so if Rep doesn’t make the team as the 4th outfielder, maybe he should apply for a job in the bullpen.

Strengths: Speedy, good glove, can play all positions in the outfield.

Achilles Heel: The kid can’t hit the broad side of a barn. A first round pick by the Dodgers back in 1999, he’s ping ponged between the minors and the show for 5 seasons, playing nearly 130 games back in 2005. But the phenom has suffered some injuries and has never broke through as a standout player and now plays second fiddle to Matt Kemp and may not even make the Opening Day roster. Kemp can potentially play all but 4 or 5 games this season, and the Dodgers signed 4th outfielder Reed Johnson from the Cubs (naturally a left fielder but able to hold down center if needed). Repko’s one of those guys who may start for the Albuquerque Isotopes for many years to come. An overall disappointment in the Dodgers organization.

2010 Dodgers Preview: Catchers

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 18:28:00 +0000

By Raymond

While I was celebrating my birthday, swilling scotch and devouring large chunks of beef, Ben came up with an idea for the month of March for “Sermons from the Mound”: a position by position breakdown of Dodgers roster. Amidst the divorce proceedings and accusations flying back and forth between the McCrourts, we shall take an in depth look at how the Dodgers are shaping up this year at each spot on the diamond.

Being behind on my blogging duties in general I shall hit lead off on this new topic and cover my respective position, Catchers.

Los Angeles Dodgers Catchers for the 2010 Season

The Starter

Name: Russell Martin

Uniform Number: #55

Former Dodger to

Wear That Number: Orel Hershiser “The Bulldog”

Bio/Fun Facts: He is a Nordique; a French Canadian who was born outside of Toronto but was raised in Quebec and even spent a few years in Paris. He attended the same high school as Eric Gagne, and when playing with Gagne formed the first French Canadian battery in the Bigs. Drafted as a third baseman he switched to catcher in rookie ball. He is a former user of smokeless tobacco, and his full name is: Russell Nathan Jeanson Coltrane Martin, Jr. The Coltrane is from his dad in tribute to John Coltrane, as his father was a saxophonist. Martin currently wears “J. Martin” on the back of his jersey in honor of his mother, whose maiden name was “Jeanson”.

Strengths: Martin is a team leader and a great motivator for the organization. Behind the plate his is a good defensive catcher. He catches about 30% of the runner that try to steal on him, and each year in the majors he has allowed fewer and fewer passed balls. He has offensive pop, and can be a threat to hit it deep. He also has a little speed on the base paths and though he often gets caught he can surprise the opposition and swipe one when needed.

Achilles' Heel: Martin tires and his performance suffers as the seasons winds down. In the month of August last year he hit .239 and in September he hit .207. And that is not to mention the fact that Martin’s offensive numbers in general have been down the last two seasons. While Martin is tough and remains pretty injury free the wear and tear of catching seems to take a toll on him so that by the time playoffs come around he doesn’t have much left in the tank, hitting only .200 in the last two post seasons.

Best Player in MLB at C: While Yadier Molina is probably the defensive catcher in baseball I would say Joe Mauer average defense but amazing offense makes him the best catcher in both league. While Martin has a better arm and allows fewer passed balls Mauer has the benefit of being able to rest in games and just DH thanks to being on the Twins so he can just put up wonderful offensive stats. Probably the best hitting backstop since Piazza.

Beat Catcher ever: Yogi Berra, idiot savant of catchery. Great offensive numbers throughout his career, hard to strikeout, and threw out almost half of the guys who tried to run on him. Not to mention longevity and clutch hitting especially in the playoffs.

Wildcard: Martin is currently dating/shacking up with Marikym Hervieux, a French-Canadian Model/Actress. This quote comes from The Globe and Mail: “He's settled down with a steady girlfriend, and while babies aren't in the picture, ‘We are practicing a lot,’ he says, smiling.” How will this off season “practice” translate to on the field performance? Will he have a stronger back or perhaps his knees won’t even last until the All Star break?

The Backup

Name: Brad Ausmus

Uniform Number: #12

Former Dodger to

Wear That Number: Tommy Davis, more recently Jeff Kent.

Bio/Fun Facts: A fact I did not know until researching him, Brad is a member of God’s chosen people (He’s Jewish)! On the roster he has taken on the role of the mature veteran catcher. Last year he helped teach Martin how to study pregame scouting reports and use that information to call a better game and use his pitchers more wisely. He was re-signed for another one year contract to continue his work with Martin and help tutor the still very young pitching staff.

Strengths: Well known in the MLB as one of the smartest catchers active in baseball; he I known for calling excellent games and his careful handling of pitching staffs. I believe Ben would call him “Wicked Smaart”. He got his bachelor’s form Dartmouth. Last year he caught about 35 games, taking some of the strain off of Martin. He also batted .333 with runners in scoring position last year making him a decent pinch hitter option. And as you can see on the right he had to catch Mario Lopez' first pitch as we all know Mario throws a wicked "Douche-Ball".

Achilles‘ Heel: Pork products, and 15673 inning behind the plate over his career. As a regular player he was never much of a hitter. He was once quoted as saying "I feel like when they say I'm one of the smarter ballplayers, it's just their way of saying I don't hit very much.” He really doesn’t have a major weakness because not much is expected of him physically at this point in his career. He is one of those girls you respect for their “mind”. I see him playing out this year and then getting a managing job somewhere.

Wildcard: Is a member of the National Jewish Sports Hall of Fame (Inducted in 2001). That same year he sat he did not play on Yom Kippur saying he was “trying to atone for my poor first half.” In January of 99 he was traded by the Astros with C. J. Nitkowski to the Tigers for Paul Bako, Dean Crow, Brian Powell, and minor leaguers Carlos Villalobos and Mark Persails. A Carlos Villalobos reference for the win!

The Third Stringer

Name: A. J. Ellis

Uniform Number: #49

Former Dodger to

Wear That Number: Tim Belcher

Bio/Fun Facts: I look at A.J. and think if I was more physically gifted I would be him. He was born in 1981, and graduated 1999. We both have about the same height and build, and both ended up behind some great young upstart catcher. We both hit and throw right handed.

Strengths: A decent hitter, he has hit over .300 in his last two seasons, but not really with any power. He was known for his hitting back in college too.

Achilles' Heel: A young healthy Russell Martin. Also last year was bad defensively for A.J. He only caught 29% of those who ran on him, and he allowed 11 passed balls in 86 games.

Wildcard: Only thing keeping him on the roster is the fact Ausmus is probably gone after this year, but I am sure his name has come up as a “Player to be named later” multiple times.

So that is your 2010 Dodgers catching staff. Maybe not the strongest in the league, but you have a strong starter, a reliable backup and a decent guy waiting in the wings. And if worse comes to worse we call up Lucas May.

Happy Birthday Raymond!

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 14:28:00 +0000

Some people collect stamps. Others coins. Some collect PEZ dispensers, nutcrackers, or commemorative dishes with NASCAR drivers printed on them. Me? I collect ticket stubs. Carefully hidden in the back of my closet and piled up in a handcrafted wooden box are dozens upon dozens of ticket stubs, press passes and parking receipts to every live sporting event I ever attended.

My oldest stub? Game 3 of the 1981 World Series. Dodgers-Yankees. The debut year of Fernandomania. Valenzuela pitched that day, won it and lit a 4-game winning streak, earning L.A. its first championship in 16 years. (To be honest-It was my parents who attended the game. I was only one year old and was being babysat back in Eagle Rock).

There are only two ticket stubs that are missing.

1. 2005- Spurs-Knicks at Madison Square Garden in New York City. It’s the only time I’ve ever been to the Garden but I dropped the stub on the subway while riding back to Chinatown to catch a bus to Boston. It kills me that I have no physical evidence of my only visit to MSG.
2. 1991- Raiders-Chiefs at the L.A. Coliseum. My only professional football game (although I’ve since seen the Pats play in a pre-season matchup in Gillette). This stub has inexplicably disappeared and it kills me double because I read that emotional article/biography of Todd Marinovich that you sent me and I realized his NFL debut may have been the very Sunday I went to see the Silver and Black battle K.C. I have no idea where that stub has gone and I’m so mad I could skin my elbows with a pear knife! The stub was so dope! A silver rectangle with the unmistakable bold black Raider shield printed on it. Ugh!

But moving on…

While rummaging through the old wooden box, frantically digging for the Raider ticket, I stopped with every stub, reminiscing on each event. Each stadium. Each seat. Each game. And so many of those ticket stubs, so many of those memories were made in seats alongside my good friend Raymond.

Here’s a “short” list of my personal favorites. Games with Ray. Happy 29, brother! Enjoy!

1997

Sunday, April 6: Stockton Ports at Lancaster JetHawks (Single-A). Ray’s family had season tickets to the local minor league ballclub. Ray and I often went to The Hangar (as the ballpark was affectionately known) to take in a ballgame. Always sat within lunging distance of the home team’s dugout. I don’t remember one thing that happened at The Hanger that day, but I do remember the drive home.

We got into an accident.

I had been driving only 4 months. Had my own wheels, a 1979 El Camino which I bought in South Central LA from a dude who may or may not have stolen it. Ray suggested we take a shortcut home. I attempted to cross a two lane highway, looked both ways, failed to notice the blind spot, crept into the middle of the avenue, and….WHAM!...was T-boned by a van driven by the wife of a cop with 6 little girls on their way to church. Here’s the kicker—after making sure everyone was alright she admitted to barreling into me without breaking because she feared that the little girls (who were not wearing seat belts) would go flying. Gee. Thanks lady. To this day, neither of us tells the other how to get anywhere in a car.

1998

Tuesday, June 16: Single-A California League All-Star Game at The Hangar. Freeway Division vs. Valley Division. Can’t recall what happened but it earns mention for the fact that it is the only all-star game in any sport I’ve ever attended. And, unless I’m wrong, the only one for the birthday boy too.

1999

Sunday, July 29: Seattle Mariners at Kansas City Royals. Most people go to Cancun the summer after their senior year in High School. Or Hawaii. Or Europe. Or at least Ft. Lauderdale. Ray and I went to Missouri. And most people in Kansas City go to night games in the summer because of the oppressive heat and humidity. We went to a get-away-day-game on a Sunday afternoon. Temperature at first pitch? “Feels like 109.” But we couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to sit four rows from home plate, get food and drink brought to us by wait staff and actually hold a ticket with “$100”printed next to “Price.” A-Rod homered. Griffey doubled. And we lost 37 pounds in sweat between us.

Monday, August 16: Florida Marlins at Los Angeles Dodgers. Last game before moving off to college. We sat beyond the outfield fence with the rest of the riff-raff, before the days when they stopped serving beer in the bleachers. Some wonderful heckles came from fans in those seats, but none topped this night when Florida’s poor left-fielder suffered 9 innings of verbal assault. His name? Todd Dunwoody. The best heckle of the night (that can be restated In mixed company)? “Hey! Where’s Buzz Lightyear, DunWOODY?!?!”

