"My UnderNuts are Itchin'!"

Speaking of minor league managers, do you remember Rick Burleson? He was the skipper for the Lancaster JetHawks in 1997 and ’98. (Didn’t your folks have season tickets to The Hangar? And isn’t “The Hangar” the most clever nickname for a ballpark? In a region built on the aeronautical industry and a team name like the JetHawks, it’s nothing short of a stroke of genius. Sure beats The BOB, the acronym for the Arizona Diamondbacks’ Bank One Ballpark.)


Anyways, my first job ever was as a bat boy for the JetHawks, the summer after my sophomore year in high school. Rick Burleson was the manager and he was a mean old cuss. I never saw the man smile. He was also a former big leaguer. An all-star and a gold glove winning middle infielder for the Red Sox and Angels. In fact, Rick still owns the record for the most double plays turned in a Red Sox uniform. I remember coming home and telling my dad how angry Rick always acted. Lou Piniella was the manager of the Seattle Mariners at the time, the JetHawks’ parent ballclub. And Lou is just as famous for his scowl and his temper tantrums than anything else. Do you remember that time he argued with the umpire and ripped first base off the field and hurled it down the right field foul line? My dad said that affiliates often try to hire managers in the mold of the team’s big league ballclub. Gets players used to playing for certain personalities. Which makes you wonder about the Atlanta Braves farm system. Are all the Braves minor league teams managed by wife beaters who win the division year in and year about but never win it all? Brace yourself for my “Good Riddance, Bobby Cox” column. I can’t WAIT till he retires at the end of this next season.




5 Things I learned while retrieving bats, providing balls for umpires and buying Mango Madness flavored Snapple for picky third baseman Carlos Villalobos…


1. Pitchers are a different breed: Eventual big league hurler Joe Mays used to spend the morning of each day he started, playing an imaginary round of golf in front of his locker using imaginary clubs and imaginary balls.


2. Umpires are ill positioned: You know how 1B and 3B umpires have to make the call on check swings? They’re WAY outta position. I’ll bet more strikes and balls are blown this way. The best place to be is in the dugout. The catcher shoulda been pointing at ME to make that call.


3. Ballplayers don’t give a rip about rules: Even though there was a Minor League ban on chewing tobacco, several players used to hide tins of Chaw in the small crease between the helmet cubby and the dugout ceiling.


4. The Minor Leagues are filled to the brim with siblings and cousins who weren’t exactly the MOST athletic ones in the family: The JetHawks had Shawn Buhner (little brother of Jay, a big league all-star) and Cirillo Cruz (nephew to Jose Cruz, and cousin to Jose Cruz, Jr: guess which one of the 3 never made it to The Show?) These guys were the Jan Bradys of their families. For those of you who don’t know baseball, this would be like if Lou Pearlman put together a pop band with Drew Lachey, Aaron Carter, Jamie Lynn Spears and Solange Knowles. Yuck.


5. Ballplayers have the most creative ways of describing their body parts: I saw more NakedMan penis than a teenage boy should. But do you remember that time when I snuck you into the clubhouse after a game and Shane Monahan, clothed in nothing but a pair of shower shoes, exclaimed, “god! My undernuts are itchin’!!!”?


Postscript: I hope your last column won’t include the last reference to Jimmy Dugan. And yes, Tom Hanks was definitely Actor of the Decade in the 90s. Did I ever tell you how I saw him and his wife at Disneyland? He was wearing a hat and sunglasses to try and be incognito. Guess which insignia was stitched to that cap he wore? A Dodgers bright and white “LA”.


Post-Postscript: Let’s play a game of Six Degrees of Lancaster JetHawks. A.J. Hinch (the manager you mentioned in your last post) was recently fired by the Arizona Diamondbacks, which replaced him with Wally Backman, former New York Mets all-star and 2004 Minor League Manager of the Year for the…you guessed it, LANCASTER JETHAWKS! Welcome back to the big leagues Wally!




Post-Post-Postscript: I love jokes about Todd Hundley. Keep ‘em comin’. When I was studying at Harvard, back when the Dodgers were always more than just one piece away from making the playoffs, my dad would send me newspaper clippings outta the LA Times that always looked something like this, “Todd Hundley is scheduled to come off the disabled list, just in time for the playoff push,” as if he was the answer to all their problems. My dad used to think that was hilarious. What’s even funnier is he musta sent me articles like these every September for 3 straight years. That’s how bad we were.

The Small Leagues

First I wanted to echo your sentiments about Jim Tracy. I could not be happier for the man. I always liked him, I was sad when he left. Although I tried to be a Grady Little apologist, I did not think he was an upgrade over Jim Tracy. And I have always liked Tracy's style of using the whole team. He is a good guy and a nice guy to have in the division. Between Bochy, Black, Torre, Tracy and whoever the heck A. J. Hinch is the managers in the NL West are a pretty good group of guys if I do say so myself.

I joke about A. J. Hinch, I vaguely remember him as a backup catcher. Nice to see young guys get managing jobs like that. Seems like all the young guys getting managing job are catchers like Eric Wedge. Although Wedge was in no way supported by his organization, which was a bummer.

Which leads me to think about what a tough job it must be being a minor league manager/coach. Rarely do you stay in one location for more than a year and often you are not even in the same organization from year to year. Then take in to account you are managing a team full of guys that in their previous baseball endeavors were the best of the best, and you have to teach them how to hit a major league curve ball or remind them to use two hands when catching a baseball.

A good number of managers and coaches in the minors are not a whole lot more then old retired major leaguers or career minor leaguers who had a total of 14 at bats in the show and never made it anywhere and they are entrusted with nurturing and developing a team's prospects. The idea of having a washed up third baseman or a career AAA catcher in charge of my first round draft pick fireball pitcher whom I paid Scott Boras $15 million just for the pleasure of signing. All of the sudden Jimmy Dugan becomes my worst nightmare!

[Sidenote: And speaking of Jimmy Dugan, is it just me, or did Tom hanks just won the mid 90's in film. The man could do no wrong. I liken him to our modern day James Stewart, Tom Hanks even served in WWII just like Stewart, so that works for me.]

