Hilo del Juego (5 de mayo) contra Padres, 4p

¡Hola, compañeros! Bueno, funcionó ayer, puede funcionar hoy. Si Karina escribe, los Doyers ganan. ¡Vamos a probar esto otra vez! -Stubbs

¡Sí, Señor!

Felicitaciones para Walker Buehler, Tony Cingrani, Yimi Garcia y Adam Liberatore en su juego sin hits ni carreras. Brindaremos en su nombre todo el fin de semana, ¡gracias! y ¡salud!

Los Padres esperaban que sus influencias religiosas los ayudaran a vencer a los Doyers, pero no tomaron en cuenta que los Doyers son ateos este fin de semana. Pensaron enfrentar a un amateur y encontraron a un niño bomba, seguido de un bullpen con toda la clase y poder de Danny Trejo. Chris Taylor y Kike Hernandez trajeron dinamita en sus bates y los Doyers salieron victoriosos 4-0, en una noche inolvidable para la amplia historia de buen pitcheo de nuestro equipo.

Esperemos que los Padres sigan viendo sombras en el juego de hoy. ¡Fondo blanco!

*Imagen: Baby Says "No!", Alisa Coburn

Hilo de la Serie (Games 32-34): 4-6 de mayo contra Padres

Bienvenido al fin de semana! En esta serie, seremos los Hijos (y Nuera) de Steve Garvey, porque estamos en América Latina, invitamos a nuestra latina favorita, Karina, para que fuera nuestra escritora invitada. ¡Adiós, y buena suerte a todos! - Stubbs

Viernes, 6p: Walker Buehler vs Joey Lucchesi, LAD 4 - SD 0 Combined no-hitter!
Sabado, 4p: Kenta Maeda vs Bryan Mitchell, SD 7 - LAD 4
Domingo, 1p: Rich Hill vs Eric Lauer, SD 3 - LAD 0

En las inmortales palabras de los geniales Molotov, ¡VIVA MÉXICO, C*BRON*S!. Empezamos el fin de semana del 5 de mayo en Monterrey, México, con el inicio de la serie Doyers-Padres (pronounced PadRRes). En México no se celebra el 5 de mayo, pero nosotros lo usaremos como excusa para tomar margaritas y micheladas, si los Doyers ganan, celebramos...si pierden, ¡se nos olvida! Fondo blanco, damas y caballeros, ¡SALUD!

Casi veintidós años han pasado desde la primera vez que un juego de Grandes Ligas se celebró fuera de las fronteras de EE.UU. y Canadá, el 16 de agosto de 1996, precisamente en Monterrey, el escenario de hoy. Fernando (<3) lanzó el primer pitcheo y también se desempeñó como el lanzador de los Padres, quienes derrotaron a los Metropolitanos 15-10 (¡disculpa, Delino! Quizá los Metropolitanos pensaron que era una práctica de bateo).

En aquella oportunidad, el único jugador mexicano en ambos rosters era Fernando (<3<3), en esta serie, tenemos al Padre bebé, el nativo de Guadalajara, Christian Villanueva. Sin embargo, los Doyers tienen dentro de las filas del circuito radial en español a Fernando (<3<3<3), así que de antemano les hemos ganado la partida a los Padres porque si Fernando (<3<3<3<3) está con nosotros, ¿quién puede contra nosotros?

El encargado de abrir por los Dodgers será nuestro bebé Doyer, Walker Buehler (1-0, 1.80 ERA), quien se estrenó en Grandes Ligas demostrando lo que se espera de su talento, mientras que el responsable de la lomita por los Padres será Joey Lucchesi (3-1, 2.78 ERA).

Me despido, agradecida con mis cuñados de SoSG por invitarme a escribir la introducción para el juego de hoy. Les dejo con buena música proveniente de Monterrey: Plastilina Mosh con “Mr. P Mosh”

*Imagen: Plastilina Mosh

Guest Writer: Dave Roberts is a Man of the People

Thanks to guest writer Sunha Kim for this report from Camelback Ranch:

You might not get an autograph, but you will get really close to the stars!

Part of the thrill of going to spring training at Camelback Ranch is getting up close and personal with the players and coaches, and hopefully getting a few pictures or autographs. If you are solely going to Camelback Ranch to snap a pic or get a signature with the big stars, however, there is a chance that you will come away disappointed. It’s not that stars are mean-spirited, but it is important to keep in mind that these players are getting ready to deliver us, the fans, our first championship in nearly 30 years. Most of the time, the players are in their zone and ready to perform at the highest level possible. That's really cool to see!

If you come to Camelback Ranch on a weekend, there will be large crowds as our team is lucky enough to have a strong and loyal fan base. Dodger fans come to Camelback Ranch not only from Los Angeles, but from all over the world. During my time at Camelback, I met a ton of fans living in Arizona. One fan I met came from New York City, and some other fans I met came from as far as Japan.

At this point, you might be getting the sense of why it might be so hard to snag a personal moment with your favorite star. If you are adamant about meeting one specific player, the best thing to do is to come during a weekday, as Camelback will be less crowded. That is what Pat and Melissa Hughes did, and they got autographs from most of the stars!

Pat and Melissa Hughes.

While it may prove hard to get personal with most the Dodger stars, there is one exception. I was at Dodger camp this past Friday, and I was lucky enough to snag an autograph and share a story with new Dodgers skipper Dave Roberts and Dodger legend Shawn Green. As almost every player walked straight from the field to the clubhouse after morning workouts on Friday, Dave and Shawn were kind enough to engage the large crowd that was waiting in the designated autograph area after morning practice.