2000

Friday, April 14: Cincinnati Reds at Los Angeles Dodgers: First year in college. Campus is an 11-minute drive to Dodger Stadium. Opening Day at Chavez Ravine. First time ever at Opening Day. My dad was giddy. He grew up thinking only rich people go to Opening Day and there we were, with a row of friends and family in the outer reserve taking in all the pageantry of the first day of baseball. What was even more magical on this particular opening? Mine and Ray’s boyhood hero, the CY Young Award Winning, Playoff Hero, Reason for the only Dodger title in our “conscious” lifetime, Orel Hershiser was back in blue and starting on this particular Friday afternoon. The crowd was electric. It was a blast from our past. Old #55 back on the bump. His fastball had lost some zip and he didn’t have the stamina to go late into the game, but he gave us 6 innings of 6 hits and 1 run, kept the Reds at bay long enough for us to put up an 8-spot and earned the victory. Sadly, it would be his last. He was later demoted to the bullpen, suffered one too many shellackings and retired midway through the season. But Ray and I were there for one last day of glory.

Thursday, April 20: I take back what I said about the Raiders-Chiefs game being my only professional football game. Add to the list the Arena Football League matchup between the Los Angeles Avengers and the Carolina Cobras at downtown’s Staples Center. Ray always had a knack for scoring tickets to second rate football leagues (he once held season tickets to the XFL’s LA Extreme). The Avenger quarterback at the game we attended? None other than Todd Marinovich.

Sunday, August 6: Milwaukee Brewers at Los Angeles Dodgers. Dodger fans have awful reputations. Fickle, stuck in traffic, and distracted by the glitz and glam of Tinseltown, L.A. fans are notorious for showing up to the ballpark late and leaving early, no matter what the score. Ray and I have attended more Dodger games than Eric Gagne has syringes. And we’ve NEVER left early. Well…almost never. On this day in baseball, we watched the lowly Brewers jump out to a 7-0 lead after only 2 innings. Rather than stick around to witness the blood bath, we left before the second wave of fans even showed up. I don’t know about my partner in crime but I’ll always regret it.

2001

Saturday, May 12: Atlanta Braves at Los Angeles Dodgers. In a past life, Ray pushed buttons for Fox Sports AM 1150, the #1 sports radio station in the Southland at the turn of the millennium. All the graveyard shifts never amounted to a career in talk radio but it did get us into Church with official press passes one Saturday night. We were on the field during batting practice, were within lunging distance of Dodger legend Don Newcombe, ate free Dodger Dogs in a luxury suite, witnessed a 0-0 tie come to a thrilling hault in the bottom of the 9th when Gary Sheffield ended the game with a walk-off solo homerun, watched the live taping of the post-game radio show from the Stadium Club and got into a brawl with a drunken Stu Nahan. Okay, so I made that last part up, except that Stu Nahan was probably drunk.

Saturday, July 7: Seattle Mariners at Los Angeles Dodgers. Raymond is a rule follower. Always has been. So when you attempt to persuade him to move from the seats to which you are, you are wasting your breath. Seattle was in town for an interleague game and my brother Tim, Ray and myself piled into my Monte Carlo and drove down to Church to see Ichiro in action on a hot, muggy Saturday afternoon in L.A. We all fried in the sun for 2 innings before Tim and I decided to move three rows back into the shade and get some relief from the merciless heat. Not Raymond. He sat alone in his seat, wearing jeans, a polo and ballcap. Not budging. Not once. My brother spent the next 7 innings debating how long it would take for Ray to pass out.

Friday-Saturday, July 20-21: Arizona Diamondbacks at San Francisco Giants. The first of a handful of road trips north, the game Friday night was marked by the 40 degree drop in temperature from the region that surrounds The 5 to city by the bay. With the wind whipping off the water and the fog rolling in, Ray was forced to purchase a…*gulp… San Francisco Giants sweatshirt to keep warm. For you Red Sox fans, it would be like being strip searched at JFK Airport and not being allowed to have your clothes back, forcing you to buy an “I Heart NY” t-shirt. The next day, Curt Schilling took a no-hitter into the 7th but I jinxed it by calling attention to the no-no and he promptly gave up a single. Sorry Ray. My bad.

2002

Tuesday, April 2: San Francisco Giants at Los Angeles Dodgers. Second Opening Day in 3 seasons. The parking lot is so overwhelmed with vehicles, we’re directed to park on top of the hill behind the THINK BLUE sign. Barry Bonds crushes two homeruns, narrowly misses a third by a couple of inches foul and the Giants embarrass us 9-2.

Saturday, June 29: Los Angeles Dodgers at Anaheim Angels. Walking down the stairwell, going to meet Ray downstairs, I glance down at our tickets and realize they are for the game that took place the night before. I bought the wrong tickets. If it were just the two of us, we would have just scrapped the whole trip but we were meeting a former high school teacher of ours and his wife down in the O.C. and we had to come through. Things go bad to worse when we discover the game is sold out and we’re forced to empty out our savings, take cash advances on credit cards and pony up for scalped tickets across the street from the ballpark. Wheeling and dealing at a nearby gas station with a shady looking character, we handed over all the cash we’ve ever had (and didn’t really have) in exchange for 4 tickets that weren’t even next to each other. To top it off. The rival Angels blank our boys 7-zip. Ray would spend the next 37 sporting events asking me if I have the right tickets with the right date and each time I would feel the embarrassment like a punch to the larynx.

Friday-Sunday, July 26-28: Los Angeles Dodgers at San Francisco Giants: Best. Roadtrip. Ever. Ray, his brother Ryan, me, my brother Tim. 3 days, 3 games, 3 nights in a Union Square hotel. The trip is highlighted by a game one thumping by the visitors. At one point, the Dodgers are up 9-2 in the 3rd. Tim and I are on our feet and taunting those cappuccino drinkin’, iPhone usin’, knit cap clad excuses for baseball fans. Knowing that to draw attention to the field would be useless at this point, the Giant fans dig deep for a comeback and are only able to muster their unsavory feelings for Angelenos and their ability to drain all of Northern California (and the entire west for that matter) of its natural resources. “Just keep your fuckin’ hands off our water!” one Giant fan would turn around and spat. Best retort to taunting…EVER. (Sidenote: Adrian Beltre would go 7 for 9 in the first two games with 5 ribbies). (Second Sidenote: Back at the hotel, Tim munches on some Cheez-Its. He drops a couple. Ray sternly draws attention to the stray crackers, warns that they could get crushed into the carpet, and orders Tim to pick them up. Without skipping a beat, Tim overturns the open box and lets ALL. OF. THE CHEEZ-ITs spill to the ground. Ray’s eyebrows curl and he forces a sneer but you know he wants to laugh.)

Sunday, October 13: Minnesota Twins at Anaheim Angels. Raymond commits adultery with the ballclub to the south. He bangs thundersticks, dons a red Angels cap and cheers on King Fish as he takes a victory lap around the field, celebrating the clinching game of the ALCS and the Angels first trip to the World Series. I look on in shame.

2003

Sunday, April 5: Los Angeles Dodgers at San Diego Padres. I don’t remember one thing that happened all game at Qualcomm Stadium that day. And I’d bet a ticket to Petco Park that Ray doesn’t either. But I do remember gassing up in the Diego and hitting OVER $40 for the first time in my Monte Carlo’s history. Wish I had saved the receipt with that ticket stub.

Sunday, July 20: St. Louis Cardinals at Los Angeles Dodgers. 44-year-old Rickey Henderson makes what proves to be his last stop on his illustrious Hall of Fame career. All Ray and I want is to see Rickey lead off the game with a homer (a record of which he holds). Bottom of the 1st. Woody Williams on the mound. Henderson settles in the batter’s box. He swings at the first pitch. Gone! Homerun! It’s the only time we’ve ever felt justified if we decided to leave early. We stuck around to watch Rickey go 2 for 5. It would be the last homerun of his career. (Sidenote: Jeromy Burnitz TWICE, Beltre, Ross, Pujols, Rolen, Eduardo Perez, and even Cards pitcher Woody Williams would all go deep too. The following year. Steroid testing would be mandatory).

2004

Sunday, July 18: Los Angeles Dodgers at Arizona Diamondbacks. 5 dudes. 5 seats in the car. 12 hours of driving. 3 hours of baseball. 2 States. 1 Day. My brother Tim harassing Ray with lewd texts. Jayson Werth rocketing triples off the center field wall, hitting the ball harder than I’ve ever seen anyone live. My dad bearing down for the trip back knowing he has to work a 12-hour shift the next day. Ray racing down The 10 like he was Tony Stewart at Daytona. We sure go to outrageou lengths to see baseball games.

2007

Sunday, June 17: Orange County Angels of Disneyland at Los Angeles Dodgers. Part One of Ray’s Bachelor Party (Part Two involves parachutes and airplanes). Chamberlins and McCormicks band together for seats in the “All You Can Eat” Pavilion, a stroke of genius by the Dodger brass. To liven it up a little, we all come equipped with a couple of dozen $1 bills, passing the hat and adding a dollar with each batter, hoping to be the one holding the hat when a batter went yard. The only jack? 8th Inning, 1 out, Angels outfielder Gary Matthews, Jr. hits a rope to right field, what feels like inches from our seats. James Loney (a first basemen who is inexplicably playing right field) leaps headfirst into the wall and is knocked out cold. The ball goes loose, the center fielder doesn’t get it in time and Matthews circles the bases for an inside the park homerun. Who’s holding the hat? I am. $63 richer. The jury is still out on whether this was a good sign for Ray’s marriage.

2009

Wednesday, May 20: New York Mets at Los Angeles Dodgers. Second bachelor party in three seasons. This time it’s Tim. The Dollar-Homer Game is played again. Only this time, no one goes yard. The pot is turned over to the bride to be and Ray dons a fez and introduces the groom to what will forever be known as “the green death.”

Sunday, June 14: Syracuse Chiefs at Pawtucket Red Sox (affectionately known in New England as the “Paw Sox.”) Cooperstown Classic II at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, NY. We take a break from the National Baseball Hall of Fame to take in a few innings at the adjacent ballpark. No disrespect to Dodger Dogs but Doubleday Dogs prove to be Best. Hot Dogs. Ever. Ray and I gorge on 3 apiece. Ray’s brother Ryan shows restraint. Only consumes 2.

Tuesday-Wednesday, June 16-17: Florida Marlins at Boston Red Sox followed by Washington Nationals at New York Yankees. Fenway Park and the New Yankee Stadium. Highlights include David Ortiz going deep (and Ray feeling a little dirty about cheering after Ortiz’s name surfaces a month later as a player who tested positive for PED’s in 2003), Tim Wakefield’s knuckler, C.C. Sabbathia taking batting practice, and Ray approaching an usher in the Bronx who is holding a sign reading “How can I help you?” then pointing at me and asking, “How can I dispose of a Red Sox fan?”

Here’s to many more birthdays, many more baseball seasons, many more live sporting events together and many more ticket stubs!

Happy Birthday Raymond!

Happy Birthday Dad!