I can almost understand why other leagues do not have the expansive and multitiered farm system that baseball has. You are placing a lot of high priced (And low priced) talent in hands of people who may not exactly know what they are doing. I can just imagine Todd Hundley or Tom Prince coaching first round draft picks and telling them of the glory of their years in the show. Holy Crap Tom Prince is a minor league manager. I just pooped myself a little. Also I really shouldn't worry about Todd Hundley since he was named in the Mitchell report and is basically known as the guy who got Gagne and LoDuca started on the juice. So yeah, enough about that.

I originally wanted to write my first God related post for this, but Jimmy Dugan and Todd Hundley got in the way, maybe next time, if you don't beat me to it.

Heidi K-K-K-K-K-K-Klum

Maybe what makes Lincecum so good is his feminine wiles. He doesn't owe his success to that knee buckling curveball or his unorthodox mechanics, it's his ability to seduce the batter. I mean, let's face it. Could ANYONE get their stick around on a Heidi Klum curve? Maybe Seal. Which begs another question, if Klum K's Seal, does she stare back into the dugout and mouth the words, "auf wiedersehen"? I think she does.

Speaking of this year's awards. Chest Bumps to Jim Tracy, Colorado Rockies skipper, and the 2009 National League Manger of the Year.

For me, Jim Tracy is one of those guys who you root for, even though he's not on your team, and in this case, even though he's an opponent in your division! I still love the way Tracy managed our Dodgers. He gave young no-names a chance, maybe because he was an underdog himself. Cesar Izturis, Paul Lo Duca and Jayson Werth owe Tracy thanks for giving them their first shot in The Show. (Well, maybe Lo Duca should thank his Dealer.)

In '04, Tracy gave Dodger fans something they hadn't tasted in 16 years, a Division Title AND a playoff win. No. Not a playoff SERIES win. Just one game. It's pathetic, but we were STARVING and Tracy fed us. I remember being so pumped up by that season, I suggested buying a "2004 NL West Division Champs" T-shirt. You reminded me how pitiful that would be...to basically wear a "We're #4!!!" T-Shirt, but that tells you how depressed our fan base was. Almost being swept in the first round of the playoff was progress!

Unfortunately, the Dodgers were 20 games under .500 the following year and Jim got the axe. But I never turned on Manager Jim. Yes, he was just a Division III All-Star and a Japan Leauge castoff. Yes, he was probably looking the other way while Lo Duca and Eric Gagne bent over and injected each other with steroids. And yes, he was a dead ringer for Orville Redenbacher. But he was OUR Orville Redenbacher.

Postscript: Did you happen to notice who won AMERICAN League Manager of the year? Yup. You guessed it. Mike Bleeping Scioscia. ALSO a former Dodger. No offense to Joe Torre but excuse me while I grill a Dodger Dog and choke on it.

Really Tim Lincecum?

Okay I think the Baseball Writers Association of America has lost it.  Instead of voting for the best pitcher in the Nation League, the writers obviously voted for the player, who looks the most like a girl they think they would have a chance of getting with.

I mean look at that photo.  That isn't a Cy Young award winner, that is a female tennis grand slam champion looking at me.

Ford Frick would be spinning in his grave if he knew the award that he introduced in 1956 was going to guys who almost looked as good as the 1956 Miss America winner

Great now I can't tell who is who, they both just have radiant smiles.



I mean really?  No only do I not like his overall appearance but on a statistical level does her deserve it?  The kid only got 15 wins this season!  Chad Billingsley had 16 wins in 2008 and I don't even think he got a fruit basket from the team for Christmas.

So while we gave the Ozzie look a like an award to a pitcher whose only league leading stat was strikeouts.  Guys who really deserved it like Chris Carpenter, Adam Wainwright and Jair Jurrens must sit idly by.  Shameful.  I remember when Cy Young Winners look like men...like Vuk!

That guy looks scary.  Not like a guy whom I should get styling product tips from.

Also his middle name is LeRoy.  Did you know that?  I didn't and I do not know what to think about it.

I guess I am just exasperated and a little disappointed.  I mean the Dodgers got a couple of silver sluggers and golden gloves.  But our lack of ace pitching is continuing to be our downfall.  And with the divorce in the works I do not see us signing an ace in the off season.  Sorry just needed to vent.

The Pete Rose Redemption

He’s a self-promoting old cuss who throws public relations tantrums every summer in baseball’s fertile crescent. He may have single-handedly transformed autograph seeking and sports memorabilia collecting from a childhood hobby, pure and innocent, into a multi-billion dollar industry fraught with racketeers and shysters. He’s a tax evader. A criminal. Imprisoned for 5 months for dodging the IRS. He makes a living off his misdeeds, lining his pockets with book deals and TV spots and public appearances. He blasphemed Baseball, committing Sports’ one unforgivable sin. He bet on games he played in. He bet on games he managed.

And then lied about it… for 15 years.

Let’s face it. He slid, spikes up, into baseball’s integrity.

That being said… there’s 4,256 reasons why Charlie Hustle should be enshrined in Cooperstown. I agree. He belongs in the Hall.

But here’s the thing… he hasn’t had his “APPROVED” moment yet. Let me explain.

You know in the movie “Shawshank Redemption”, in those scenes between the action, when Red is up for parole and is forced to persuade a state official to cut short his sentence by convincing him that he’s been “rehabilitated”? Pete Rose is The Beginning of the Movie Morgan Freeman.

Pete keeps taking the hat in hand, “I learned my lesson. I can honestly say I’m a changed man. No longer a danger to society. That’s God’s honest truth” approach. And with the Syphilis, that ain’t gonna cut it. Red can tell ya’.

Pete is pleading for reinstatement, beseeching Bud with “Forgive me” cards, bribing fans with autographs, appealing to the public through long overdue confessions. But that’s the problem. Pete thinks it’s a political game. And in the court of public opinion, he may have won. But in the Commissioner’s office, he hasn’t. If Pete REALLY wants reinstatement. If he REALLY wants to be immortalized on a plaque with his name on it. Pete HAS to change his game plan. He’s got to channel End of the Movie Morgan Freeman. He’s got to employ the “So go on Sonny and stamp your form and stop wasting my time. Because to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit” strategy.

It worked for Red.

Can you imagine Pete walking into Bud’s office? Sitting there, rolling his eyes and responding with, “Rehabilitated? To me it’s just a made up word. A politician’s word. So that fellas like yourself can wear a suit and a tie, and have a job.”? Could The Syphilis say “no”?