The skipper with the fans.

Both Skip and Shawn spent a good 15 minutes with the fans who were eager to share stories, take pictures, and get their stuff signed. If anything, it is good to know that Dave Roberts is a man of the people. But given the strong start to the spring, who knows? Maybe Dave is the chosen one to shepherd us to the promised land for the first time since 1988.

Sunha Kim is a lifelong Dodger fan and boxing journalist. His favorite player growing up was pinch-hitting master Dave Hansen. Sunha's writing has appeared in Yahoo!, the business news site Quartz, and now Sons of Steve Garvey! Sunha currently hosts a boxing podcast called Kim On Boxing, and he is developing a baseball-centric podcast with another Dodger fan called Bro Club Sports. Stay tuned and follow him @SunhaPKim!

photos by Sunha Kim

Guest Writer: Bebop, Baseball and Barbecue

Mrs. Orel is back with another travelogue!

Kansas City, Missouri, is startlingly green in September. It may also be verdant in other months, but I happened to be a September visitor and grateful for a weekend away from our SoCal beige.

I had an entire Sunday to roam around a charming city dedicated to preserving architecture and culture while, one hopes, advancing beyond a bitter history of racial exclusion.

I drove through quiet streets in a downtown both fully modern and historically authentic, with brick buildings and signage that had my head spinning with images from the 1930s and 40s.

The city's main library branch sports a stunning facade of giant book spines.

The refurbished Folly Theater, built in 1900, is close to the modern Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts.

I found my way to 18th & Vine, the birthplace of Charlie "Bird" Parker and the signature Kansas City sound of jazz. In the early 19th century, this African-American neighborhood bebopped and bustled in 24-hour clubs virtually ignored by the laws of prohibition.

A black-owned hotel both employed and served members of a community otherwise banned from dining at linen-covered tables in downtown Kansas City.

As the civil rights movement took hold in the 50s and 60s, much of the population left 18th & Vine, the music scene diminished and the fine side of a robust locale became derelict.

A determined restoration of the area began in the 1990s and continues now, anchored by the American Jazz Museum and the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum.

I wandered through both of these museums, engulfed in poignant stories of struggle and bigotry side by side with artistic and athletic triumphs.

In the 1920s, tens of thousands showed up to watch the Kansas City Monarchs play on Sundays after church. In 1930, the Monarchs were the first team to rig a portable lighting system, enabling night games. This was five years before any major-league team adopted a nighttime lighting system.

Some of the baseball stars of the era:

• Buck O'Neil
  
• Rube Foster
  
• Satchel Paige
  
• Jackie Robinson
  
• Josh Gibson
  
• Oscar Charleston
  
• Cool Papa Bell
  
• Martin Dihigo
  

The baseball museum, a font of historical information, includes short films, replicas of player housing on the road, a typical barbershop, and the stunning Field of Legends, where bronze sculptures of the stars appear to be caught in mid-game.

Statue of Satchel Paige.

After a few hours of swimming in Kansas City jazz and baseball, I scored a table at Jack Stack Barbecue's famous Freight House joint for a cold brew, burnt ends, pork ribs and cheesy corn.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Then it's time for you to take a trip to Kansas City, MO.

Guest Post: Sprung Free in Spring

It's been a while, but here's Mrs. Orel with a travelogue:

For Dodger fans, spring signifies trips to Camelback Ranch, Opening Day at Dodger Stadium and renewed hope for a winning season.

For east coast baseball fans, spring signifies wearing shorts, greenery, and a renewed hope for warmth.

After back-to-back brutal winters, New Yorkers and Bostonians are reveling in lighter clothing, sun-kissed cheeks, and the parks, the parks, the parks, where balls are tossed, hit, and caught in freshly unearthed gloves.

Orel and I were in Manhattan, where we observed New Yorkers bouncing around city streets like released prisoners. Central Park, on a Sunday in May, was filled with children chasing pigeons, parents chasing children, and adults chasing softballs.

We plopped ourselves onto the wooden stands at the Hecksher Ballfields as two teams readied to face off. Folks have been playing these six fields since 1927. Central Park is home to 27 baseball and softball fields. Every year, hundreds of games are played by teams of all stripes and ages.

The Broadway Show League, for example, is serious softball biz-ness. Teams made up of casts, crews and orchestras of current Broadway and off-Broadway shows must wear matching uniforms ablaze with show titles. Games are played on Thursday afternoons. If you can't get a ticket to Kinky Boots, Jersey Boys, or Wicked, find your way to Central Park and watch the Boots kick the pants off those Boys in some Wicked rundowns.

We had the privilege of witnessing teams from a, I want to say, over-50 or over-60 league, but on closer inspection included some younger fellows. Two teams dressed in a mashup of AL and NL shirts and caps. "Warming up" would be a loose description of their preparations. For a full 20 minutes before the first pitch, players squabbled over the position of the third-base bag.

"Here! Right here! I'm tellin' ya...it's 60 feet between bases!"
"Let's go!" from an outfielder.
"What the hell, not there? Are you nuts?!"
"Let's go!" from the same outfielder.
"No, I'm sayin' here!"
"Let's go!" Guess who.