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 15:30:00 +0000

One of my earliest memories as a child is walking through a crowded concourse at Dodger Stadium. The inner reserve level (fondly known as the “blue seats” back when the multi-tiered ballpark resembled a rainbow) swarmed with fans. Body to body, Dodger die-hards wiggled through the mob, juggling bright blue foam fingers, the day’s program and hot grilled Dodger Dogs, dressed in foil and piled high on cardboard trays. Like cattle, fans herded through the concourse, masses struggling to walk in both directions, feet shuffling on the concrete, crushing peanut shells underfoot, the Public Address Announcer vibrating the columns with his booming voice, introducing the starting lineups, a concessioner rings out, “PEANUTS! Get your PEANUTS HEEYYAARR!”

To a boy of six, the scene was more magic than chaos. I was mystified by the smells, the sights and the sounds. And if I didn’t watch out I was in danger of being run over by a runaway fan, angling toward Aisle 3, desperate to catch the first pitch. My dad must have recognized the look of awe on my face and the sheer disregard I had for my own safety, so he positioned my six year old frame behind him and instructed me to reach up and hang on tightly to the belt-loop at the back of his jeans. With my dad as a shield and my finger securely fastened to my father’s belt-loop, we weaved in and out of traffic. My father parting the seas until we finally reached the Promised Land—the “blue seats.”

I am a baseball fan.

I’m a baseball fan because my dad’s a baseball fan. As was his dad, and the dad before that. My dad, both figuratively and, in the case of the Dodger Stadium concourse, literally paved the way. A framed newspaper clipping hangs on my living room wall. Featured at the center of the black and white (now yellow) page is a large photograph of a semi-pro baseball team from 1934 Indiana. Standing in the back row with a kind smile is the team’s player-manager and my great grandfather Benjamin Chamberlin (for whom I am named). Knelt down, and surrounded by a couple dozen uniformed Hoosiers, is my grandfather Phil Chamberlin, giddy as a batboy gets. On the opposite wall, a framed black and white photo of my dad, David Chamberlin, hangs proudly. He is a teenager, at bat and in full swing, his pants rolled up and meticulously folded over his stirrups. His weight shifted forward, his hands extended, his chin tucked into his chest, his eyes lit up, in perfect follow through.

My dad and I once drove from L.A. to Phoenix. That’s a 6-hour car ride through three-digit-temperatures of desert. We got to talking about fatherhood. (I often think about rearing children like that Oreo Commercial. A young dad drops a cookie on a dirty kitchen floor in front of his infant son. The dad looks around to make sure no one is looking, then bends down, picks it up and swallows it whole, all while his young son looks on. We hear the father’s thoughts, “The fact that I am responsible for another human being is completely and utterly ridiculous.”).

I asked him if he had any advice on raising kids. “Tell them stories,” he said. “Tell them stories from your past. Tell them stories about us, your family and your friends. The stories will paint a picture of who you are and who the people you love are.”

Here’s some stories about my dad. Here’s some stories about baseball.

One season as a little leaguer, my dad missed the Triple Crown by a couple seeing-eye singles, hit nearly .400 with 10 homers and 35 ribbies. But it wasn’t enough to win Most Valuable Player. The honor went to a kid with slightly inferior hitting numbers, but with outstanding pitching statistics—a double threat. The MVP race was so hotly contested and created so much controversy that it divided the locals. My grandfather was his most outspoken supporter and stewed over the results of an award for 11 year-olds. To the day he died, I’m certain my grandfather felt that his son had been robbed.

As a young teenager, he spent a whole summer at a baseball camp in Oklahoma. His first time on an airplane, he was armed with just a glove, a bat, and some underwear; his bat taped around his duffle bag. “I was such a geek,” he confesses. Whenever he reminisces on the days when he played baseball all day and all night during those few weeks in the hot Oklahoma sun, you would think he was the first astronaut to land on the moon.

He once called balls and strikes as a home plate umpire at a youth game. The inexperienced pitcher walked batter after batter after batter. My dad reluctantly calling balls, cringing with each pitch, feeling the youngster’s pain. He later admitted that even if the kid got it anywhere within 2 feet of the plate he woulda called it a strike. The coach finally brought in a reliever and later found my dad to tell him “thanks” for having a heart and helping out his struggling pitcher.

My dad usurped the starting catcher’s position on the varsity team during his freshman year at Franklin High. He was once photographed blocking the plate, crouched down, glove out in front, bracing for impact as the runner barreled toward him. The runner collided with my dad, and the both of them went toppling over but dad held on. The umpire shouted, “OUT!” The picture appeared in the local newspaper. The photographer later griped, “if you would have kept your eyes open, the picture woulda been perfect!”

He once caught Montreal Expos prospects during a pro workout in the Southland. Thrilled by the opportunity and probably hopped up with excitement, he clumsily caught the wiry hurler with what seemed like a Nolan Ryan fastball. With each pitch, my dad bobbled and booted the ball, taking the pitcher out of his rhythm. “It hurt my hand,” my dad admits, “he threw at a different level than I had ever handled.”

My dad and I once coached my little brother’s tee ball team. My dad is a great coach. No. An excellent one. He’s got that knack for both teaching and making you feel good about yourself. What does he consider his greatest coaching accomplishment? Ending an inning on outs. You see, in tee ball, teams bat around every frame, because Lord knows 6 and 7 year olds don’t have the dexterity of skill to catch and throw. They look more like pidgeons trying to gather seed. Tee ball squads never get three outs to end an inning. But not my dad’s team. They did it a handful of times that season (mostly because of a couple o’ kids named Stephen).

My dad took me to my first playoff game, my first double header, took me to my first baseball card show, my first spring training game (Frank Castillo was RIGHT. THERE.). Every spring we made the annual trip to Big 5 for cleats, and gloves and aluminum bats. My dad always cringes at the “tink” of the bat.

My dad rips broadcasters who aren’t objective, has been playing fantasy baseball since 1989. My dad saw Sandy Koufax throw his perfect game, is one of the few people in the world who knows the Angels once played at Dodger Stadium. My dad likes to take shots at Desert Christian baseball, he didn’t think much of our JV squads… I don’t blame him. My dad once piled into an Accord with four college boys (the least of which measured at 6’2’’, 175 lbs) to drive six hours to watch a game in another state, then get back in the car, drive six hours back, and work a 12-hour shift the next day. My dad’s even directed my brother and I to make a road trip after he’s passed away and to sprinkle his ashes on the field of every major league ballpark in America.

My dad and I have frozen at Fenway, burned at AT&T Park (Chamberlins never remember sun screen), and even sat comfortably in an air conditioned B.O.B. But one of dad’s favorite places in the world is in the yard, on a spring afternoon, pulling up weeds and listening to Vin Scully call an exhibition game. My mother swears that his face lights up every year about this time. She swears that his eyes sparkle, that his steps bounce. She calls it “the gleam.”

But you’re so much more than baseball, Dad. So much more. And not a million posts on this blog can ever encapsulate you. But on this day—your birthday. You’re my “gleam.”

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Ramble Ramble Ramble

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 17:05:00 +0000

Apologies to the ones of readers of the blog as my humor, wit, insight and commentary have been absent. Alas my cerebrum has begun to awaken from its long winter’s nap, and frankly with the Vancouver Olympic games dominating so many of the myriad television channels on the home boob tube, I suppose I might as well compose the prose that will put you in a delightful repose.

Filed away somewhere on my laptop I have a four page long rambling elucidation of Martin Luther, Protestantism, and Modernism and how it has led to the relatively dry spirituality of evangelicalism. Actually if I ever get around to a master’s degree that sounds just boring enough that it may make a wonderful thesis paper.

But alas this is not an academic forum for my verbose tedious pontifications, so I shall try to distill what I was thinking into something more concise (Is it just me or am I in desperate need of an editor?).

While there has been a resurgence of it as of late, I think much of the mysticism of Christianity has been lost and we are the worse off for it.

Now I realize your experience in the Vineyard may have been different, but from personal experience and others I have talked to from conservative evangelical denominations we were fairly limited in practices towards God.

You had prayer: talking to God. Worship: singing to God. Bible study: thinking about God. And all of these activities were based on a fact orientated regimen of “If it wasn’t done or didn’t happen in the Bible, it can’t be done or shouldn’t happen now.” The reformation and the modern thought still clung to by the evangelical church has stripped us of so much in terms of church traditions and practices.

I can’t think of a protestant church I know that still practices or preaches about Lent, let alone the Advent or uses any sort of liturgical calendar. Back in the day, the whole year was organized around the Church and liturgical year. With feasting and fasting, worship and celebrations, and times of sacrifice and silence.

The reformation I believe overcompensated for “Salvation through faith” and has left us with a church were any “work” is solely optional, because heaven forbid you earn of live out your salvation. Which I find a little ironic because if there was anything the Puritans were trying to do it was appear to earn their salvation through their piety.

It is this dry spirituality, which comprises of little more than ten minutes of worship, sitting through a sermon, dropping a twenty in the offering plate that has led to the us against them feeling I get from Protestantism. We are here to share the good news and save the world, not condemn it. We need to participate in the tough discussions going on in the world not turn our backs and go home because it doesn’t jibe with our worldview. And we need to open our eyes to things like climate change and not assume that because it is an issue pioneered by those who see things different politically it is some trap to take away freedoms and religion. In fact I could write a whole other post on how abjectly stupid conservative Christianity’s objection to global warming is.

I feel sometimes like we are in a new renaissance, computers have completely revolutionized the world in the last 30 years. And while we are living in it I think the Church has yet to catch up. And the interesting thing is that with a fractured church now with Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox there is no unified response. And I think the protesting nature of the Protestant belief system will leave it behind the times and out of relevance.

Okay I just re read everything I just wrote and I have no idea how I got here. Damn I need an editor.

Four Words

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 00:33:00 +0000

First of all, a super sized apology to my partner in crime and to our readers (all six of you) for 35 days of hibernation. The last five weeks were hijacked by two accelerated graduate level courses (Four months of reading, discussion and APA formatted drivel condensed into three action-packed weeks) and a state Braille exam (of which I failed the first attempt by one mistake, learning later that I changed two answers that were originally correct. If you listen closely, that’s the sound of me impaling my soul with a yardstick).

But all that is in the rearview. I’m one more course away from “Master’s The Sequel.” All the Commonwealth of Massachusetts needs is 300 hours of practicum and a signature to certify me as a Teacher of Students with Visual Impairments. And tomorrow, after 3 ½ months of living on the darkside of the moon, the most electrifying combination of any four words in any language will finally twist off our tongues like a divinely inspired declaration from the Savior ‘imself …

PITCHERS AND CATHCERS REPORT.

The Orioles, Reds, Rockies, Royals, Phillies, Pirates, Giants, Mariners, Cardinals, Angels, Cubs, and Yankees all open for business tomorrow, inviting their battery mates to Arizona and Florida to suit up, stretch out and play catch. As for our Boys of Summer. Pitchers and Catchers report Saturday, first workout on Sunday, position players arrive the 25th, and the first full club workout is scheduled for Friday, February 26th.

Can you hear the mitts popping? I swear to Koufax. I can.