Pete’s gotta go “F-You” on Bud.

Here’s the problem. It took Red 40 years to get to “F-You.” Pete’s on easy street. He’s makin’ money. Fans love him. Baseball Purgatory is nowhere near Shawshank Prison. Not even in its stratosphere. There are no “Sisters” to deal with when you’re banished from baseball. So Pete will go on. Until an “old man is all that’s left.” Hoping for his day of reinstatement. Hoping to deliver an induction speech on a lawn in Cooperstown. Hoping to return to the diamond and wave his cap to fans. He hopes.

PS: Kudos for finding that photo of Rose where his bats are more clothed than his balls.

Why Not Yet?

I love the jazz thread and I plan to opine on the subject more in the future.  But there is a bigger question at hand, and it is baseball related, therefore has higher priority due to the nature of our web log.  Namely why is Pete Rose not in the baseball Hall of Fame yet?

During our trip to baseball Valhalla there was one name missing more then any other, Kevin Mitchell.

But number two on that list has to be Pete Rose.  Short of Kevin Darnell Mitchell there is not another man alive who deserves more to be enshrined within the halls of Cooperstown.  Charlie Hustle exemplifies everything that most die hard baseball fans look for in a player: pure natural talent, work ethic, drive, lack of P.E.D.s  and a somewhat soft physique so as to make us think we could do what he does.

I also have to admit I have a soft spot for Pete Rose in my heart as he was the favorite player of my Great Grandfather Joe McCormick, who died shortly before I was born and was the man responsible for bringing the McCormick's to the Antelope Valley back in the 40's.  He love Rose for his spirit and obvious love of the game.  His quote "I'd walk through Hell in a gasoline suit just to play baseball", strikes me as just about one of the best things anyone has ever said about baseball.

Now did he break the rules, yes.  Did he bet on baseball yes, but the fact that we allow drug addicts, cheaters, sex offenders, domestic abusers, racists, and Gary Carter into the hall of fame, doesn't that mean that we can forgive Pete Rose and allow one of the best players of all time into the place where he rightly belongs?

Bud Selig's one hope of saving his soul and perhaps legacy would be if he prayed hard and found within him the strength and courage to reinstate Pete Rose into baseball and allow him into the Hall of Fame.

I have yet to hear a compelling reason not to. 

Is It Too Late to Change the Title?

In the immortal words of Mr. Smee…”abso-friggin’-lutely!” Let’s talk jazz. In fact, let’s talk anything that has the gusto to “dress” itself in nudity. In honor of Andre Previn and the Hollywood Stars, I say we rename our musings, “Naked Chicks with Baseball Caps.” With a title like that, we’re sure to draw more hits. And as one fan on Facebook pointed out, “put her on the hood of a car and you’ll DOUBLE your readership.” Which just might raise our number of readers to a numeral that can be rounded UP to 10.

But back to Jazz. The film “Swing Kids” popped my jazz cherry when I was 12. It sounds odd. A boy in mid puberty, on the verge of teenage angst, living in the age of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, falling for Benny Goodman and Jango Reinhardt. I musta listened to “Sing, Sing, Sing” about a million times. I sang “Bei Mir Bist du Schon” in the shower. “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If it Ain’t got that Swing)” became my anthem. And this was BEFORE the 90’s Swing craze. I was so ahead of my time. Or…behind it…depending on which way you look at it. Either way, it’s fair to say that I’m questioning my sexuality as I type. But I can’t help it. Swing Kids was my gateway drug. Christian Bale’s dark descent into the Hitler-Jugend altered my musical palate forever.

From Swing Kids, I “found my thrill on blueberry hill” with Louis Armstrong. His raw and rowdy trumpet beat my eardrums into obsession. I was the only kid on my block with Armstrong’s “Greatest Hits” album… ON TAPE. Inspired by Louis’ “Kiss to Build a Dream on,” I once wrote an anonymous love letter to my 6th Grade crush with the lyrics from the song altered to suit my sentiments. And, yes. My 6th Grade crush was a girl.

It kinda freaked her out. She ended up getting with my best friend. Who could blame her? He owned “The Chronic.”

And then there was Miles Davis.
And John Coltrane.
And Cannonball Adderley.
Bill Evans, Wilton Kelly, Jimmy Cobb and Paul Chambers.

The album was “Kind of Blue.” The best six tracks in Jazz History. If Jazz has a John 3:16, Miles’ efforts during those two sessions in 1959 wrote it. Kind of Blue is perfection personified. 7 musicians, all at the top of their game, coming together for two spring days in New York City to record half a dozen of the richest concoctions of syncopation and improvisation ever. The tracks, “So What”, “Freddie Freeloader”, “Blue in Green”, “All Blues” and “Flamenco Sketches” became more than just music to me. While in college at USC, I played those tracks so much, its smooth sounds enveloped my soul. It can’t be overstated how miraculous this album is. Except for one track, every recording was done in one take. Bill Evans even admitted that Miles wrote the riffs just hours before recording. Today, the album has gone quadruple platinum. Not bad for cramming.

Dare I say, this album is Spiritual. If God’s first utterings brought about the world, I’d put money on his voice sounding a lot like Miles’ trumpet or Coltrane’s sax. Kind of Blue is a work of art. It’s a Rembrandt. It’s a Monet. It’s a Fernando Valenzuela screwball. Untouchable.

We Can Talk Jazz Too...Right?

First of all have you heard that album?  Other then the cover art, it is a really good example of West Coast style piano jazz. 

Previn of course was a musical giant in the 50’s doing classic scores for many movies of the era.  He won four Oscars during his career.  He also conducted the London Symphony Orchestra and was musical director of the L.A. Philharmonic though much of the 80’s.  He was one of those guys who could do the big musical stuff but still had a heart for the jazz music he listened to and played when he was young.  The guy could conduct a performance of Swan Lake in the afternoon and then head down to a club and do Ellington covers all night.  My kind of guy musically.  And to complete our six degrees of Ben he was once married to Mia Farrow.  I wonder if he knows anything about abusive relationships.