Once the game began we laughed every time the ump called a strike. Pure showmanship, pure grandstanding, pure New York as he threw his arm skyward and swayed his hips, his voice hitting notes we hadn't heretofore heard.

The bickering continued. Was he out, was he safe, could he run (iffy), should he run (iffy), a foul, a strike, a ball...where we eatin' afterwards?

These were New Yorkers let loose after a harsh winter, at the end of what may have been a rough workweek or a slow retirement week, who knows. But their comical joy was as delicious as a pizza slice or pastrami on rye. I'd love to know where they corralled their creaking bones for a beer and somethin'.

Guest Article: Triple Play Hipster

He's a Cornhusker fan. He MCd my own personal roast (even though he wasn't invited). He's performed stand up comedy next to a dart board WHILE IT WAS BEING USED. He's suffered in the mire of Wrigley before discovering the light of the Dodgers. And he's been drug free since halfway through this guest article. Ladies and gentlemen: SuperFan and Iron Sheik Sympathizer, SOSG TODD.

Having been reared on sports induced heartbreak, I’ve always been more of a condolence giver than a smack talker. Even on that one weekend a season when our own #ineedmydelino reverts back to being a Mets fan, I tried to be gracious and supporting of his horrible life decision by sending him the following text from the reserve level last Sunday afternoon.

“Picked a bad Mets game to miss.”

Two days later he replied back. (Editor's Note: If it's the choice between texting Todd and staring at the wall, well there's no choice at all.)

“Seriously. Triple Play. “

“Big deal. Already saw one of those this season.”

And with that text, I cemented my unfortunate status as a triple play hipster.

In just under two months I’ve personally witnessed 22% of the triple plays turned against the Dodgers since they became the Los Angeles Dodgers. As first year as full-fledged season ticket holders, there have been some historic moments to witness at the stadium. Was I there for Ryu’s deep run at perfection? Nope. I was at a Memorial Day BBQ hiding in the bathroom staring at my phone until the Reds strung together some hits in the 8th inning.

Was I there for Kershaw’s gem? Nope. Watched that one from the couch because I was “too exhausted” from going to the ravine the previous three nights. Vin on the TV from start to finish (thank you Time Warner) made missing that one much more bearable.

Thanks to Puig’s base running gaffes (or well-intentioned aggressiveness, depending on your world view), I’m now immune to anything bad that can ever happen to Dodgers offensively.
Thank you Puig for being the rattlesnake to my Billy Jack.

While I can’t guarantee you can develop immunity as quickly as I did, I made a handy guide to help you cope should you ever get to witness a triple play in-person.

Stages of reacting to a triple play:

1. Momentary Confusion (If a replay review IS involved.)

The first notch in Puig’s triple play belt was thanks to Terry Francona coming out of the dugout to argue he was out at second after tagging up from first. Because of the excitement of a bang-bang play at the plate, it took a moment for those of us in the stands to do the math and realize that a triple play was at stake. Once we did, it was a nervous few minutes while we awaited word from New York. Donnie Baseball coming out to argue that Gordon was safe at home really botched what could have been a somewhat quick execution at the hand of the ump.

-or-

1. Shock (If a replay review is NOT involved.)

Sunday’s triple play wasn’t so much painful as it was disappointing. As in your grandpa told you he was disappointed in you- the absolute worst form of disappointment on the planet. Sure, getting a potentially game changing rally snuffed out by a double play is a bummer, but seeing Puig fly around third only to be dead to rights at home with half a mile to go left the entire crowd speechless.

After confirming what happened really happened with those around you, move to step 2.

2. RAGE!!!

If you have the strength to rip your seat from the concrete by all means do. And don’t be shy about chucking it on the field.

Tag Team Movie Review: 42

OREL: Mrs. Orel and I caught 42 this weekend. Reportedly budgeted at $40 million, the movie is already a success, earning $27.3 million so far, the highest-grossing opening weekend for a baseball movie. Audiences polled by CinemaScore gave it an A+; critically, it's at 75% "fresh" at Rotten Tomatoes and has a 63 Metacritic score.

So it feels sacrilegious to criticize a project so pure of heart — and on Jackie Robinson Day! — but the ghost of Roger Ebert just threatened to kick my ass if we didn't provide a balanced review. Really, we wanted to embrace this movie and were ready to flood the Regency Village with our tears. And while we left the theater with even more love and respect for Jackie, we left dry-eyed.

MRS. OREL: There are many favorable aspects to this film, starting with the performances of Chadwick Boseman as Jackie and Nicole Beharie as Rachel. Heartfelt, disciplined work from both. I also appreciated Christopher Meloni as Leo Durocher, Andre Holland as the journalist Wendell Smith and Toby Huss as the coach Clyde Sukeforth. Lucas Black as Pee Wee Reese is a pleasure and Alan Tudyk succeeds in conveying the awfulness of the reprehensible Phillies manager Ben Chapman.

O: Agreed, the supporting cast is uniformly excellent, including Hamish Linklater as Ralph Branca and John C. McGinley as Red Barber.On the other hand, SoSG hero Harrison Ford essays the role of Branch Rickey by chewing so much scenery you worry the Ebbets Field bleachers might cut his gums. Director Brian Helgeland has teased out Ford's eyebrows with extensions, given him a stogie to chomp on and allows his jaw to jut and lips to curl with abandon. It's fun to watch but it's caricature, eyewitness approval notwithstanding.

