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

Charging 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.

A 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.

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.”