Russ Freeman similarly was classically trained but grew up just in time to catch on with Jazz.  Born in Chicago and raised in Los Angeles he became a West Coast mainstay doing some really classic albums with Art Pepper and Chet Baker.  You know he was a good jazz player because he was a heroin addict at one time.  He later in his career he became a musical director for many of the night club acts that were still in Los Angeles.  A true icon of the West Coast Jazz/Cool Jazz scene.  He is also known for his numerous collaborations with drummer Shelly Manne.

Who coincidently was the drummer on this album.  Born in New York he relocated to Hollywood and began working on movie scores for the likes of Bernstein, Goldsmith, Mancini, and even our beloved John Williams.  Even though movie studio work paid the bills he would always prefer to play with his trio.  An absolute fixture in Los Angeles anyone coming through the area played with Shelly at one time or another.  He did a great album with Bill Evans I really like.  My favorite note about him is that  he had his own jazz club in the 60’s called Shelly’s Manne-Hole.  Which nowadays may make you wonder a little if it is the kind of club you want to be found in.  But it pretty much was the best jazz club in L.A. till it shut down in ’73.

Suffice to say the album with the enthusiastic lady on the cover of which you referenced is pretty good album with some really great artists playing on it.  If you can kind a copy I would recommend the purchase.

As to your actual question of what to name the team:  That is a predicament that has plagued owners for decades.  I find that most owners seem to petition to public for name ideas and then put it up to a popular vote so as to absolve themselves of any backlash that may come from the name not being liked by the fans.  Sadly this seems to lead to dull or non-interesting choices.  But you just said the Syphilis had a gun to my head and I have to choose.  Well let us get over any reference to movies or show business, such a name would be better suited to Vancouver, B.C. then L.A. any more.  A name like “The Quake” while appropriate is one dimensional and very A-League.  I would love to call them the L.A. Tacos.  I think that would be huge with the fans and promotional deals would be legion.  

But I think I would just call the team the Los Angeles Fairweathers, something the fans could really connect with and would understand.

A "Dodger", by any other name...

So I was watching Monday Night Football this week, Pittsburgh-Denver, when I had an unusual thought. Both nicknames of the two professional football clubs are somewhat representative of the region to which they hail. The “Steelers” of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and the “Broncos” of Denver, Colorado. I started thinking about it some more and landed at this query.

How many professional franchises have nicknames that are indigenous to the cities they call home?

After 13 minutes of research, here’s the score.

The NFL is 12 for 32, including…The Dallas Cowboys, Green Bay Packers, New Orleans Saints, San Francisco 49ers, Seattle Seahawks, New England Patriots, Miami Dolphins, Buffalo Bills, Pittsburg Steelers, Cleveland Browns (named for their former coach Paul Brown, NOT their famed running back Jim Brown), Houston Texans, Denver Broncos

The NBA is 14 for 30, including…The Boston Celtics, Philadelphia 76ers, New York Knicks, Detroit Pistons, Indiana Pacers, Orlando Magic (this is a stretch, but I figure “Magic” must have something to do with Disney), Denver Nuggets, Portland TrailBlazers, Oklahoma City Thunder, Minnesota Timberwolves, Phoenix Suns, Dallas Mavericks, Houston Rockets, San Antonio Spurs,

It should also be noted that the Utah Jazz used to be the New Orleans Jazz, the Los Angeles Lakers moved west from Minneapolis and the Los Angeles Clippers once represented San Diego.

(Tangent 1: The NBA could EASILY be 16 for 30 if the Utah Jazz and New Orleans Hornets both agreed to switch nicknames, given Jazz was invented in New Orleans and State Highway Signs in Utah are all outlines of Bees’ Nests with numbers in the middle. It makes so much sense it will never happen.)

The NHL is 12 for 30, including…The New York Islanders, Montreal Canadiens, Toronto Maple Leafs, Washington Capitals, Colorado Avalanche, Vancouver Canucks, Edmonton Oilers, Minnesota Wild, Phoenix Coyotes, Dallas Stars, Anaheim Ducks, San Jose Sharks

(Tangent 2: Montreal’s hockey team gets points for being SO indigenous, the actual spelling of its nickname is representative of the region…French Canada)

(Tangent 3: Dallas gets the Common Sense/Creativity Award for dropping the word “North” from its nickname when the Stars moved from Minnesota.)

(Tangent 4: I tried to score the MLS but they get a “bye” based on the fact that no one who drives on the right side of the road knows what the hell “FC” means.)

Major League Baseball has the highest batting average, 15 for 30, including…the New York Yankees, Tampa Bay Rays (formerly Devil Rays), Minnesota Twins, Los Angeles Angels, Texas Rangers, Seattle Mariners, Philadelphia Phillies, Florida Marlins, New York Mets, Washington Nationals, Milwaukee Brewers, Houston Astros, Colorado Rockies, San Diego Padres, Arizona Diamondbacks

And our beloved boys of summer, the Los Angeles Dodgers, used to be the Brooklyn Dodgers, originally named for the devoted fans of the Brooklyn baseball club who were forced to “dodge” the trolleys on Flatbush Avenue to make it to the ballpark gates.

How about a thought experiment? If L.A. weren’t the Dodgers, what should they be? I have three potential name changes.

1. The L.A. Smog
2. The L.A. SigAlerts
3. The Los Angeles Stars

(And if choices 1 and 2 seem absurd, just remember back a few years ago when the San Fernando Valley voted on seceding from Los Angeles and how they wanted to change the Valley’s name officially to “Camelot”)

#3 is the obvious choice. “Stars” would be far more indigenous to L.A. than “Dodgers.” I mean, the only trolley dodgin’ Angelenos do is side steppin’ that fake one at the Grove which takes you from J.Crew to The Pottery Barn.

The Hollywood Stars represented the Southland as early as 1926. Before they were the Stars, they ping ponged through half a dozen cities in the West (at one point representing the good town of Fresno as the Fresno Raisin Eaters. Seriously. I couldn’t make this stuff up.) After nine seasons in SoCal, the Stars moved to San Diego and became the Padres. Yep. Those Padres.

But in 1939, a new stadium was built in the Fairfax District, a band of movie stars and moguls pooled their riches and, again, the Stars were born! Celebrity investors included Gene Autry, Bob Cobb (part owner of the Brown Derby and the namesake for the Cobb Salad) and the guy who played Fred Mertz in “I Love Lucy.” Could that even happen today? Let’s say the McCourts do fold, like you predict. Could the Weinsteins, George Lopez and Ice Cube get together and buy the Dodgers? I feel another thought experiment coming on.