MO: Indeed, so much pixie dust is used that it requires major league squinting to find glimpses of reality. Mark Isham's score is cloying and derivative. Caroline Harris' costumes are crisp, as if freshly unpackaged. The vintage cars are assembly-line shiny and every hairdo is sleek and perfectly Brylcreemed.

O: However, Don Burgess' photography is magical in creating an on-field intimacy in the baseball scenes. The visual effects work and Richard Hoover's production design are excellent in re-creating Ebbets Field, Shibe Park in Philadelphia, Crosley Field in Cincinnati and Forbes Field in Pittsburgh. The baseball sound effects are crisp and lively. Count Basie's version of "Did You See Jackie Robinson Hit That Ball?" even makes an appearance, albeit over the end credits.

Jackie and Rachel remain essentially the same people at the film's end as they are at its beginning.

MO: But at the center of 42 is the difficult promise Rickey drafts out of Jackie Robinson. The surety that no matter what horrible invectives are thrown his way he must never, ever lose it. Never rise to defend, fight or seek revenge. This was Jackie's monumental courage. He did not break the promise. Who of us could do the same?

O: Ultimately, the movie's respect for its source material is its strength and weakness. The burden of both institutional and casual racism are effectively presented, with Tudyk's portrayal of Chapman especially biting. Indeed, the film makes liberal use of the N-word, and every utterance feels like a beanball to Jackie's soul. But the filmmakers are so careful of Jackie's legacy they've included only one scene (reportedly fictional at that) dealing head-on with Jackie's stress and anger at his gargantuan task.

MO: Similarly, the loving marriage of Jackie and Rachel, so crucial to this story, is soaked in sugar. Are we to believe they never buckled or chafed at the consequences of that impossible contract? We are left with a tiny scene of Rachel, teary and leaning on Jackie's shoulder, after he's been deliberately hit on the head by a pitch.

O: Without those touches of humanity, Jackie and Rachel remain essentially the same people at the film's end as they are at its beginning; they just land on a bigger stage. We learn more about the legend than the man. Because he was a pioneer doesn't mean he wasn't human. It's The Passion of the Baseball Christ.

MO: In my version of Hollywood, Magic Johnson produces sequels to this movie. He convinces Spike Lee, or Bennett Miller, or Steve McQueen, to direct, and we get to see Jackie in the 1955 World Series, Jackie navigating family life as his son is sent to Vietnam, and Jackie at the very end. But 42 is what we have now and I have to like it for what it tells the world about Jackie and Rachel Robinson.

O: As a historical document and educational tool, 42 is a resounding victory. As a testament to the Robinson family, it feels lacking.

MO: They deserve more.

♦

Some random details I wanted to get off my chest:

• In a scene at one of the minor league stadiums, I thought I saw plastic seats in the background. Wouldn't this have been an anachronism?
  
• Speaking of nitpicking, "Baseball Writer's Association" in the epilogue? Two closed quotes around "42"? Where are the proofreaders at Warner Bros.? Back me up here, grammar geeks.
  
• The film ends in 1947, meaning there's no Vin Scully in it. Which is kind of a bummer.
  
• In researching Jackie, I was saddened to learn that Jackie's son, Jackie Jr., died in a car accident one year before Jackie himself died. It reminded me that Tommy Lasorda had a son, Tommy Jr., who died in 1991. And Vin's son, Michael, died in 1994. It turns out some major figures in Dodger history are connected by like tragedy.

UPDATE: One example of how 42 has made an impact, by former pitcher C.J. Nitkowski.

A Lesson from Loretta

And now a word from Mrs. Orel....

If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

Hamlet Act V, Scene II

What happened Thursday was not luck.

Mark Loretta, 38, waited on the bench, prepared and hungry like a professional understudy. Called upon to pinch-hit and face a pitcher against whom he was 0-for-15 lifetime, Loretta had to have come to grips with the facts.

At his age, retirement is around the corner. In a fifteen-year career, he'd only played in one post-season series, which his team lost. Because Joe Torre wasn't starting him, he was rested. No one expected anything from Loretta when he was called upon Thursday. The Cardinals were not afraid of Loretta; so certain they could get him out, they pitched around Russell Martin to get to him.

Mark Loretta, with nothing to lose and no pressure from upstairs, walked to home plate, quietly electric. In a swirling confluence of facts, Loretta boldly stared down Ryan Franklin and did his job.

"This is the best moment of my career," Loretta said after his game-winning hit.

"What did Vin Scully say about it? I'll have to ask him."

A lot of people are talking about you, Mark Loretta. Remember that as you return to the bench. A lot of us could learn a lesson from you, sir. You have redefined "stepping up to the plate."

You have taught us: Be hungry, be ready, be quiet and play ball.

top photo by Jon SooHoo/Dodgers; bottom photo by Jill Weisleder/Dodgers

Manny Boy

From Mrs. Orel, a wee ditty to commemorate Manny Ramirez's return:

Oh Manny boy, the fans, the fans are calling
From glen to glen and down the Ravine side
The summer's high and all the palms are blowing
'Tis you, 'tis you must come and must not hide.

And come ye back 'fore fall is deep in Chavez
Or when the grounds are hushed empty below
'Tis we'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Manny boy, oh Manny boy we love you so.

And if you come when all the cheers are dying
And we are dead, as dead we may well be
You'll come and find the parking lot is empty
You'll bow at the plate and say "Ave" for we.