It was a week ago. I was coming down from my football rush. Every year, I loosely follow the NFL throughout autumn but kick in to high gear after the bowl games. Since the Raiders moved back to Oakland I haven’t had an NFL team to follow (Mine were the days of Howie Long, Tim Brown, Marcus Allen, Bo Jackson, and gulp… Todd Marinovich). As the story goes, the Raiders were established in Oakland in 1960 but were lured to Tinseltown in 1981. As we both know, franchises sometimes change cities (Thank you Mr. O’Malley). But no franchise GOES BACK TO THE CITY FROM WHICH THEY CAME! In 1994, the Raiders were Oakland’s again! I always thought L.A. was more than just a mistress to Al Davis, but it turned out my town was nothing but a home wrecker. His adulterous affair with my City of Angels left me broken and single. An NFL fan without a mate.

And so I fixed my gaze on the college game and fell head over heels for fight songs, and regional rivalries, student sections and pregame rituals, rah-rah, sis, boom and ba! In most of America, Sunday (the day in which professional football is played) is hallowed from September to January. Since the Raiders bolted for the Bay, Autumn Saturdays became holidays in my house, from watching the Irish on NBC to the Men of Troy on ABC. But after bowl season is over, I can either wither away and mourn the loss of another passing season, or I can sack up and cash in on what is almost always a thrilling NFL postseason. I often choose the latter. This season was no different. I soaked up every stat, watched every minute, dissected every play… I even bought a football and carried it around my living room while speeding through Braille flash cards. In the end, the season ended in an unprecedented third straight Super Bowl that came down to the final quarter. Who dat?!?

But then there was Monday. Football...Over. Basketball...Napping. Hockey...On a gurney. And Baseball-On the horizon, our messiah in a sportscape of false prophets. I know it’s going to sound crazy. And I’m not kidding about this one. But that Monday I went giddily to ESPN.com, clicked on the "Baseball" link at the top of the page and I swear... I swear by a ticket in the TopDeck, I could HEAR the mitts popping. I could literally HEAR it.

Oh boy! I’m giddy!

I got four more words for ya’ Raymond.

LET’S.
START.
WRITING.
AGAIN.

Big Mac Was On The Special Sauce.

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 23:15:00 +0000

So Mark McGwire has officially admitted to using steroids.

Am I surprised? No.

Did I already have a pretty good idea he had used them? Yes.

Does it tarnish what he has done? A bit.

Does it make our recreation of his 62^nd home run while on retreat at the beginning of Senior Year a little less authentic? Yes, Ben you should have had a head five sizes bigger than your current dome and a syringe in your back pocket and some really good acne would of helped too.

Did he admit it so he wouldn’t have so deal with the questions during spring training and while coaching? Most likely.

Does it take away from the fact he was still a great power hitter? Not too much.

Will the Cards be a better hitting team with him as a coach? I still think so.

Will baseball forgive him? Because he was an overall good guy and nice to the press, yes.

How many years till they let him in the Hall of Fame? I say it will still take 3 or 4 years for the writers to forgive him.

And who knows, maybe it was all just hormones in the milk he drank.

He cheated but he admitted it. He will be welcomed back with open arms. Here is to seeing Big Mac back on the visitors bench when we kick the Cards in the nuts again next year in the playoffs.

Confessions of a Converter Box Owner

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 19:14:00 +0000

Hazel Mae didn’t cut it in Boston. For the mere facts that she

1. Wasn’t from New England and…

2. Wasn’t believably Bostonian.

New Englanders like to hear from their own. They don’t trust outsiders. In fact, they feast on them. Case in point: Asking for directions.

There was this one time when I was driving through Western Mass (and for those of you who don’t know, in Massachusetts, there is Boston and there's everything else. The “everything else” is referred to as “Western Mass”) I had to stop for directions. (Forgive me for the second parenthetical statement in as many sentences but it must be stated that driving in Massachusetts is the equivalent of pin the tail on the donkey, only it’s the version of the game when you’re spinned three times before you’re allowed to approach the ass. Did you know that a bill that would require towns and cities in the Commonwealth to post street signs on street corners HAS BEEN TURNED DOWN more than half a dozen times in the last decade?)

I go into a convenient store and ask for directions to a nearby town. The native New Englander grizzles, “oh! Youah WAY oaff!” and proceeds to giddily describe the odyssey I’m due if I want to reach my destination. Frustrated and trying to decipher the difference between I-95 and Route 128, I decide to discard his advice and drive on. Two right turns and ¾ of a mile later, I’m there. Gee. Thanks Mr. New England. (From now on, when I’m driving through unfamiliar New England territory, I make sure and don a Sox cap. It’s kinda like knowing the secret handshake when encountering a local. It means instant credibility and garners instant trust.)

So when a Philippines born woman who grew up in Toronto took the desk at the New England Sports Network, it was only a matter of time before she jumped ship for another job. I’m happy she found the MLB.

I must confess, however. I don’t watch much NESN. In fact, I don’t watch much ESPN either. Truth be told. I hardly watch cable at all.

I don’t have it.

For over three years now, I’ve lived where I work. There are many advantages to bedding down where you earn your paychecks. For one, my commute is all but 7 seconds. And the only time I run into anything that could be identified as “traffic” is when I have to swat away a fly on the way down the stairs. In addition, I haven’t written a rent check or paid for groceries or laundry since graduating from Harvard. (And anyone whose graduated from the Div School can tell you that a Master’s in Theological Studies does not bode well for one’s earnings potential.)

On the minus side, a prisoner at San Quentin has more space than I do. To illustrate my point, I can touch one wall with one hand, and reach out with my other hand and come within a hood ornament of touching the opposite wall. And…here’s the kicker.

There is no cable hookup.

But do I let this keep me from watching television?!? No! I own rabbit ears. And as of the recent change to digital television signals, I also own a Converter Box. There. I said it. I own a converter box. I didn’t know this was something to be ashamed of until I was talking to my brother Tim and my buddy Todd last summer. “Converter boxes are for old people and foreigners,” Tim giggled. I fail to see the humor.

Sure, I don’t get to follow the trendy reality shows on Bravo. I haven’t watched a Real World Marathon on MTV in ages. I don’t get to witness the latest brilliance from Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Or appreciate smart shows that inform like Dirty Jobs. Top20 Countdown on VHI? Ha! The last #1 Video I watched was Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” And how appropriate, that since I’VE been gone, television has become High Definition, On Demand, Plasma and Wide Screen. But Tim, at least MY television doesn’t give me headaches.

Now. You would think not having cable or satellite or anything resembling options in programming would handicap my ability as a sports fan. Au contraire, derriere.

The NFL and College Football and Basketball still have contracts with the four major networks, which cover those sports comprehensively. CBS broadcasts the AFC. FOX covers the NFC. Every Sunday night, NBC hosts the game of the week, almost always a marquee matchup. My only beef is with the networks insistence on broadcasting NFL games according to the viewer’s region. I’ve never felt this more deeply than when I was home with my parents during Week 16 of the NFL season. That week there were so many games that had playoff implications: Broncos-Eagles, Jets-Colts, Panthers-Giants and what was promising to be an outright gangfight between the Ravens and Steelers. But which two games were assigned to my parents’ region? The Bay Area got stuck with 49ers-Lions and Raiders-Browns. The combined record of those four teams? 20-44. The 49ers head coach actually admitted before their game with the Lions that his goal was to be the best team NOT to make the playoffs this year. Yuck.

College Football has a much smarter approach. Let’s say ABC has the rights to broadcast three games during the 3:30pm slot. Let’s say the three games are Oklahoma-Texas, USC-UCLA and Michigan-Ohio State. I live in New England, none of those three games are in my region. What ABC does is picks the game they think is the most coveted and broadcasts THAT game in the unidentified regions. The West will still get USC-UCLA. The Midwest will still get Michigan-Ohio State and Texas will still get Sooners-Longhorns. But the Atlantic, the Sunbelt, the Northwest, New England and the South will get whichever games means the most. Genius.

Add that CBS has a deal with the SEC, Notre Dame has a deal with NBC and FOX has a deal with the BCS and you can watch college football from noon till midnight on a Saturday. Believe me. I’ve done it.

But the real clincher. The one thing that has kept my sport fandom more than above water is the free Wireless internet access I have at home/work and the fact that the internet provider is Comcast, which thereby results in my free and flurried access to ESPN360. God’s gift to the Sports Fan.

During one 48 hour stretch on New Year’s Day and the day after, I watched 10 bowl games in their entirety, thanks to my computer and my scoffed at converter box.
Because of the internet, I can watch my favorite show on ESPN, PTI. I can watch live sporting events like the Outback Bowl (don’t hate. Northwestern-Auburn was the best bowl game this year outside of Roady’s Humanitarian Bowl between Idaho and Bowling Green. If you don’t trust me. Review the highlights.) Because of the internet, I can watch the same analysis, commentary and highlights you can watch on ESPN. And I get to CHOOSE what I want to watch and what I don’t and when! It’s better than OnDemand. It’s IDemand.

Now. Back to the MLB Network. It’s true that I can’t watch Game 4 of the 1965 World Series. It’s true I can’t watch Harold Reynolds and Dan Pleasac break down a Cincinnati Reds trade in a 7-minute segment. But with mlb.com, I can pay $79 and watch every game on any day at any time I want, as long as it’s not a Red Sox game. (And believe me, I can find out what happened to the Sox last night in .37 nanoseconds by flipping on my local news. Seriously. A Beckett shutout or even an Ortiz O-fer is Headline News in this town. And you’re shit outta luck if you want scores that reach beyond the AL East.)

I said all that to say this. You can be an informed sports fan in the 21st century without cable. Without DirecTV. Without HD. Without OnDemand. Without FIOS. Without Plasma. All you need is Comcast and a converter box. I’ll bet old people and foreigners make great sports fans.

Spirit of '65

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 01:43:00 +0000

Bastardo.

I am enjoying the holidays. Taking time off from writing and thinking. Generally practicing my video game skills and refining my cocktail craft making, and you have to go and make back to back posts.

Prior to the holiday I had been working on a draft of a post about Luther, the Great Reformation, spirituality, ceremony and the such; but so much for that.
Instead I share one of my highlights of this joyous holiday season, offseason baseball program watching. In particular watching classic Dodger Games on the MLB.

I love the classic Dodger games. These games in particular were from the 1965 World Series, the first game was Game 4 of the series at Dodger Stadium featuring Jim “Mudcat” Grant versus Don Drysdale October 10, 1965. Some observations:

First of all what a great World Series program. That is what we need today, more integration of our space program in baseball publications.

The game was broadcast on NBC and I loved how it featured early instant replay, aptly titled “NBC Instant Replay.” Thankfully this was before they introduced the NBC peacock. So all you had was a funky NBC logo. But I was surprised they had replay that far back. No slow motion but replay none the less. Another interesting thing was how long they kept with certain shots, not the quick rapid fire jump shots you see today. In fact I wonder when the last time NBC hosted a MLB game on their airwaves.

The game was interesting because it featured Drysdale after he had been shelled in game one; which he pitched because Koufax was sitting it out due to Yom Kippur. He got beat up in the first game but he came back strong in this one.

His fastball didn’t look super intimidating, it looked decently fast and it had good movement, but not overpowering. But mixed with his curveball it was wicked.