The Hollywood Stars Ballclub pioneered many modern baseball customs. They were the first to drag the field between innings (thinking that the longer breaks in action would cause fans to go rushing to the concession stands). They were the first to broadcast baseball on television (naturally). And they were the first to dress their players in shorts (Okay. So maybe that wasn’t so revolutionary.) But the Stars had street cred in Tinseltown. Bob Hope went to games. Celebrities donned the blue caps with the Red “H”, and naked women were photographed wearing the cap on the covers of Jazz albums. I mean. Alyssa Milano might have written her own book about baseball and have her own sports clothing line, but she never stripped down to nothing but a Dodgers lid.

So. Whaddya think Raymond? If The Syphilis were holding a gun to your head and forcing you to rename the Dodgers. What would you call ‘em?

The Ballad of Frank and Jamie

I have come to terms with the fact that the impending divorce of Frank and Jaime McCourt will lead to the sale of the Los Angeles Dodgers to new owners and a relative lull in the performance of the Dodgers as a competitive team for the next few years.

Frank knowing that he will need money for litigation and in efforts to keep money from his wife; will definitely not be investing heavily in the team any time soon. Rumors abound that budget cuts are rampant throughout the organization with budgets and payrolls being slashed left and right.

At first I was quite angry about this, upset that I was going to have to last through a rebuilding era for my favorite team. I felt like the Dodgers were nothing more than a large Stadium shaped ATM machine for the McCourts. But after really thinking about it I have come to the conclusion that they are really no different than any of the previous few owners of the Dodgers.

As described by T.J. Simers of the Los Angeles Times, Frank McCourt was not much more than a parking lot attendant from Boston. A successful real estate developer from the bay state who had patched together land parcels to turn into profitable parking lots in one of America's oldest and most cramped cities.

It has been reported by others before that the McCourt's originally wanted to buy the Red Sox, but lacked the capital or even just the straight cash to make them a serious contender. However when Fox put up the Dodgers for sale the McCourts were one of the first ones in with a serious bid and Fox in their desperation to get out of their (At the time money losing) investment sold quickly. The McCourts were looking for a team to invest in and make money from they were never in it for the love of the game.

Fox, before them, was no better of course. Fox used their ownership of the Dodgers as nothing more than a tool in developing their Fox Sports Cable Television Network. Specifically the two Fox Sports West channels. Fox never made any major push in pursuing superstar caliber players and short of replacing the grass made no improvements to the stadium.

Fox took ownership of the Dodgers from the famed O'Malley family. And one thing is for certain the O'Malley's were not much more than a rich penny pinching Irish family. Walter O'Malley although a baseball fan, was a business man first. The decision to bring the Dodgers westward was more economic then anything else.

Branch Rickey was a baseball fan and baseball lover. He cared about the fans, players and the game. He was baseball innovator and champion. Sadly he was essentially forced out of the Dodger organization by O'Malley who wanted to consolidate his power and control over the team. Rickey moved on to be GM for the Pirates and even helped them win the series in 1960.

I say all this to make a point about the Dodger have never really had a baseball loving owner since Rickey. As much as I hate George Steinbrenner I would love to have an owner like him. A man who loves baseball and loves to win. Mark Cuban comes to mind, but he will never be allowed in by the MLB owners, and knowing our luck we will end up with another Donald Sterling type owner anyways.

Geographical Blasphemy

I’m glad you brought up the Angels. I have a bone to pick. I’ll admit it. Like so many other Angelenos, I caught Angel fever in the Fall of 2002. We were both there for the ALCS clincher against the Twins. We stood and applauded while King Fish paraded around the field with the trophy hoisted above his head. I’ve got the ticket stub and Angels cap to prove it. God forgive me! I even dressed as Michael Eisner for Halloween that year!

(Sidnote 1: Do you remember how Eisner used to have John Travolta in the Owner’s Box during playoff games? Weird.)

(Sidenote 2: Let the record show, however, that I never played with Thundersticks and I was never brought to my feet by the Rally Monkey.)

But could you blame us? The entire Angels coaching staff was made up of 1988 Dodgers!
Our beloved Blue turned its back on Mike Scioscia, denied him the managerial position he so richly deserved and forced him and his old teammates to defect to Orange County. Murdoch ignored our rich baseball legacy, pawned the franchise off for an expanding television network, then left our team for dead. Do you remember Glen Hoffman?!?!

And so there we were, applauding OUR heroes (Sciosc, Alfredo Griffin, Mickey Hatcher) in their quest to take the Halos to the Promised Land. We hated the Fox Corp so much, every win the Angels tallied was both a “take that Murdoch!” and an “ouch! That hurts!” The confusion of our fan base could only be equaled by that of the citizens of Wisconsin and their rollercoaster relationship with Brett Favre. Somehow, we justified our rooting for Anaheim. And they won. They defeated our arch rivals, the Giants, in soul crushing fashion. Down 5 runs and only 8 outs away from watching San Francisco earn its first title since they were the NEW YORK Giants, the Angels rallied and went on to win both Games 6 and 7.

But then something happened. Angels fans got cocky. They started flocking to the ballpark in droves. Sell out after sell out, wielding thundersticks and rally monkeys and brand new Angels caps. All of a sudden, the media was talking about how great Halos fans were. I couldn’t believe it! A fan base duped an entire nation into thinking it was long suffering and, somehow, deserving of this championship. When in reality, it was a bunch of Dodgers who made it happen! It was utterly sickening. I lived 23 years of my life in Southern California, even had an annual pass to Disneyland (just a relay throw from Angels Stadium) and I NEVER knew an Angels fan until October 2002!

They came to Dodger Stadium and took dead aim at us during Interleague Play. Those series’ were heated. Beers flew! Fists too! Fans were getting shot in the parking lot! Arte Moreno (the billionaire advertiser who bought the team off of Disney) marched out his plan to invade, buying billboards in OUR city, claiming that the Angels belonged to L.A.!!! There he was! Staking claim in enemy territory! When, after a year of public debate, Arte did the unthinkable. He reached deep into his arsenal and dropped a bomb that sent shock waves throughout the Southland. Through a teeny loophole in the Angels contract with the City of Anaheim, Arte renamed the ballclub…

The LOS ANGELES Angels of Anaheim.