But we shall hear, for hard you'll swing for all we
And so our dreams still warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail and show us that you love we
We'll simply cheer "Hurray" and leave you be.

first photo by Jon SooHoo/Dodgers; second photo by Juan Ocampo/Dodgers

Tick Tock

Mrs. Orel clocks in on the Manny signing:

"We love Manny Ramirez. And we want Manny back, but we feel we are negotiating against ourselves. When his agent finds those 'serious offers' from other clubs, we'll be happy to restart the negotiations."

—Frank McCourt

♦

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?

Sonnet #16

♦

"I want every American to know this: We will rebuild, we will recover, and the United States of America will emerge stronger than before."

—Barack Obama

♦

O time, thou must untangle this, not I,
It is too hard a knot for me to t' untie.

Viola, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene II

♦

Boras said he looked forward to fielding "serious offers" from other clubs once the Dodgers' exclusive negotiating window with Ramirez closed.

—Dylan Hernandez, LA Times

♦

So now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will....

Sonnet #134

♦

Colletti said Tuesday that the Dodgers remain interested in Ramirez and haven't set any deadlines for signing him, "but that doesn't mean we're not going to have a deadline," he said. "These situations can change in an instant, and anybody can change them in an instant."

—Jayson Stark, ESPN.com

♦

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly.

Macbeth, Macbeth, Act I, Scene VII

♦

Four months after rejecting a similar offer because he thought he was worth more, Ramirez agreed to a deal today that should make him not only richer but wiser.

—Bill Plaschke, LA Times

♦

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd...

Sonnet #59

♦

"I'm baaaaack!"

—Manny Ramirez

♦

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less....

Sonnet #96

♦

"Throughout his free agency, Manny directed me to pursue a deal with the Dodgers, and in the final moments it was clear both sides wanted to complete the process."

—Scott Boras

♦

You shall be king.

Banquo, Macbeth, Act I, Scene III

♦

"When is Opening Day?"

—Mrs. Orel

♦

As call it winter, which being full of care,
Make summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

Sonnet #56

Things I Don't Understand: Blockbuster's Return Policy

Here's Mrs. Orel with the latest entry in the SoSG Guest Writer Series:

Mulling over Manny, tugging on warm socks, stirring up hot chocolate, spreading out flannel bedsheets and coaxing the furnace to eke out fluffs of warm air into the (why? Don't ask me) hallway is how Orel and I are spending winter in Southern California.

It gets cold here. Not Wisconsin or North Dakota cold, but darn chilly and we feel it. One December morning I popped my face over the covers and could see my breath. Frosty wisps floating over the comforter.

And so we join our snowbound brethren in waiting for Opening Day by catching up on movies. We pop a bowlful of the white stuff, curl up in front of a blazing fire (purely a psychological effect) and wait to experience the laughs and tears Hollywood promises.

Sadly, our mom-and-pop movie rental store closed down recently, forcing us to shuffle around a blinkety-blink Blockbuster.

Okay, it's not that cold in L.A. Not freeze-your-brain-out-of-comprehension-mode cold.

A couple of weeks ago I picked out the latest unfunny comedy on a Thursday and asked the clerk when it needed to be returned.

"Saturday."

"Do you mean this Saturday at midnight?"

"Well, Saturday."

"What if it's late?"

"Well, you have until a week from Saturday and, if you don't have it back by then, you'll be charged the full cost of the movie."

"So not this Saturday. You mean I can have it a whole week?"

"This Saturday would be better."

Okay, it's not that cold in L.A. Not freeze-your-brain-out-of-comprehension-mode cold. What does this conversation mean? What is the deal with Blockbuster?

And there we have it: Blockbuster would like us to be nice.

We have a storm in the forecast. A downpour will lock Orel and me into the house because driving in rain in L.A. is out of the question. It's again a Thursday and I venture forth to Blockbuster for two movies. I check out with another clerk.

"When do these have to be returned?"

"Saturday."

"Do you mean this Saturday at midnight?"

"Well, Saturday."

"But, not this Saturday, right?"

"Yes, this Saturday."

"But another time the guy said Saturday but he really meant I could have it for a week. He made it sound like I could only have it for two days but he meant a week."

The clerk looks quickly around the store as if to locate the criminal-clerk.

"Who said that?" he demands to know.

"Jeez, I don't know, but it's kind of confusing, wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all."

"Then when do I have to have these movies back?"

"These are new releases and they should be back here by this Saturday."

"Ah, but really a week from Saturday, right? I mean, you're not going to charge me for the cost of these movies if I brought them back on say, Sunday or Tuesday, right?"

"Well yes, that's correct, but they are new releases and other people would like to see them."

"So, you think it would be nice for me to bring them back earlier?"

"Yes."

And there we have it: Blockbuster would like us to be nice.

At home, I get a crackling blaze going in the fireplace and cuddle up under a woolie with Orel and the remote. It's freezing again.

"What are we seeing?" he asks.

"Frozen River."

Earlier SoSG content by Mrs. Orel: Yankee Stadium Remembrances: Someone Needs a Hug, At-Game 25 Recap: Melted Out

Blockbuster photo by Steve Brandon

Erin Being Erin: A Beantown West Update

"Okay, now flick the paper football! I don't care if it's the bottom of the sixth."

The Dodgers and Red Sox just made a huge trade. If there were only a fan of both teams who could break it down for us! For those missing Beantown West—and judging from our mail, there are quite a few of you—we proudly present the latest in the SoSG Guest Writer Series: Erin of Beantown West! Take it away, Erin!