When they threw it back to the infield after a pop fly and they threw it around the horn they went short stop, second, first, catcher, third to pitcher. When did the first baseman get cut out of the action? I would love to see them go back to this style.

Drysdale labored at times, kept leaving the ball up in the zone.

This was also shortly after the introduction of helmets. Maury Wills didn’t wear a helmet, probably thought it would slow him down.

Fourth inning in the game Drysdale gets Killebrew 0-2. Tried to sneak a fastball over for strike three, Harmon murdered it, just obliterated it. Harmon was a monster, one of those guys who put all of his effort into every swing. Actually kinda like Manny except instead of twirling he dropped to a knee. But the Killer was a big guy, and Drysdale challenged him and lost.

A few innings later Drysdale left another fastball up and Tony Oliva and he put it in the seats. Who did Alston start warming up in the bullpen? Lefty ace Ron Perranoski. Classic. He K’d Killebrew after Oliva. Ron stayed in the pen.

The announcers split time in the broadcast. Vin Scully split broadcast time with Twins announcer Ray Scott; both at the time good journeymen announcers. Vin was of course good, but had not developed the stories that he has today. More of less just good quality play by play. Peppered throughout the early innings of the game they played prerecorded audio interviews with players and managers. Old school but fun.

Wes Parker was 25 years old and looked like a kid. I look at James Loney now and only hope that we get the same career out of him that we got out of Parker. Loney already has better numbers at his age. Only thing is that Parker stopped play after 9 seasons and at age 32, why such a short career?

Old Dodger Stadium was beautiful. They even commented on how tall it was behind the plate with six different levels behind home plate. They has some extra patches of grass near the batting boxes too, which looked classy. No last names on the uniforms though.

Attendance 55,920.

Game three was a record attendance of 55,934.

During the game third base was knocked loose. How was it secured? A metal loop in the ground, in which a leather belt which was attached to the base was strung through and then buckled on the other side of the base. The bases were attached to the ground with leather belts….wow….and there were buckled on the bases….and they were fashioned out of canvas….not the foam monstrosities we have today.

A lot fewer trees in the ravine at the time. Pavilion looks the same though, no blacked out seats in center. Also no big speaker system in center field, and I couldn’t tell how they were using the Diamond Vision Screen, it was always blank when they showed it.

Bottom of the 7th, Dodgers ahead2-6, Drysdale 0-2 with two strikeouts lead off the inning. You would never see that today.

Starting pitcher for the Twins was “Mudcat” Grant, whatever happened to cool nicknames like that. Seems like everything now ends in “Rod”.

By the way Drysdale struck out again to lead off the inning, I guess you just don’t pull him.

He started 42 games that year and finished 20 of them. Insane today.
Only saw him throw behind a guy’s head once.

You could hear the Organ being played in the background in between innings. No Beatles music there.

Killebrew had big legs.

Koufax pitched game 7 on two days rest. I guess there was a lot of questioning going on as to whether this was a good idea or not. Hey if I am Walter Alston and I have the best left hander of all time willing to pitch for me, I would go with him too.

Game 7 was in Minnesota, Bloomington to be specific. In October it was 60 degrees at game time.

Jim Kaat pitching for the Twins….guy had a 25 year career as a pitcher, impressive.
Umpires still wore ties back then, I want that brought back.

Third base coach for the Twins…….future hall of famer (I think) Billy Martin.

Koufax delivery quick and smooth.

He wears his hat tilted up just a little bit.

His fastball didn’t seem to have a lot of movement , pretty straight and angled down, but he placed it well. Worked the corners, threw a lot of high strikes which
I would not have expected.

Apparently Koufax threw more fastballs in Minnesota because their mound was more flat then Dodger stadium without the break that allowed him to pull down on the ball.

In the first inning Koufax walked 2 in a row, Drysdale got up in the pen. Roseboro and Wills go out to the mound talk to him for a little. Wills seems in control as team captain. Next guy goes down with the big bender.

I regret that Koufax was only pitching in 2 days rest because I am sure he was tired, but he threw plenty of balls or strikes on the corners that the batters just fouled off.

I saw a batters interference call in game 7. Never would of expected that, but he swung, stepped over the plate while Roseboro was throwing down to second. Don’t see that much of that either.

Billy Martin almost got tossed for arguing with the ump about Koufax’s pick off move. Martin was just as fiery as a couch.

Koufax had a little nubber to the pitcher in his second at bat. He ran that thing out all the way, you would never see that today.

For the rest of the game Koufax kind of just kept the Twins off balance, I wouldn’t call him dominating, but his pitch placement was good enough that rarely did anyone get good wood on the ball. He gave up one good fastball that got hit to the fence. I wish I could have seen him in a more dominating performance where he was K’ing people left and right. Even Vinny noticed his curveball wasn’t working for him; but it was still great to see him at the peak of his career. But I suppose that is what makes him one of the greats, you don’t have your best stuff by far, but you go out and throw a three hit shutout to the AL champs.
Koufax manned up though, bottom of the ninth. He has already struck out 8, he gets Oliva to ground out. Killebrew just grounds one by Wills at short with a pitch he left up. He then strikes out the next two for the win and the series.

Bonus footage: younger Vin Scully reporting from the Locker room after the victory. No swimming goggles to be seen.

I love this sport and I love my team and all the tradition that goes along with both.

February 18th can’t you get here any sooner!

P.S. Your thoughts on Hazel Mae?

Emerald Bowl? Awesome. Emerald Nuts? Not So Much.

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 21:21:00 +0000

My second consecutive post violates our unwritten rule that we go back and forth on this blog. But Sermons on the Mound ain’t no game o’ ping-pong. And I have thoughts.

I haven’t been to a live sporting event in 2 ½ months. If you don’t understand the severity of this drought, it would be the equivalent of you going 2 ½ years without beef. So you can imagine my elation when I tore open a Christmas gift from my parents and discovered tickets to the 8th annual Emerald Bowl at San Francisco’s AT&T Park, home of baseball’s Giants.

The game pinned my alma mater, the University of Southern California, against the best football program from the city to which I currently hail, Boston College. And even though this was a JV Football Bowl promoted by a nut company, I was in!

Frankly, SC sucked this year.

And by “sucked”, I mean “didn’t live up to the grossly unfair expectations we spoiled, ungrateful SC fans put on them after seven years of utter domination.”

Does anyone in Trojanland remember Paul “Can’t” Hackett?

It was my sophomore year at SC. Notre Dame came to town on its annual trip to the West. Since the hallowed Knute Rockne brought his Fighting Irish to the Southland over 80 years ago, this matchup has been considered the most heated national rivalry in all of college football. (Did you know that Rockne scheduled the first game at SC back in the 1920s because his wife wanted to vacation in Los Angeles?)

Anyways, Notre Dame is opening up a can o’ whoop ass. And from my seat in the SC student section, the roar of the Irish fans is getting louder and louder with every quarter. At one point, the out-of-towners begin to serenade us in a deafening chant of “GOOOOO!!!!! … IRISHHHHHH!!!!!” Our section retaliated with its own cheer but the “GO!” and “IRISH” drowned us out. I remember a friend of mine turning to me and saying with hope, “Maybe they can hear us just as loud as we can hear them?”

“If we can’t even hear ourselves,” I replied, “Ihey can’t hear us at all.”

Pete Carroll be praised! After he took the reins in 2001, the Pac-10 has been our doormat, we produced three Heisman trophy winners, lost only once to UCLA, never lost to Notre Dame, collected two national championships and came within Vince Young’s legs from a third.

But after seven straight invitations to BCS Bowls, including four consecutive trips to the Rose, the Trojans finished 8-4 and played its very first bowl game before New Year’s Day since my junior year in college. I’m not all that bitter. It was a remarkable run.

Was the Pac-10 more competitive this year? Outside of 1st place, 9-3 Oregon, 5 schools finished 8-4. Was Mark Sanchez leaving a year early for the NFL the kiss of death? We fielded our first true freshman quarterback in school history. Was the defense depleted? Our entire linebacker corp was drafted and is Pro Bowl bound.

Whatever the reasons for this “disappointing” season, I was grateful the journey led them here, to my parents backyard, during my winter break. (Shhhhh… don’t tell anyone but I secretly rooted for Arizona to beat SC on the last week of the season so that they would fall into an Emerald Bowl bid. A win would have put them in San Diego’s Holiday Bowl and would’ve extended my live sporting events drought to another 2 ½ months. And before you wonder how I could ever root against my team for the sake of attending a game, there is precedence for my behavior. Back when I was 8 years old, the Dodgers improbably won the division and were pitted against the Mighty New York Mets of the NL East. My dad submitted his name in the Playoff Ticket Lottery. The odds were piled up against us. We had about as much chance of getting tickets as a Koala Bear has at getting into Harvard. But my dad submitted his name anyway. I remember the evening dad returned from work, with an envelope in his hand stamped with the Dodgers logo. My dad was glowing and handed it to me. I peeled it open and found, inside, a pair of tickets to Game 7!!! You can imagine the sheer euphoria my little 8-year old soul felt at that moment. Anyways, fast forward to Game 6. The Dodgers are up 3 games to 2, one win away from a World Series. One win away from toppling perhaps the greatest team in National League history. And who did I root for that night? That’s right. The Mets. Those two tickets were burning a hole in my soul and my desire to see LA advance was drowned out by my selfish desire to see LA advance in person. Can you blame me? I was 8!!! You know the rest. The Mets DID win that night. Orel pitched Game 7. The Dodgers advanced and Dad and I were there to see it.)

4 thoughts from the 2009 Emerald Bowl, one thought for each hot dog consumed at the game.

1a. The football game was played in a baseball stadium. And not just any baseball stadium. The home of our historical rival, the San Francisco Giants (I say “historical” because I argue the honor of most “heated” rival goes to the Orange County Angels of Disneyland, but that’s another column.) Even though the Giants were not represented in any way outside of the black and orange caps the concession stand employees wore, I attended the game with an air of defiance. After all, I was in enemy territory. And to signify my allegiance, I proudly donned a Junior Dodgers wristband, which I made sure was in plain view as I handed the hot dog girl my money.

1b. The football game was played in a baseball stadium. At some point in the 3rd quarter, I receive this text from our friend Shannon, who is watching the game at home. “That Coke Bottle is giving me Sports Vertigo.” Couldn’t have said it better myself. Perhaps the most fascinating wrinkle of this year’s Emerald Bowl, beyond SC’s disappointing season, beyond Joe McKnight’s absence due to an NCAA investigation and even beyond the mystery that is Pete Carroll’s impeccably coifed hair despite the precipitation, was the reconfiguration of a baseball diamond into a gridiron. I have to admit, I was impressed. The first base line served as one end zone, while the left field wall served as the other. In right field, a large bank of bleachers were built, running parallel to one sideline, while the opposing sideline ran adjacent to the left field foul line. There was a time when I was vehemently opposed to facilities housing two franchises in different sports. But I was talking to my girlfriend about it recently and she, a champion of conservation, remarked on how environmentally and fiscally responsible it is to have one stadium, and multiple franchises play multiple sports in it (she’s clearly the businessperson in the relationship). You have to admit, she and Walter O’Malley would agree. O’Malley was the first to spearhead this idea back in the ‘50s. He was even the first to propose the idea of domed stadiums so that teams could play in all manner of weather. It makes so much sense. Unfortunately, as we witnessed with all those “cookie cutter” stadiums built back in the 70s, fiscal and environmental responsibility stripped franchises of ascetically pleasing venues. The era produced a dozen oval stadiums, all alike, with neon green Astroturf. Ballparks lacked identity. (See Cincinatti, Pittsburg, St. Louis, San Diego and Philadelphia.) And in each one, both baseball and football was played. But when those ovals began to decay, retro ballparks became the new craze. Stadiums with funny angles and quirky dimensions. Ballparks had identities again. But it resulted in a flurry of construction which produced one stadium for each franchise. Now the Eagles and the Phillies have separate venues in Philadelphia. All they share is a parking lot. There’s a lot more to say on this subject so I’ll save it for a rainy day.

