Archives for posts with tag: Carl Crawford

I resent that the owners of my neighborhood team have made me feel like a sucker for supporting them.

blue dollar signCharging little kids and other fans $150 for an autograph of a mediocre player on a team that hasn’t won a championship in almost three decades, $tan Ka$ten and the others should be ashamed of themselves.

I’m undeniably appalled at the unbridled venality of the Dodgers’ management strategies. They are nothing new — skyrocketing price increases, a skimpy LA hoodie with a price tag of $104, no TV coverage for most of L.A., a coaching staff almost entirely made up of rookies and a pitching staff with only one good arm. They actually had me considering giving up my lifelong love of Dodgers baseball this year. I will not let them take that away from me too.

I realize that my last post was all sunshine-and-roses, looking forward to a brighter future, blah, blah, blah, but then I went to Select-a-Seat and heard all about how Fan Fest was “free” for all, but that was just to walk in the door. If you actually wanted to partake in ANY activity there, you had to be prepared to shell out hundreds more dollars for the privilege of being a fan of the team that was once the working man’s Brooklyn Bums. It’s shameful.

vin and michaelA New Address
On the bright side, Elysian Park Avenue from Sunset to Stadium Way will soon be called Vin Scully Avenue. He deserves it. We all love you, Vinnie, and that’s something those bastards in charge can never change.

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Dave Roberts looks very happy to be back in Dodger blue.

Out with the old and in with the older. The brain trust of Friedman & Zaidi have eliminated our manager, brought back a long-ago Dodger to take his place, and let slip away one of only two reasons to go to the stadium last year: the ace with no filter, Mr. Zack Greinke. (I have to admit I had really warmed to his odd, uncensored honesty.)

I always liked Dave Roberts, the new manager, when he played center field for us. I’m very willing to give him a chance to prove himself as the leader of a ragtag group of mediocre arms (save Clayton Kershaw, of course), a patchwork infield, and an outfield plagued with a case of the Puig.

When April rolls around, I’ll be in my Top Deck aerie taking score and whistling like a mad woman whether the team goes all the way or fizzles like a wet firecracker, the latter scenario seeming more likely this year. (Once again, it looks like DirecTV won’t be hosting the games, so most of L.A. will be blissfully unaware anyway.)

As a Geico ad might say, “If you’re Pamela Wilson, you cheer for the Dodgers. It’s what you do.”

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.