Beantown West is no longer, which is a shame. But fear not, I am working on setting up my next site. For now, though, the boys here were kind enough to let me write a guest post. I haven't written anything about baseball in a while, so if I'm a little longwinded, I hope you'll forgive me.

For those who don't already know, I am a fan of two teams, the Red Sox and Dodgers. Because they play in separate leagues, it's rare that this dual fandom ever finds conflict (the exception thus far being, I guess, the preseason exhibition games, if you think those counted for anything).

But today my worlds collided. You know the details. But you want to read my opinion, right? So, here you go. One fan, two perspectives.

Let's start with the Red Sox. They sent a future Hall of Famer to the Dodgers, and two prospects to the Pirates, and they got back a pretty good right-handed hitter in Jason Bay. Is he enough to protect David Ortiz in the lineup? Maybe, but I do think there are still some teams that would rather walk Ortiz and deal with Bay, and you didn't see that happening when Ramirez was in the lineup. Still, Bay is a proven hitter, and maybe he'll take a liking to bouncing balls off the Green Monster.

If Manny wasn't even going to try for the last two months, then any warm body would have been better than #24 stepping into the box.

Manny has a history of requesting trades, claiming to be unhappy, and then changing his mind and professing his love of Boston. This has all been labeled as "Manny being Manny," and I've defended the behavior more than once, even if I was a little less than sure why I would be defending that kind of prima donna behavior. Manny's performance in the field never bothered me, because I think stories of him being lazy tended to be a little overblown. He seemed like he really had fun playing the game, and I was never going to fault a guy for that.

But I guess he finally officially decided he was done (for whatever reason), because the things he has been saying over the last few days have been pretty harsh. It was hard to see how the Sox could ever repair the damage, so I can't blame them for doing whatever they could to find a solution. The Sox gave up a decent outfielder in Brandon Moss, and a reliever who has just never proved himself in Craig Hansen. Plus, they're paying the rest of Manny's contract (but also get Jason Bay for $7.5 million next season). Some would say that's a lot to give up for Jason Bay. Part of me agrees, but the other part of me knows the Sox needed to move on past the Manny era.

Considering the rumors flying all day yesterday involved a three-way trade with the Pirates and Marlins, which subsequently fell through, the Sox look as though they were pretty desperate to rid themselves of Ramirez's presence in their clubhouse. Maybe Bay can't live up to Manny's offensive performance, but he's certainly an improvement on defense. And if Manny wasn't even going to try for the last two months (and if you've watched him play in the last week, you know that was a possibility), then any warm body would have been better than #24 stepping into the box.

And now we move onto the Dodgers. I can only see upside for Los Angeles, even though they had to give up Andy LaRoche to get this done. When they made the move for Blake last week, the Dodgers ensured that LaRoche was not going to be given a chance to start at third base regularly, so why not try to get some value for him? I don't know anything about the pitcher, Bryan Morris, that we sent to Pittsburgh. Hopefully that means he wasn't some shining prospect, so it wasn't too difficult to give him up for Ramirez.

Show a little faith in Ethier and Kemp, Torre. Play them every day. I guarantee you won't regret it.

The Sox are paying the remaining $7 million on Ramirez's contract, and Ramirez waived the options in his contract, meaning he will be a free agent after this season. So, we're talking about a rental that cost the Dodgers two prospects, one of whom the Dodgers weren't interested in playing, and the other who hadn't yet made a name for himself (at least in my view) in the minors. That rental instantly makes us a contender in the N.L. West, especially considering the Diamondbacks failed to land Mark Teixeira. And it all comes right before the start of a four-game series with those Diamondbacks.

Manny won't be "lazy" in Los Angeles. He's playing for a new contract, since he will now be a free agent in just a few months. He will be playing like a man on a mission, and he will, in theory, be happier in Los Angeles than he was in Boston. And even if he says crazy things and acts like Manny, it'll only be for a few months. I can deal with that, as long as he's hitting a few balls over the wall. It'll be interesting to see how Torre handles him, though, that's for sure.

Of course, this doesn't solve the problem of what the Dodgers will do next year at third base, and it creates an ever bigger logjam in the outfield. But I guess we'll worry about third base next year, and we'll hope that Colletti and Torre realize that an outfield of Ramirez, Kemp and Ethier gives this team the best shot of winning. Show a little faith in Ethier and Kemp, Torre. Play them every day. I guarantee you won't regret it.

You want me to break it down? Here are my grades for both teams (we won't worry about the Pirates):

Dodgers: A-

Red Sox: B- or C+ (I'm torn)

Great stuff, Erin! Looking forward to what you come up with next!

AP Photo

A Brief Encounter with a Baseball God

Welcome to Part 3 of the SoSG Guest Writer Series (Part 1 - Part 2). Today's guest writer is Karen Cooksey, who tells us about meeting a Dodger near and dear to our hearts.

It was in 1982, that by way of some grand system glitch in the universe, I was afforded the rare opportunity to be a part of the everyday life of a god in the baseball world. I was plucked out of my own adventure—making my way to meet my boyfriend in Hawaii—to step into another. Now, if I had been an avid Dodgers fan, or sports fan for that matter, it would make sense that the agent at the LAX United counter might have caught a cosmic message and recognized how deserving I was as I stood there before him.