2. USC fans do not own proper coats. There was a 38 degree wind chill and a steady rain for half the game, yet the heaviest outerwear I saw was a cardinal and gold hoody. Two rows ahead of us, there was a 12 year old boy dressed in a white SC road jersey and a pair of cargo shorts. His only protection? One of those clear plastic ponchos without a hood. I’m sorry Angelenos, but Saran Wrap does not make for good insulation.

3. Dad and I discovered the Academy Road of AT&T Park. An alley, just four blocks from the ballpark, without permit parking signs or coin operated meters and about 37 feet from a Bay Bridge onramp. I think my dad was more excited about the free parking spot than the Trojans 24-13 victory. That’s all the details I’ll give. Gotta keep this place a secret.

4. Emerald Nuts suck! And by “suck” I mean “are the worst nuts I’ve ever eaten in my entire life.” Seriously. I’m not kidding about this one. How can you screw up nuts? Emerald found a way. No wonder Emerald Nuts commercials are so funny. All of a sudden, I understand why its ad campaign is so aggressively quirky. Funny commercials are the only way they can breed brand loyalty because the taste of their nuts certainly isn’t going to do it. We could easily call this the “Axe Deodorant Theory.” A company must aggressively advertise with nonsensical, uniquely crafted commercials because the quality of the product is poor. Seriously. Have you ever smelled Axe Deodorant? The scent is a combination of curry and cat urine and Axe has duped an entire generation of teenage boys into thinking girls will fight to the death to be with someone who sprays it underneath their armpits.

You're Never Too Old to Join the Junior Dodgers!

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 22:14:00 +0000

So it’s Christmas Day. But you wouldn’t know it in Los Angeles. It’s 75 degrees outside. My buddy Todd, a native Coloradan, has lived in the Southland a little more than two years now and the only way he recognizes the changes in seasons is when Starbucks tells him.

Peppermint Mochas? Cinnamon Stick stirrers? Must be the Yuletide.

But this year, Christmas is being wrung in at the Chamberlins’ East Bay home in NorCal. (That’s right. We reside in enemy territory. My mom even admits she roots for…gulp… Tim Lincecum. Ray, put the gun down.)

Nat King Cole serenades us while we sit ankles deep in a pile of shredded wrapping paper and I’m reflecting on the best Christmas gift ever… membership in the illustrious JUNIOR DOGERS, courtesy of my loving father.

Do you remember the Blue Crew? Back in the day, when I was wearing Velcro sneaks and short shorts, I was a proud member of the Dodgers fan club for kids. I remember the day the package came. I tore open the box, examined each item and treasured its contents as if they were fashioned in the bowels of Chavez Ravine by Tommy Lasorda himself. The gifts are emblazoned on my memory.

An 8x10 photograph of Steve Sax, half a dozen stickers and pencils with the Dodgers logo printed on them, a handful of coupons for Farmer John hot dogs, courtesy of the local Ralph’s, and my personal favorite… a Koala Bear dressed in a Dodgers t-shirt and cap, the official mascot of the Blue Crew. The lasting impact that simple fan club kit had on my life was indominable. I worshiped Steve Sax from that point on. His picture lofted on the wall in my room like a baseball god. I cradled that Koala in my arms, perched atop my dresser and embued it with near-idol status in my proud collection of Dodger memorabilia.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I ripped open this mornings gifts and found, neatly packed in an old school Dodgers lunch box with Andre Either and Russel Martin adorning the outside, the proud belongings of a Junior Dodgers member. And lemme tell ya’, the Dodgers fan club has beefed up its gift items since 1987.

The package included a collector’s pin picturing a cartoon Joe Torre on a surfboard, temporary tattoos with the JR Dodgers official shield, a black lanyard with interlocking blue “LA”s, Dodger wristbands (one of which I’m wearing as I type), a Dodger bracelet in the vane of Armstrong’s yellow “Live Strong” bracelets (sadly, its too small for even my dainty wrists), two coupons to the Long Beach aquarium, eight vouchers good for eight free tickets to any Sunday home game in the Lower Reserve section at Chavez Ravine, 3 baseball cards (Jonathan Papelbon, Ryan Howard and Matt Holiday**), a pen in the shape of a baseball bat and a doorknob sign (like the ones you get at hotels that read “Do Not Disturb”, only this one features a Dodgers logo and reads “Jr. Dodger Kicks it Here!” It’s going on my bathroom door, the moment I get back to Boston.) The kit also includes a poorly made baseball in which the “leather” isn’t fully pulled taught around the sphere. My dad suspects that one swing will make the batter look like Roy Hobbs’ first at-bat when lightning struck and he tore the cover off the ball.

And last but not least, tucked in a corner of the lunchbox is a tiny, stuffed Koala bear. Sans t-shirt and cap, but fur with a shade of baby Dodger blue.

Sidenote: Did you know that the Koala Bear is the DUMBEST beast in the animal kingdom? It’s scientific fact. Everybody loves Koala Bears because they’re so damn cute and foundations have been created to save them from extinction but they’re as dumb as rocks. Eucalyptus is a brain cell killer, in the classification of marijuana and Koala Bears feast on it like I feast on my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. Koala Bears are stoned. All. The. Time. The Dodgers would be better served sending stuffed dolls of Cheech and Chong in Dodgers caps.

Anyways, I stand up to be counted. The proudest (and perhaps the oldest) member of the Junior Dodgers. How ‘bout I fly out some weekend this summer and we put those vouchers to good use? Spend a Sunday afternoon at Church and take in a sermon from Pastor Kershaw.

Merry Christmas Raymond! And a Happy Off-Season!

**Who’s minding the store? How curious is the collection of cards placed in the Junior DODGERS membership kit? Not one of them dons the blue. In fact, all 3 (save for maybe Holiday-who is considered a Dodgers hero for dubious reasons, the goat of this year’s NLDS) are Dodger enemies. They might as well have thrown in Matt Stairs and Jimmy Rollins while they were at it. Was it random and out of LA’s control? Was it an accident made by an Upper Deck intern? Was it a vindictive move by a disgruntled Dodger employee? Instead of Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier and Manny Ramirez, I get a Phillie, a Cardinal and a Red Sock. And not just any non-Dodgers. Jonathan Papelbon: the famous closer of the franchise I committed adultery with. Ryan Howard: the famous slugger of the franchise which defeated us in back-to-back NLCS. Only Matt Holiday can be considered a Dodger hero, and he is wearing the opponent’s uniform: the famous goat of this year’s NLDS. He tried to catch the last out of Game 2 with his belly button, the Dodgers put another runner on, then miraculously won the game on a game winning bloop single by Mark Friggin’ Loretta, causing the series moment to shift and me to erupt with such loud bellows of triumph that I woke up a whole floor of blind kids.

There can be only one explanation for this. Mrs. McCourt was sitting beside the pool, putting together Junior Dodger kits together right after her husband fired her.

Merry Christmas To All And A Very Funny Story

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 15:51:00 +0000

From TMZ.com via the Los Angeles Times

More Dodgers in TMZ-land: Chan Ho Park sues Chad Kreuter
December 23, 2009 | 6:42 pm

Chan Ho Park is suing his former Dodgers teammate Chad Kreuter for more than $200,000 arising from an unpaid loan, reports TMZ.com. The suit was filed today in Los Angeles County Superior Court.

According to the suit, Kreuter signed a promissory note for the debt, but only made one payment for $290,000.

Now Park wants the remaining $170,000 plus interest and fees for the loan -- totaling $226,358.76.

Kreuter and Park were Dodgers battery mates in 2000 and 2001. The pair started together in the Dodgers' opening-day 1-0 shutout over Milwaukee in 2001. Kreuter is now USC's baseball coach.

I don't know what I find more interesting. Park suing for a loan, or Kreuter being the USC baseball coach.

Pray Without Ceasing

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 18:13:00 +0000

I admire your attempt at “pray without ceasing.” Paul’s instructions to the Thessalonians have always captivated me. It seems so impossible. And yet, we try. I suppose living can be like that.

I saw this movie last Spring (and by “Spring” I mean “Late Winter.” There is no “Spring” in New England). The movie was called Enlighten Up! It was a documentary about an ordinary 20-something American male who is chosen by a filmmaker to practice Yoga every day for half a year. The man was a skeptic, an agnostic. But the filmmaker hypothesized that strict, repetitive devotion to this ancient spiritual exercise would result in transformation, no matter who the subject. I liked the movie so much I saw it twice in a weekend, the second time by myself.

The skeptic’s journey takes him all the way to Northern India, amongst the ashrams and its mahatmas. There’s this scene in the film that sticks with me. A devotee, a man wearing nothing but a loin cloth and a turban, journeyed thousands of miles to reach this sacred rock. Once he arrived at his destination, he performed this ritual. He circled the rock, pebbles in hand. He genuflected to the ground then lied prostrate for a full second, spilling the pebbles in the dust. He raked his knees forward, gathered the pebbles and lifted his body off the ground, standing for just a moment. And then repeats. And repeats. And repeats. Rising and falling. Crawling ‘round the rock, circling it day and night. And with each breath he mutters in his own language, “God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God.”

The scene stirred me.

I don’t know what Paul meant exactly when he told the church at Thessalonica to “pray without ceasing” but I wonder if this half-naked Indian man could explain it to me. His focus and his faith were so singular. So steadfast. So resolute.

God.

If I had to model my prayer life after anyone, I’d choose Tevya. You know. From Fiddler on the Roof. I could write a term paper on the musical. And expect a full theological analysis one of these days.

I absolutely adore the way Tevya communes with God. Tevya approaches God as if He’s a drinking buddy. Like Tevya strolled down to the local pub and found God sitting at the bar.

I love how Tevya speaks to God so candidly. Even going so far as questioning Him!

“Dear God!” Tevya barks, “Was that necessary?” motioning towards his limping horse, “Did you have to make him lame just before the Sabbath?” Tevya sighs, shakes his head and rolls his eyes, “That wasn’t nice. It’s enough you pick on me, bless with me with five daughters, a life of poverty, that’s alright!... But what have you got against my horse?!”

I think we often forget that it’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to be confused. It’s okay to question. Even to question God! Tevya understood this.