*Insert me gouging my eyes out with a Thunderstick.

How could Arte get away with such Geographical Blasphemy?

2 Irrefutable things we know about the Angels.
1. The Angels originated in Los Angeles. Played at California’s version of Wrigley Field while they were in the old California League then moved to Dodger Stadium when they entered the American League. Admittedly, in some respects, the Angels are more indigenous to L.A. than the Dodgers.

2. (And this is a big 2!) The Angels play in Anaheim. Anaheim is in Orange County. Not Los Angeles. Not even Los Angeles County. It’s not different than renaming the Red Sox, the Worcester (pronounced “Wooster”) Red Sox of Boston or the
Oakland Giants of San Francisco.

Utter nonsense.

I have to admit. My hatred for the Angels burns deeper than mine for the Giants. It’s a new generation and Interleague Play as well as Scioscia’s defection have burgeoned the rivalry to a Five Alarm Fire. THIS is what Brooklynites must have felt about their rivals in the nearby borough. This is what rivalries are made of. Staking claim to territory. Crammed shoulder to shoulder with your enemy.

God! I hate Angels!

Re: The Syphilis
3 Candidates to Replace Him.

Ted Tuner-He wouldn’t have a hard time getting elected because he’d protect the owners interests (because he is one). He’s a man of innovation and risk. He has an old west flavor about him- a cross between Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis and Dirty Harry. And he’s quotable with a sharp mind and a clever wit. A good representative of baseball.

Tommy Lasorda- Perhaps he’s more of an ambassador, but I’d totally entrust baseball to one of its passionate lovers. He adores the game and wants nothing but the best for it. He’s hard nosed and isn’t afraid to spout off when something irks him. Ask Dave Kingman. But mostly, he’d care for the game like a museum curator, preserving every moment for the good of eternity and scribbling love sonnets to its greatness

George Bush- It’s crazy but isn’t Baseball Commissioner what Dubbya wanted all along? He owned the Rangers. He may have not been fit enough to lead the free world but his “I can see myself sitting at the bar and having a beer with him quality” might be an asset in MLB.

One last thing: I second the motion on Doubleday Dogs.

Bud Selig Will Be the Death of Us

I am sure of it.

Since 1992 baseball has had a disease, not immediately fatal, nor immediately disfiguring, but a sort of quiet slowly destructive disease. Something that if not treated will kill you, kinda like syphilis. This particular strain of disease goes by the name Allan Huber Selig, Bud Selig to you and me.

Some say Bud has revived baseball, brought it back to national prominence. Revenue is up, attendance is up, and even TV viewership is rising slowly. Some have called him the greatest baseball commissioner of all time, I consider I him the festering boil on the forehead of my beloved national pastime.

In 2012 Selig's contract with the MLB expires and he says he will retire, and I will wish him a good riddance.

I think I just miss the Commissioners of old.

Fay Vincent had run movie studios and was a vice president at Coca Cola.

Bart Giamatti was the President of Yale and father of Paul Giamatti.

Peter Uberroth basically ran the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles and was named Times Man of Year that same year.

Bowie Kuhn was actually named Bowie, his given first name was Bowie. Badass. Not to mention he was 6'4" and 240 pounds and went to Princeton.

William "Spike" Eckert was a bit of a dud but not a disaster of Seligian proportions. He became commissioner when he had not seen a game in person during the previous 10 years. He also went to Harvard, so you can't expect much. But the man had been a three star general in the Air Force and was personally recommended by Curtis LeMay so he couldn't have been all bad.

Ford Frick is my favorite. A DePauw graduate and sportswriter. Helped organize the baseball hall of fame, and threatened to suspend anyone who tried to boycott a Jackie Robinson game.

Allan Huber Selig went to University of Wisconsin Madison and studied History (First Warning Sign). Worked in a car leasing business and bought the Seattle Pilots. He then colluded with owners to get Fay Vincent out of office begin his reign of terror.

Since then we have had , Wild Card and Division Series. A cancelled world series. The loss of the exhibition nature of the All Star game. Interleague play. The attempted contraction of the Twins and Expos. And a huge steroid scandal that continues to haunt and hinder the game. And instant replay. He makes close to 15 million a year and he okayed the McCourts buying the Dodgers.

I feel his taint on what used to be America's purest and most original sport. And it saddens me. But sadly I see no return to the idealic times of past and must face a grime future.

Regarding Cheering and Bigamy

I enjoyed the quiet confines of Angels Stadium. Parking right off the freeway. No people yelling, heckling, or trying to start the wave. An appreciation of the science of the game. Attending a game was similar to going to the Opera. And fireworks if the ball boy caught a foul ball on only one hop. And a giant fountain in center field, some want to run the score board and Fenway, I want to run the fountain in Anaheim.

Dodger Dogs over Angel Dogs. But those hot dogs at Doubleday Field hold a special place in my heart.

Low Tek

Hi. My name is Ben. And I am a Baseball Bigamist.

There. I said it. Admission is the first step towards recovery, right?

I’m a Dodgers fan. I Think Blue. My soul leaps every time we exit the 110 onto Academy Road. I believe there is only one Vin Scully and Jaime Jarrin is his Prophet. I’m convinced the Dodger home whites are brighter than any others in the league. Next time you’re at Chavez Ravine, look closely. Dodgers glow. I love how Take Me Out to the Ballgame gets an encore! I was there for Game 7 of the ’88 NLCS. Clips of Gibby’s walkoff World Series homer still squeeze a smile from my face and a tear from eye. … Every. Time. I’ve been to countless Fireworks nights. I believe Nancy Bea and her organ are one of the nation’s hidden treasures. I’d eat a Grilled Dodger Dog over a finely cut filet mignon. After all, Farmer John is Westernmost in taste. Easternmost in Quality. I’m a steadfast Adrian Beltre apologist and I still think the Top Deck is the best deal in town. I AM a Dodgers fan.

But I am also a fan of cheering.