"Now here's a baseball fan if I've ever seen one."

But that wasn't the case. If I'd been asked to say when the World Series started, I would have had to admit I hadn't a clue. The cosmos hiccupped.

There I was, looking into the airline agent's eyes, hoping he'd know just by looking at me that I'd never flown alone before, that he'd kindly hand me my economy-class ticket and point the way. But instead he smiled broadly and fiddled with some papers.

"Would you like to be seated in first class?"

I couldn't have told you when the World Series started, but I wasn't stupid.

As I boarded the jet I turned left, leaving the throng behind. I showed my ticket to the flight attendant. She guided me to the front row, far-right window seat. Though entirely unnecessary, given the wide berth between rows, the man in the aisle seat stood up as I settled in. I looked up to thank him and noticed how very good-looking he was. Exceptionally good-looking. We introduced ourselves. He was Steve.

As we waited for take-off there was a great deal of service going on...pillows, drinks, magazines. I soon became aware that the fussing centered mostly on my seatmate and that he was drawing lots of glances and smiles. When the pilot stepped out of the cockpit to turn directly to Steve, shake his hand and say what a pleasure it was to meet him, I strained to hear Steve's last name. It was obvious at that point he was someone I should have recognized. Someone I should have politely acknowledged. I thought about faking it until I could sneak off to ask the flight attendant, but that wasn't me, so...

"Steve, you're someone I should recognize but don't. I'm so—”

"Steve Garvey. I play for the Dodgers. What do you do?"

Steve Garvey was as generous in clipping off my apology as he was with the excellent service he drew to our corner of the cabin. Whenever the flight attendant sweetly and regularly asked if he wanted anything (and blatantly didn't care if I was dehydrated, starving or freezing), Steve would turn to me to ask if I wanted something before answering her.

This was Steve Garvey, traveling alone, soon to be divorced as I later found out, reading a book on perfectionism. There was a bit of sadness behind the smile as he talked a little about his two daughters. I later wondered if the difficulty of separation and plans for divorce were already then a part of him. He read during much of the four-hour flight. When I asked him about the book he was reading he said that there was always room for improving one's skills and that the book was about striving for perfection.

As we deplaned in Honolulu, Steve asked me to join him on his electric cart to pick up our baggage. I looked for Leyan, who was to meet me at the gate but wasn't there, so I hopped in the cart with Steve. As we sped down the walkway we whisked by my prankster boyfriend, who had been hiding behind a column. He was waiting for me to walk by so he could jump out and surprise me. Instead, he looked to see what everyone was staring at and by so doing, saw me sitting next to the object of everyone's attention—Steve Garvey. Leyan stepped out from behind the column and turned his head to follow my gaze as I waved to him.

Leyan remembers me going all the way to baggage with Steve while I remember stopping the cart, thanking Steve and walking back a bit to Leyan, where he placed a fresh flower lei around my neck. Whichever it was, Leyan, with a smile, still says he has never forgiven me.

The universe had gifted me a personal, up-close encounter with a man esteemed, and yes, revered, by baseball fans around the world. To those who would have done the unspeakable to spend this time with Steve Garvey, I can only say: Life in all its wonders is not always fair but is full of surprising twists and detours. Fortunately, life also is sprinkled with amazingly talented people like Steve Garvey who strove for perfection and came as close as anyone to it in his field, and was friendly and gracious to strangers traveling alone for the first time.

Thanks, Karen!

A Girl of Summer—Almost

After reading Mrs. Orel's At-Game Recap, our friend Linda Bergman kindly contributes this story of an encounter with Vin Scully.

(It's a busy time for Vin: He's getting ready to appear onstage with John Wooden and he's receiving honors left and right. And head on over to Dodger Thoughts to see a priceless photo of Vin from his Fordham University yearbook: Vincent Scully '49.)

Brava Orel's wife!!!! Her story of the oppressive heat Dodger fans willingly endure reminded me of another story that took place many years ago.

As kids and Dodger fans in the 60's, my older brother Dick and I would listen to the games on his little Zenith portable radio for hours on end to take us out of the oppressive heat of the San Fernando Valley and the torture of Mom's sticky, yellow vinyl sofa. Dick, unbeknownst to his friends (who would destroy him for hanging out with his kid sister), taught me how to score games listening to Vin Scully. He patiently showed me how to draw the baseball diamond and record the balls and strikes and errors. I was a compulsive learner and caught on fast. Mostly, I loved being close to him without getting punched or teased and I attributed his benevolence to the calm that Vinny's voice always seemed to restore to our chaotic household. In my mind, Vinny bonded us as secret friends. I can never, to this day, hear his voice and not think of brother Dick and me head-to-head in our house on Hart Street.

Fast forward to some thirty years later. It was the 90's and I had arranged with the Dodgers organization to sit with Vinny to research a script I was writing. "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye," based on Ron Powers' book of the same name, was about a legendary baseball announcer nearing the end of his career.

My heart raced with excitement as I took the elevator up high above the crowds to the broadcast booth and I just about melted when I sat down in front of the console and saw the vista of the park spread out before me. Vinny's Vista. The way he saw it. The view that inspired him to draw the voice pictures that transported us—the radio fans—to the park and beyond.