I’ve also developed an appreciation for how physical space and objects can facilitate prayer. I don’t collect many things (I think I might be a minimalist at heart). But I have a handful of rosaries, even a couple from the Vatican. (Sidenote: Did you know that rosaries are a spinoff of Mala beads? Some Catholic priests were travelling through the East and saw these monks using these beads to pray. The priests added a crucifix and called it a rosary). I’m also intrigued by the ancient Temple that King Solomon built. The steps leading up to the Temple varied in width and length so that parishioners had to concentrate on each step. The focus and careful attention it took to ascend those steps was supposed to encourage a steady immersion into a “divine” state of mind. Israelites climbed the many steps, and slowly left behind distractions like “what am I going to do for lunch?” “I can’t believe the exchange rate right now!” or “My brother Hezekiah is such a jerk!”

There was a time, long ago, when I prayed daily. I tried to follow our Savior’s example. “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” Add a serving of Bible reading and I was digesting a balanced quiet time each and every morning. But, truthfully, I haven’t had a consistent time with God that spanned more than a season since I was in high school. I’ve made several attempts to go back on the diet, but for many of the usual reasons, I slip back into old habits.

I recently heard this Indian Swami speak (“dots. not feathers.”) At the end of his sermon, he prayed that “God would be ever present in my thoughts and actions.” The prayer resonated with me and I repeated these words like a mantra all day long. I thought to myself that I should make this a daily prayer. Dare I say, a “ceaseless” prayer.

Whether it be in the fashion of the half-naked Indian man or with the flavor and flair of Tevya’s conversations with Yahweh, I’d like to make praying a daily exercise again. I think I need that. How do you it?

PS: For Love of the Game

Experience Rambling

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 18:23:00 +0000

And with the third week of Advent come the first theological posts, amen.

No worries about your mini-sabbatical from the blogosphere, I am more than happy for your academic achievements, and I applaud you for them, I know I want to continue to learn in an academic environment, I have felt that way since I walked down the aisle at my commencement, but to study what?, and for what purpose? Those are the questions that have plagued me, so for now I just read a lot.

I have to say it sounds as though our upbringings were somewhat similar, yet different. The McCormick’s as a clan, are not distinctly religious. Friendship and family were the prime activities. Large family gatherings during the year and membership in various fraternal orders were the standard operating practice. Church was where you went for funerals, weddings, and to impress a date’s parents.

My parents enrolled myself and my brothers in an evangelical private school primarily on the basis of quality of education not religious instruction. Not that my parents did not believe in God or want us to learn about Him, but that wasn’t the big reason.

Pre-school through high school was experienced between the walls of Desert Christian Schools; a fine school in itself but distinctly evangelical, dispensational, and conservative. And my church was the Independent Baptist of Lancaster Baptist Church. Oddly enough despite the education and church life I lived a fairly moderate modern suburban American existence, I listened to pop music, went to movies and had HBO at home.

While I believed I was saved during the 5^th grade God was never intensely personal to me during childhood or adolescence. School had taught me the basic theological concepts of Christianity and through church I understood the mentality and morality of Christian evangelicals and fundamentalists, and I suppose I believed it all but more than likely it beliefs based on training rather than real faith. Kind of like after you finish your first few days at a new job, and you have learn how to do everything the company way, but you haven’t figured it all out for yourself or recognized some of the really inane or absurd practices that you are just going along with because that is what you have been told to do. That was me, going with the flow because I didn’t know any better,.

I left a Christian high school for a Christian university. Biola University is a well-respected center of conservative evangelical thought in evangelical academia. In both student life and academics it was not as conservative as some or as liberal as others but it felt to me like God really worked there, and I enjoyed the campus and the location.

While there I was exposed to the enormous world of evangelical based academia. There was so much to learn, to know, to research, and while it wasn’t my primary area of study (Radio/TV/Film, “When a Communications degree seems too useful”), I think I enjoyed my Bible and Christian Thought classes more than anything. The only problem was that when surrounded by this much “God Talk” and forced study of the Word, I like many others reached a personal spiritual dry spell. And that along with a few other occurrences actually drew me away from the school and a serious walk with God.

In the following years I was actually truly on my own. I had an apartment, I paid my bills, I had a real job, I did my own taxes and shopped and paid for my own insurance. And this new found independence pulled me even farther away from God. Talking to God, or reading the Bible was something that I only seemed to do when I was feeling guilty or empty.

Amazingly it took marriage and coming home for me to find God again.

Life brought me back to Antelope Valley with a serious girlfriend in tow with whom I had intentions of starting life together with. But if I was going to do that I wanted a solid foundation; so I found a church, I went back to finish my degree at Biola, and I started to find God again.

So 700 words to get me to this: I was always bothered a little bit by the fact that all of my former churches and schools the company line was that we had all the answers about God. Every question had been answered; we knew where God stood on all of the issues, no need for discussion. And even though that is how I had been raised I just never felt copacetic about it, probably the rebellious Irish in me. But I didn’t believe God meant for life to be that straight forward and black and white.

I know God is infinitely complex, there is just so much that we don’t know about God, questions that we don’t have answers for, so we ignore them or don’t consider them relevant.

His creation is infinitely complex, as much as science understands and explains there is still so much that we have no clue about. Be it the inner workings of an atom, to why we yawn, to how the heck people built the pyramids and ziggurats.

And humanity’s various understandings of God are just as complex. I know I don’t understand it hardly at all.

Why is most of the special revelation I have about God and what He wants me to do over 1900 years old?

Was the book of Revelation written for the Christians of the 1^st century or the church of the 21^st?

Why does a Church whose principle teacher and savior, Jesus, instructed his followers to clothe and feed the poor, spend millions upon millions of dollars on megachurch campuses? And yes I have to take a very hard look back at my own past on that one.

Why does the church instead of loving the outcasts of society, be they gay, lesbian, homeless, drug addicted or sick instead picket and support laws that hurt others and do anything but show love and acceptance.

Suffice to say I don’t know or have answers to any of these questions and that makes experiencing and knowing God harder today than it has been at any other point in my life. It was much easier when I had a standard line to follow from my school or church. Now I feel like Karl Barth “Man as man can never know God: His wishing, seeking, and striving are all in vain.”

Despite this I still have an intense desire to know God. I echo the feelings of Jürgen Moltmann when he said “It is simple, but true, to say that theology has only one, single problem God. We are theologians for the sake of God. God is our dignity. God is our agony. God is our hope.” And I know God is personal but I also believe “God is personal, but personal in an incomprehensible way, in so far as the conception of his personality surpasses all our views of personality (Barth).

So in trying to connect on a personal level and experience God I have two particular works that have and are profoundly influencing me; “The Practice of the Presence of God” by Brother Lawrence and “Letters by a Modern Mystic" by Frank Laubach.

To boil it down they both come to the “Pray without ceasing concept” and really put it to work. Actively make efforts to be in constant conversation with the Lord. I have been trying this for some time now, and first of it is not easy. Modern distractions make really hard. But I know it can be done, and with practice I find that there are small moments of transcendence, where I do experience God in a very real and personal way. And it is at those times that I think I understand what David was doing in the fields watching sheep, or lying in a tent, or hiding in a cave; and I can understand where all of those Psalms come from.

It is a work in progress, much like I am. And even though I go through rich and dry spells in my life with God, I know He is there. In a postmodern culture it is almost too easy to disavow any idea of a supreme being, but I just can’t buy into that. I refuse to ignore that little bit inside me that draws me to Him, instead I search for Him, try (Often in vain) to understand Him, and let Him use me.

This is a line from another baseball movie and I kind of think it applies to my relationship with God too “I used to believe, I still do, that if you give something your all it doesn't matter if you win or lose, as long as you've risked everything put everything out there.”*

*I too caught the Field of Dreams reference. Can you name this one without googling?

There is a God. And I'm not Him.

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 18:54:00 +0000

Forgive me for going M.I.A. As you know, I’ve been in not-so-hot pursuit of a second master’s degree (I collect degrees like I used to collect baseball cards). During the past fortnight, I’ve written 75 pages, assessed three blind kids, decoded dozens of eye exam reports and am suffering from diplopia as a result. No one’s ever gone from being the evaluator to the evaluated this fast.

I’m gonna save my Hall of Fame Snubs for another day (Insert Andre Dawson Here). For now, I’m making a U-turn and opining on matters divine.

Our first God column. (After 5 ½ years of graduate school “I could use all the Karma I can get right now.”**)

To lead us off… I quote Father Cavanaugh, the priest in RUDY who helps Ruettiger get into Notre Dame. “Son, in 35 years of religious study, I have only come up with two, hard, incontrovertible facts… There is a God… And I’m not Him.”

I second Father Cavanaugh.

I grew up in a Christian home. People may wonder what that means exactly. To me it meant never being allowed to believe in Santa Claus and listening to bedtime stories from Genesis instead of Where the Wild Things Are. I sandwiched five years of public school between even more years of private, fundamentalist Christian education. My adolescence was less about drug experimentation and more about Bible verse memorization. It was during this time that God became more personal. I came to believe that what Genesis meant by God creating us “in his own image,” was that, like God, we are relational beings. And having a unique, personal relationship with God was possible, like relating to a parent, or a best friend.

While attending USC (that’s Southern Cal, not South Carolina-as easterners suppose), I developed a more academic approach to studying religion and an appreciation for perspectives other than my own. I studied Judaism through the eyes of a lesbian rabbi. I examined the arc of Malcolm X’s journey through Islam. I attended services at a Hindu temple and discovered that Hinduism is a lot more monotheistic than it appears.

My world was widening and I went to Harvard to map it out. There, I joined a circus of seekers, spiritual vagabonds. Among this band of misfits, I looked out onto the expanse of the world’s religions and tried to reconcile their many permutations with their many singularities. Peter Gomes taught me “to read is to interpret.” My friend Todd taught me “crazy begets crazy.” I cried in class while listening to the Muslim call to prayer. I read apocryphal Christian literature about Jesus’ childhood and Mary Magdalene’s discipleship. I studied how ancient Meso-American peoples prescribed to beliefs in the redemptive power of blood. I watched films documenting the spirit possession of African tribesmen.

All over the world, people are trying to capture who God is. As if God is a blurry image and humankind has its hand on a camera lens, attempting to bring Him into focus.

For Muslims, God appears in the written and recited Word. The “Quran” literally means The “Recitation” and the word “Allah” is more than a name for God. The Word is God. Muslim artists are strictly forbidden from depicting Allah in any form other than the four Arabic letters which make up His name. I love how Mosques are decorated in words. No pictures. No paintings. No scenes from its holy text-just passages upon passages in Arabic, wallpapered from floor to ceiling. As a wanna-be journalist, I could get behind this “word worship.”

For Hindus and Buddhists, God is as ethereal and as mysterious as light. God is a “-ness.” A Oneness. A Consciousness. For some, God can be found in Creation. Pramahansa Yogananda, a 20th Century Yogi, said, “God sleeps in the rocks, dreams in the flowers, begins waking in the animals and is fully conscious in humankind.”