And I find Fenway Park absolutely intoxicating. She’s seduced me. Whether it’s get away day against the Royals or Friday night versus the Yanks, Sox fans treat a trip to Fenway like a holiday. Like they had been waiting all year for this and it’s finally come. Yawkey Way is a block party complete with brats and brews and a jolly brass band. Boston has a love affair with its baseball team and that kind of relationship is infectious. I’ve been allured. My dad and I knew watching a game at the Fens was different than at Chavez the very first time we went, six years ago on a weekday night for a meaningless game against the Jays. It was only the second inning. There was no score. Toronto had a runner in scoring position with two outs and the count was full to the #8 hitter. And that’s when it happened…

The fans… Stood. Up.

We couldn’t help it. We stood up too. “This ain’t Dodger Stadium,” my dad shook his head and laughed. And it went on like that. Every inning. Every big moment. The Sox fans were on their feet. Fans are witnesses to a spiritual happening. There are even rituals. Relievers fist bump Boston cops before jogging out to the mound, the whole crowd stands up and serenades each other in Sweet Caroline like it’s a bar song, fans pay homage to Johnny Pesky by scribbling their names on the right field foul pole. People in Boston wear Sox gear like college kids wear their colors on campus. Everywhere you go, there’s a Sox sweathsirt, or an Ellsbury name and number tee. The Sox cap has become the unofficial uniform of locals. And when at the game, the whole crowd is draped in red and blue. No one is late. And no one leaves early. Yep, I’d say from game one, I was smitten.

But what makes Fenway a true gem is the potential for quotable moments from its candid and colorful fans. I cannot count the number of salacious and uproarious statements I’ve overheard while planted in a Fenway seat. Take for example, the night I popped my Fenway cherry.
My father and I were sitting in box seats, about a dozen rows from Pesky’s Pole. Home plate was at 9o’clock and my body was stiffening from the virtual yoga pose it was taking to watch the action. When two middle aged women, beers in hand, sat down in the seats behind us. Jason Varitek stepped to the plate. The rest is history.

Woman One: “C’mon Tek! Get a hit!”
Woman Two: “Tek is soooo hawt.”
Woman One: “I heard he rides a motahbike.”
Woman Two: “No sir! That makes him even hawtah.”
Woman One: “Wait. I thawt you didn’t like motahbikes.”
Woman Two: “Ah you kiddin’. I’d take Tek on the bike, in front of the bike behind, the bike, ovah the bike, undah the bike… THROOOO the bike!”

That was it. I ate the forbidden fruit. In a moment of passion, I pressed to the souvenir stand and purchased a Varitek name and number tee. I adopted Tek as my own and I wore the shirt thin.

I mention it all to say this… Yesterday, the powers that be declined to pick up Tek’s $5 million option. Jason has five days to decide whether he’ll play second fiddle to Victor Martinez or shop his tools of ignorance elsewhere on the open market. For me, this is an end of an era. Six years of adoring a catcher and a team, simply because of two drunk ladies and one t-shirt with holes in it.

Re: The Holy Lineup. Couldn’t have drafted a better team outta heaven myself (although there’s some debate amongst scholars about which side of the aisle Samson is on). I’d just make two additions.

Elisha: The young phenom September call up. He signed a whopping deal right outta high school and he’s the 5-tool star who will replace Elijah in center when the time is right.

John the Baptist: The wild eyed loner who comes outta the pen to close games. Fans rise to their feet and sing along to “Wild Thing” while he sprints through the outfield to the mound. He grabs the ball and grits his teeth, waving his arms wildly, Jose Lima-style after every save.

Sosa is the new MJ (Not What You Think)

What in the world has happened to Sammy Sosa?  This is him back in the day at the start of his career:

This is Sammy this last weekend on the carpet for the Latin Grammys:

Sweet baby Jesus, what happened?

A Holy Lineup

Okay, first thing I think when I begin to read your analysis.  This is sounding a lot like “The Shack”; you have a Jewish guy representing Jesus and an Asian fellow in lieu of the Holy Spirit.  These details could have you excommunicated in many a church around the globe.  But then again it might get you elected archbishop or senator in the Commonwealth, so I really can’t bag you on that.

Sandy a dominate fastball/curveball pitcher, Ichiro a tireless hitter whose scientific approach is only matched at the plate by the likes of Tony Gwynn and the Ted Williams.  Although interesting to note Albert Pujlos currently has a better career batting average, albeit only by .0009.  Interestingly they both came up in 2001 and both pretty much became full time players right away.  Yes Ichiro has 313 more hits, but Albert has 282 more jimmy jacks.  Naturally Albert has more than twice the career RBI (515 vs. 1112) but he also has almost one hundred more career runs (973 vs. 1071).  Another interesting fact, Albert has fewer strikeouts career wise also, now this could be due to the AL vs. NL and how AL pitchers don’t have to bat, but I am dubious to that argument.  I could also drag Bill James and other sabermetrics into this argument and show how Albert contributes more to wins and causes more wins with his bat then Ichiro, but I digress.

Suffice to say, I have no argument to your choice of Sandy.  Perfect really.  But I feel Albert portrays the relentless record of excellence that the Holy Spirit exemplifies.  Therefore as I see your initial premise is flawed I throw out your whole argument (That is how theologians argue in the real world, so why can’t I argue like that on this blog)!  Sandy would go after Ichiro, but would probably pitch around Albert.

As far as Holy Lineups go:

Prophet Elijah hit leadoff batter plays center field.  This is a Ty Cobb type choice, guy is tough, and can obvious run fast: “The power of the LORD came upon Elijah and, tucking his cloak into his belt, he ran ahead of Ahab all the way to Jezreel.” 1 Kings 18:46

King David bats and plays second; he is a small guy, but hardnosed and plays hard, real hard guy to strikeout and good and advancing that runner when needed.

Jesus Christ at designated hitter, you know he is good with the lumber, probably our best hitter but you can’t have him pitch because I think his whole “Turn the other cheek” mentality will keep him from pitching inside and throwing at opposing batters when needed, and he might be a better inspiration from the bench when the guys are on the field, maybe a player coach.

Samson at first base batting cleanup; guy can really show off his strength and hit the ball a mile when opposing teams makes a mistake, but he is prone to some major strikeouts every now and again.  And being at first base means he doesn’t have to field or move around too much.