For me, Vinny WAS the character in the film, L.C. Fanning. Like Fanning, Vinny was a master storyteller able to give us nuanced verbal histories on every player. With a brilliant turn of phrase, he could take us to the players' hometowns, to where their mothers and grannies made homemade apple pie, to where they first threw that slider and how, with hard work and spit, they became true boys of summer. When Vinny called a game, you could smell that pie.

He was such a gentleman and made me so comfortable. I told him the story I just told you. "My brother would never believe this," I whispered. Vinny grinned and leaned back in his chair.

"Well, let's get him on the phone."

My hands shook as I dialed, praying Dick was sitting in the stands with the radio to his ear or at home listening to it. Eureka! I could barely contain myself when I heard his familiar " 'Lo" and blurted out, "You'll never guess where I am sitting!"

He guessed the usual haunts. A movie theatre? A bar? Getting your toes done? No. NO. NO.

"Where, then?"

When I told him I was at Dodger Stadium in Vinny's booth, there was a long silence. Finally, with his usual command of the English language, he snorted.

"Horseshit."

Oh boy, I had him now, I thought and handed the phone to Vinny sitting so close I could smell the remnant of dry cleaning fluid in his sports jacket.

"Hi there, Richard!" Scully chirped in that unmistakable baritone.

And so, history for this Valley Girl was made.

Sealed in the sanctity of the announcer's booth and the magic of Nancy Bea Hefley, the organ lady, not fifteen feet away, I was Queen of the May and Queen for a Day at the same time.

To top it off, Don Drysdale was also doing color that night. Resplendent in his Hawaiian shirt and bloodshot baby blues, he too got in on the act, talking game to Dick and flattering me for writing a movie about baseball.

And so I became more than a little sister.

Finally, in my older brother's eyes, I was someone to be reckoned with. An authentic girl of summer, almost, on a night that ended far too soon.

Thanks, Linda!

At-Game 25 Recap: Melted Out

A missive from Mrs. Orel:

Once a year, for his birthday in April, I buy my husband Dodger tickets for us to attend a game together.

I like baseball. I don't breathe baseball, but I like the in-person experience of our All-American pastime. I like the crowd, the seventh-inning stretch, the peanuts, the Dodger Dogs. I like peppering my husband with questions he can't answer.

"Is Loney married?"

"Don't know."

"But you're supposed to be some kind of Dodger know-it-all."

"Why does it matter if he's married?"

"I like him and I want him to have a happy home life. You should find that out."

"Right."

I notice paramedics wheeling a gurney with a young woman utterly wilted in the steamy heat.

In 2004 we were away from Los Angeles for a few months. We were in Hong Kong and occasionally managed to see a Dodger game on television. I was never homesick until I saw the silhouettes of those palm trees surrounding the stadium. "Oh," I sighed to my husband, "look, it's a sunset game...perfect...let's go home."

I especially like night games, but this year our date was for a Sunday afternoon game. It is my ritual to go to the park in March and buy the tickets in person. I picked good seats. Loge, on the aisle, and in the shade.

It all started so well. We had cold water and Coke, we had peanuts and in keeping with ballpark tradition, we threw caution to the wind and indulged in those grilled Dodger Dogs. I make a confession to my husband:

"Later I'm going to have a soft-serve ice-cream or maybe a soft yogurt cone."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am. Fat and carbs be damned, we're in Dodger Stadium and it's your birthday!"

By the fifth inning the game was tied.

"Extra innings?" I ask. "What d'ya think?"

"Nope," he says.

"Yeah, there will be," I argue. "I'm sure of it."

I'm sure of it because I've planned that frozen treat with care. I know when I'm going to get it. Bottom of the seventh.

And it's the day for it. It's hot. The temperature is in the low nineties, San Bernadino is burning up in a wildfire that shouldn't be happening until October, my skin glows, it's sticky and a low-grade headache is coming on. I make my move.

"I'm going for that cone," I say and leap up the stairs.

I'm as parched as Lawrence when he came upon Aqaba.

There is exactly one frozen yogurt stand on the Loge level. I notice they don’t serve cones, only cups, which is a disappointment, but more alarming is the mile-long lineup of overheated baseball fans salivating for the dessert.

I'll come back, I think, and return to my seat. Bottom of the eighth and back I go. Fantastic, no lineup. I get my cash ready and a man inside the booth runs an index finger across his neck.

"Sold out!" he mouths to me.

What?

Okay, seriously, forget the fat and sugar. I'll get one of those frozen malts.

Sold out.

Frozen lemonade.

Sold out.

I dash from one food stand to the next, desperate for what I cannot have. Alongside me, I notice paramedics wheeling a gurney with a young woman utterly wilted in the steamy heat.

An ice cream! I want to scream. Give the girl a double scoop of Rocky Road, she'll be up in a flash.

Come on, these are the Los Angeles Dodgers, not the Anchorage Dodgers. For crying out loud, we're not ready. This is Southern California. It's hot. We're not ready. How can we be sold out of frozen treats when the stadium isn’t even nearly full? How can that be?

In the tenth inning we win the game. "Told you," I grouse because I'm as parched as Lawrence when he came upon Aqaba.

As the crowd thins, we watch Frank McCourt meet-and-greet below us in the VIP section. Mothers rush to him with their babies. He holds the infants like a politician and pictures are taken.

Heads up, Mr. McCourt...here's a tip...you know what those babies would like far more than a snapshot of the two of you? A sweet, icy, drippy cone filled with an All-American treat.

I know because I'm one of those babies.

Happy Birthday, Orel.

Thanks, honey!