For others, God is a She. I once bought this t-shirt from Urban Outfitters with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the front. When my not-yet girlfriend saw me wearing it the first time we ever hung out socially, she asked, “are you religious?” I found myself admitting “Well…I’m not Catholic. But I like the idea of praying to a woman.”

For Christians, God is a Person. A being we relate to. A being that is so invested in our experience, that He humbled himself and became a human. God very God, on Earth. Christians call him Jesus. I have to admit that this depiction of God resonates with me the most. To me, God is a walking, talking, thinking, emoting, living, breathing being.

But beings have personalities. They have characteristics and qualities that define them. They have flavor and sound and texture. So what does God feel like? What does God taste like? What does God sound like?

If I were to guess, God is a cross between Santa Claus and Sidney Poitier. Let me explain.

I believe God is jolly, cozy and generous. He’s quick to laughter, in a constant state of amusement. He’s a representative of Goodness and Tenderness like Santa Claus must be. But, like Poitier, God is also regal. He is well-spoken, intelligent, decisive. Like the actor, God is a revolution. He brings about change. He has a transformative power. As much as I can hear God bellow “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I can also hear God shouting, “They call meeeee Mister TIBBS!”

If I were to rotate my lens and attempt to bring God into focus, I would find God from the TopDeck at Dodger Stadium, during the national anthem, when the crowd is still and standing together. Seriously, I’m not kidding about this one.

Do you ever notice at a sporting event, when asked to “rise for the singing of the national anthem,” how the masses of seated specks seem to elongate? In that moment, it’s almost as if the stadium gets taller. At first sight, it’s an optical illusion, but it’s as real as the dirt on the mound. I love looking out on the crowd during the signing of the Star Spangled Banner. I love the way the crowd appears stretched from top to bottom, like the Rocky Mountains appear while covered in tall pine trees. The masses stand up, and the whole world seems to stretch with it. This is God to me. An experience.

That seems to be a fundamental truth about God, no matter how your lens brings Him into focus. If God is a word, He is meant to be read. If God is a –ness, he is meant to be accessed. If God is a person, He is meant to be talked to. God is meant to be experienced.

How do you experience God?

**Name the baseball film from which this quote came.

The Class of 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 00:22:00 +0000

Whitey Herzog and Doug Harvey? I don’t think I would show up to that induction ceremony even if they were giving away free food. Well, maybe if they were giving away those Doubleday Park hot dogs. I still think about those suckers. I just can’t imagine a giant contingent of fans showing up for that induction ceremony.

Normally I am inherently opposed to umpires being in Hall of Fame. The umpire is the enemy; he is friend to neither the fan nor the player. I feel it is like giving a meter maid the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Doug Harvey only has a few things going for him in my book. He was the crew chief of the 1988 World Series. I can’t say anything bad about that, we won, there were no blown calls I remember, so he earns some points for that contribution. He was prematurely grey, going silver by his mid thirties, this is an obvious distinction and a sign of superior intelligence and I guess he earns some more points for that. And look at the shoes he is wearing in this photo, dude was rocking patent leather dress shoes during a game. I find that pretty cool. However, he is a the guy that started the delay of making calls, instead of making the ball/strike or safe/out call right away, he was the guy who put in that little pause. I hate umpires like that. Either way I guess he was respected by players and managers, I would love if guys like Tommy Lasorda and Dick Williams start jeering him during his acceptance speech. Then Harvey could turn around and eject them, just a thought.

Whitey Herzog, I guess this is just a Cardinal fan favorite. The man managed the Cards for pretty much the whole 80’s. The won one world series and two pennants, I guess that is a pretty good job, he was only a below average ballplayer in his playing days. I guess Herzog gets in on the niceness vote, because his style of ball was boring. Give me Earl Weaver and the three run home run over good pitching, bunting and running. I can only imagine that people feel bad that he had to look at Willie McGee 162 days a year for almost ten years and this is his reward for all of that. If that is the case I guess I the guy really deserves it.

However there were quite a few guys passed up that I think deserved induction, I list them as follows:

Pete Rose, we have already dedicated a post to this, Charlie Hustle belongs in the hall.

Bert Blyleven, 287 wins and 3700 strikeouts, two world series rings, and a work horse. He was not always the ace of his team’s rotation, but he was a gamer with a great bender, and he once flipped off a camera during a national televised game. He belongs.

Mark McGwire, okay he juiced, but he juiced while it was legal. Let’s just get over it and put him in the hall, even when he wasn’t nut shrinkin’ the guy was a powerhouse. And his home run race helped save baseball after the strike. He belongs.

Lee Smith, was the preeminent closer of the 80’s to mid-90’s. Didn’t get injured often and was a seven time all star. Not always a lights out closer, but still great and belongs, unless you think the save and the closer are overrated, which you are probably right about, but right now I think he belongs.

Billy Martin, as a person, a bat-shit crazy paranoid sociopath; as a manager a bat-shit crazy paranoid strategic genius. He was an above average player, and as a manager maybe only average according to his managing record, but he produced some of the greatest moments in baseball with his time as the Yankee’s skipper. He was a one of a kind manager that you just don’t see any more today. Ozzie Guillen wishes he were as bad ass as Billy Martin was. And he is giving the finger on his baseball card. He belongs.

So that is what I think, thoughts?

Frank Musta Missed that Sermon

noreply@blogger.com (Ben) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 02:38:00 +0000

It’s been said here a couple of times already. The Dodgers are headed into the Dark Ages. Frank’s divorce will suck every dollar from the franchise and Ned will be given 37 cents and a ball of lint to work with. Part of me wants to see the glass half full. The Dodgers are returning all of the important pieces, Manny’s in a contract year and Billingsley and Kershaw are still young and could be primed for breakout seasons. But your Chavez Latrine is convincing. We don’t have an ace, our closer has coughed it up in back-to-back NLCS and our farm system is suffering from a drought. To top it off, Frank’s breakup will reduce Ned’s allowance.

Interestingly enough, our boys aren’t the only ones in the NL West suffering from the fallout of its owner’s divorce. I refer you to Exhibit Ex: The San Diego Padres. In 2005, the Padres won the West. In 2006, they repeated. In 2007, they finished only a game-and-a-half outta the playoffs. San Diego was contending on a yearly basis. They never do that. And then, just before pitchers and catchers reported in 2008, the wife of San Diego’s Owner John Moores filed for divorce. Moores swore the legal proceedings wouldn’t affect big free agent signings. He promised San Diegans their Padres would still compete. But Mrs. Moores was relentless. The financial burden of his divorce froze player signings, reduced franchise investment in its prospects and ultimately caused a fire sale that turned a division contender into a JV squad. In the end, Moores was forced to sell majority ownership to his partners, leaving the impossible job of rebuilding to a depressed city.

For advice on how to deal with the imminent return to mediocrity, I sought the wisdom of a good friend… Pastor Jim.

Pastor Jim is both a Family Therapist and the only San Diego Padres fan I know. Pastor Jim is well-equipped with the proper credentials to counsel us through Frank and Jamie’s breakup. Pastor Jim is a student of both Baseball and the Bible and he’s clinically trained to guide both fans and the McCourts through this difficult time.

Pastor Jim’s advice?

“Don’t get married.”

Gee. Thanks Jim.

Digesting Jim’s deflating words; I wondered how a family therapist could make such a hopeless statement. But after further reflection, I am reminded of the Holy Scriptures. Pastor Jim’s words are echoed by the Apostle Paul. You remember them, don’t you?

I Corinthians 7:1, “It is good for a man not to marry.”

I don’t know if the Apostle was thinking of our national pastime when he wrote that letter to the church in Corinth, but I bet Frank wish he was a regular in Sunday School now.

Four more thoughts concerning the Divorce

1. If Frank has to sell (and he will sell), I vote for turning the Dodgers public. The Green Bay Packers are the only professional sports franchise which issues public stock and is represented in ownership meetings by its own delegate chosen by the people. The Packers are a Democracy! Could you imagine reading in the LA Times that the Dodgers are considering a trade that would bring Roy Halladay to the Southland, AND THEN GETTING TO VOTE ON IT?!?!? Yup. That’s my hand raised in the air. I’m seconding my own motion.

2. My favorite re-told story about Frank and Jamie: When Frank was trying to make his pitch to buy the Boston Red Sox, the former owners were clearly not convinced. Frank, sensing rejection, babbled on, trying to save face, when Jamie blurted out, “Shut up, Frank! Sit down!”

3. I think my brother Tim was right. Jonathan Broxton suffered a meltdown in Game 4 of the NLCS like a little kid who just witnessed mommy and daddy fighting. It’s no surprise that LA lost to Philly again, days after the separation went public. The Dodgers were doomed even before that series began.

4. I’m so tired of hearing people complain about Frank’s and Jamie’s extravagant spending. How they spent thousands of dollars on hotel rooms and dinners and designer jeans, but didn’t have enough to get Cliff Lee. This is such hypocrisy. You mean to tell me that the McCourts shouldn’t have lived a lavish lifestyle, so that they could pay some athlete millions of dollars so HE could live a lavish lifestyle? Even though he contributes nothing to society but for his ability to entertain? The Professional Sports Industry is so outta whack.

So It Begins

noreply@blogger.com (Raymond) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 20:11:00 +0000

You know a drink I have really come to enjoy, the Gin & Tonic. It really is a magical combination. Gin being a classic tipple from England, I would normally not be caught dead drinking it over my beloved Irish Whiskey (Bushmills to be specific) but something about the juniper and citrus flavors of a London Dry Gin and how they mix with the bitter effervescence of the tonic water all you need is a wedge of lime and you are near mixology perfection. Gin was the primary spirit of choice for the common Englishman for many years. The tonic didn’t get into the act until the English colonization of South Asia. The hot humid climate was a breeding ground for mosquitos, and quinine helps prevent malaria, although it is bitter as all hell. Leave it to and Englishmen to think to add gin to tonic water to make it palatable.

Now the real question, why bring up this drink? Well I have been consuming 2 to 3 of these concoctions a night ever since the Dodgers refused to offer arbitration to any of their eligible players this year! None, not one, not a good player or a bad player, even though Kim Ng is probably the best person in contract arbitration in the whole of MLB; we didn’t offer it to anybody. Why?

It is the beginning of the slide down. The divorce has put such a tight squeeze on things that we can afford contract salaries we could get out of arbitration, and even if the players declined arbitration, we probably couldn’t afford to sign the first round draft picks we would get in compensation. I mean the Dodgers could afford it, they raised tickets prices in the top deck and pavilion, but they don’t want to spend that money.

Colletti just signed a new contract and he will have nothing to work with now. I fear this is the first in a string of disappointing moves by the team. Letting so much good mid priced talent go only to try to sign one ace and then have no bench or remaining rotation to back him up.

Can you rationalize these moves? Sure you can. I can also rationalize the way I used to dress in high school and the fact that I had star wars bed sheets until I was in my mid 20's. But that doesn't make it right. My fears are slowly come true. I guess I am glad that just down the 5 freeway there is an owner who has money and is not afraid to use it. But I think everyone will be pleaded a down economy when there are no superstar contract signings. In fact I think we will not see any one make ARod money for a long long time. And the Dodgers will not contend for years to come.