Apostle Paul at third base batting fifth; tenacious hitter, crowds the plate, gets hit a lot, has to play third because of lack of range due to longstanding abdominal injury, a good gap hitter who walks a lot too.

As you had mentioned, Moses bats catches and bats sixth.  He is not a great hitter but been around for quite a while, and is used to wearing masks and stuff over his face.  Does occasionally make a miracle play though, plays really well on away games.

Prophet Habakkuk batting seventh and in left field; this is the guy who you really don’t remember how he got on your team or who you had to trade for him.  He is nobody’s favorite player, you walk into the team store and there is no merchandise with his name on it, except in the display case there are four signed baseballs from him that nobody wants.  You know nothing about him, but he is still part of the team.

Joshua plays shortstop and hits eighth; he is a general on the field.  Works real well with Moses behind the play to catch those stealing, and he reads the signs and plays the hitters appropriately.

Batting ninth in right field Daniel; quiet guy but really smart.  Eats only vegetables so he never really put on body mass to be a real hitter, not a total superstar but a real role player who you would miss if he wasn’t on the team.  Has been traded to a few different teams in his day, but always plays the hardest for the team he is on.

Pitching you go with Saint Peter.  Pure power pitcher, brings the heat all the time, has an ok change and is working on a slider.  Just mows guys down, but can be knocked out of a game pretty easily and develop the “Saint Peter Face” where it is a look of disbelief and he just looses all control.

That’s who I would field.

Divine Pitching ALWAYS Bests Divine Hitting

Excellent Query. To breakdown this matchup, let’s assign each Avatar to a real life ballplayer. To represent Jesus, you need a hurler who dominated the league for a short period of his career, but is still in the conversation as “greatest ever.” You need someone whose career came to an abrupt and tragic end due to bodily harm, trauma or injury. And you also need a pitcher who flirted with flawlessness, whose repertoire of pitches and whose abilities to execute could only be characterized by the word “perfect.” I think the choice is obvious…

Sandy Koufax.

Even though Koufax pitched for the Dodgers for 12 seasons, it was his last four (1963-1966) when Sandy obliterated the National League. During that stretch, Sandy hurled four no-hitters (including one perfect game), won three CY Young Awards, only once had an E.R.A. above 2 (2.04 in 1965), struck out at least 300 thrice, completed 89 games and shut out the opponent in 31 of them . His dominance was as undeniable as it was mystifying. And yet, even though it lasted only a stretch of four seasons, he is always in the conversation when people discuss the “greatest ever.” Sandy’s career “on earth” ended tragically and abruptly after the 1966 season when the strain on his left elbow just got to be too much. The human arm is not meant to be contorted and twisted into the unearthly motion that is the hurler’s pitching motion, and Sandy’s arm paid the price for greatness. As for perfection, in the modern era, only Nolan Ryan has thrown more no-hitters. Koufax capped off his 4th by retiring 27 straight Cubbies, striking out 14 of them, including the last five batters of the game. My father was there, at Dodger Stadium, that night. His father was a Cubs fan. To the day he died, my grandfather always garbled and grumped at the memory of that night in 1965. “The Dodgers only got one hit that night!” he’d gurgle, “and it had nothing to do with the run.”

To represent the Holy Ghost, you need a batter who is foreign, almost other worldly. You need someone mysterious and crafty. You also need a batsman with an unconventional approach and a flair for the peculiar or unseen. I’ve gotta give the nod to a player from our era…

Ichiro Suzuki.

Suzuki was bread in a different brand of baseball, the Japanese game, where pitchers hesitate midway through their wind-ups and batters prefer “hit ‘em where they ain’t” over “hit ‘em out of the park.” Teammates speak of Ichiro as if he’s the stuff of fables, like Roy Hobbs or Mark McGwire. They swear that this leadoff batter, who rarely hits more than 10 jacks a year, can hit them at will during batting practice. Pitchers have a vast arsenal of pitches. Ichiro may be the only hitter on earth with a vast arsenal of swings. Depending on the situation, or the count, or even the pitch, Ichiro will alter his mechanics mid swing to meet the ball and safely send it between frustrated fielders for a safe hit. Since arriving in America, he’s led the American League in hits 6 times out of 9 seasons. He’s never hit below .300 and he’s never hit less than 200 hits in a season. Oh yea, and he’s 5’9’’, 160 pounds. He’s not Paul Bunyan or Babe Ruth, he’s more unassuming. He may not make the highlight reel with a 3-run jimmy-jack to put the M’s ahead for good. But at the end of the day, he’ll go 3 for 4 with a walk, 3 runs scored and 2 stolen bases.

So. How do they matchup? Does Suzuki slay Koufax with a triple into the right field corner? Or does Sandy “K” Ichiro with three straight fastballs?

Here’s how I figure…

While Ichiro has played Stateside, he has been sent back to the dugout on strikes 11% of his plate appearances. Pretty staggering if you consider he’s reached base in 38% of trips to the plate. Frankly, he’s tough to “K.”

Sandy, during his four year stretch of absolute domination, struck out an astronomical 32% of the batters he faced. That’s just a little more than a strike out per inning.

Given these statistics, I’m gonna alter my swing to your fastball and say this… Jesus doesn’t zip a fastball by the Holy Spirit, but the Helper gets a piece of it and fouls out to Moses, whose catching behind the plate.

Which brings me to our next question. If you’re fielding a team full of Bible characters. Who’s playing? And where?

The First Question

Could Jesus throw a cut fastball so wicked that the Holy Spirit could not hit it?  Discuss...

Sermons On The Mound

For Ben Chamberlin in Boston and Raymond McCormick in Los Angeles, they maintain a sentiment of baseball as religion. They have renamed Dodger Stadium "Church." And each new season they pilgrimage to that liminal (And some say Holy) space where they re-connect with the divine, mere humble congregants at Baseball's service. They are people of faith, putting their trust both in the Word of God, and Vin Scully. They both believe in the Miracle of the Resurrection and Game 1 of the '88 World Series. They have both been unfaithful adulterers, baseball bigamists, Raymond with the Angels of Anaheim and Ben with the Red Sox of Boston. And both have the caps to prove it. They've journeyed through several years of religious education, amongst fundamentalists in the High Desert and liberals at Harvard. Their faiths have undergone as much change as their favorite team's roster. So they write about it. They write about Baseball. And they write about God.