Archives for posts with tag: Andrew Friedman

dodgers dollar signOne of these things, $tan Ka$ten and his cohorts in Dodger management care very much about.

The other can go to hell in a hand-basket for all they care. (Actually, the trip started last year when so few people showed up to the games that bobblehead nights were rarely more than ⅔ full and many concession stands were closed!)

But, hey! They got their $8.5 billion. Who gives a fig if the loyal fans who have loved their team through thick and thin for more than 50 years can’t enjoy the games at home on their TV sets, hear the melodious voice of Vin Scully and feel part of a community with a common and heartfelt passion.

It makes me physically ill to see this crippling greed and loathsome insensitivity take hold of my beloved Dodgers. And I’m not alone. I dread saying it, but one of my least favorite haters is on our side in this. Read Plaschke from yesterday’s L.A. Times.

“The most impactful collision of greed and arrogance in this town’s sports history,” Bill Plaschke writes, “has resulted in wreckage that is still smoking in the middle of the freeway, looking like another six-month SigAlert, twisted metal everywhere.”

And we are the hapless victims of this crash, bleeding on the side of Stadium Way, wishing an ambulance would come and whisk us off to salvation.

Who cares if half the National League West champion team from last year is gone? Andrew Friedman’s Moneyball tinkering won’t mean a thing if no one can watch the damn games.

Some say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but in this case it’s out of sight, out of mind. You’ll see it when the camera pans the stands and nobody’s there. Oh, wait, no you won’t.

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matt-kemp-padres

Doesn’t seem quite right, does it?

I know, I know, his health is problematic, his agent is an asshole, and he’s getting paid way too much. But he’s been with us since he was a baby. Time to let go, I guess. But if you ask my son, he’ll tell you that’s not an easy thing for me to do.

Guggenheim Partners were the ones that wrote too many zeros on his paycheck, just as they did with Time Warner Cable. That fiasco has not been resolved to my knowledge, either.

You know what? I wouldn’t really care if Andrew Friedman and his merry moneyball men trade every single person I care about (except Kershaw) for a bunch of no-name hunchbacks if I got a promise that I could watch the games on TV whenever and wherever I wanted to.

I don’t know. I’m starting to think we’re already doomed this year, if only because management is so screwed up that my letter for Select-a-Seat day, which you’re required to bring with you to the stadium, arrived two days after my appointment. Good going, Bill Hunter and David Siegel! They’re the ticket execs in charge of managing relations with STH’s, that’s Season Ticket Holders to those of you who are not STH’s.

By the way, if you’re not an STH, according to said letter, there’ very little chance you will become one. It basically says, “Come to Dodger Stadium to Select a Seat, but know ahead of time, there are no seats to be selected. And bring this letter to the event that happened last Thursday.” Somewhere, Joseph Heller is smiling.

OK, enough griping. This month marks the start of Spring Training! I can already smell the Dodger Dogs. See you all at Camelback!