My day that will live in infamy

I'm a big Dodger fan. That's no secret. Folks out in her in the Valley of the Frying Sun (global warming? Never heard such a thing - it was just a 104 out here today, mid-May!) pulled out the stops to convert me into a Zoney Snakes fan - I was propositioned, bribed, reverse psychologicalized and finally called every name in the book and few more from the sequel in a last ditch effort to harrass me into conforming with all the other brain-torched humans out here.

None of it worked.

And May 15, 1998, is why.

First, let me take you back in time and explain my Dodger history.

I remember being seven years old and pissed that one-nut schmuck Dave Goltz couldn't hold the Houston Astros in a one-game playoff that decided the National League West. They lost 7-1 at home.

Then, in 1981 I remember watching as the Dodgers and underrated Kenny Landreaux squeezed Bob Watson's fly ball to center to bring the title home for the Dodgers. I thought '80 was the aberration and this is how it always go for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew. These championship things were easier to snare than crabs from a $5 hooker.

1982 - Giants star Joe Morgan crushed my dream of a repeat in the last game of the season with a dinger off that beer-league-player-shaped tub of puss Tom Niedenfuer (more on this hunk of butt cheese later)(Really, I could write an entire post dedicated to how this man ruined my baseball innocence and he should be given a constant jalapeno juice colonic). The knocked the Dodgers out of the playoff hunt that season.

1983 - Steve Carlton bent the Blue Crew over in two games and Charles Hudson beat the Dodger's Bob Welch. Charles Hudson? The dude didn't make it 10 years in the league. Welch must have been drunk. Likely was out partying with Steve Howe.

Then there was 1985.

1985.

Those numbers burn in my mind. They haunt my dreams and chap my ass. I wont' buy anything from that year, and will not refer to his as "1985," instead it's been wiped from the record books. Football fans you'd to ask how I could be a San Diego Charger fan. I say, "well I lived through a 1-15 season and came out alive. Anything after that is cake." In baseball, my 1-15 season was 1985.

Maybe we were cocky. Maybe we thought since the Dodgers held the St. Louis Cardinals in check - for the most part - that season and could follow that blueprint into the World Series. But let me digress first. The parental units rubbed the couple of quarters they had and took us whelps (my lil' sis and I) to the last game of the baseball season - Fan Appreciation Day. Sitting in the right field bleachers, we were within ear shot of Cincinatti Reds out fielder Dave Parker. We made sure to remind him every inning that his club was in second place, and would finish in second place that season behind the Dodgers. We weren't sure if he knew the standings, so we were being helpful. We rode him like a petting zoo donkey and he took with waves and smiles. Then came the ninth. With the game tied, the Dodgers brought in Niedenfuer...

Foreshadowing, as defined in Microsoft's Encarta College Dictionary: To indicate or suggest, USUALLY SOMETHING UNPLEASANT, that will happen. Remember that when I bring up Jack Clark.

The human lamb chop got two quick outs, then soft-tossed a fastball to Dave Parker who clocked the pitch off the right field bleacher railing, not more than 10 feet away from us. Parker sauntered out to his position in the bottom of the ninth with a grin so wide I could drive a Chevy Impala through it.

Now fast-forward 10 days and I climb into the family truckster after school wereupon my dear ol' Ma proceeded to break the news of what happened in the Dodger game. It was like a family member had just been runover by a beer truck:

"They were winning - *sniff* - then Lasorda brought in Niedenfuer in to pitch the ninth..."

I start to sob now, knowing what's about to come after hearing our household's version of Lord Voldemort - he who must not be named.

"He struck out the first hitter, let the next two on, and then got the next guy. Then - *sniff, honk* - up came Jack Clark. Lasorda made the decision to pitch to him with first base open..."

"They pitched to him with first base open?" I asked, stunning the tears on my cheeks so much that they stopped flowing for a second - just a second.

"Yeah ... and he hit it out! Whaaaaaaaaa."

We all cried from the school until we got home. By that point my Ma and sis were over it, as for myself, that would not be the case. I threw my hat at the TV when I saw the replay, declared myself a free agent fan and damned Niedenfuer to the deepest, darkest hollows of hell. I still mute the TV or computer if he happens by the broadcast booth.

Lucky for me, I was busy chasing booze and broads in Las Vegas during 1995 and 1996 when the Dodgers made back-to-back playoff appearance, and were promptly swept back to back.

And this rambling prologue brings me to my point. None of those incidences hurt me more than what happened nine years ago today.

May 15, 1998.

I have a hard time remembering my anniversary. I forget some birthdays. Folks say you won't forget where we were when the Challenger Space Shuttle exploded. Well, I don't remember, but I do remember where I was on May 15, 1998, when I heard the news.

The news that Dodger Catcher, perennial all star, fan tried and fan approved, likely hall of famer Mike Piazza, was traded to the Florida Marlins. I was in my car, exiting the freeway and making my way up the road to work in San Clemente. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, and it couldn't have been uglier. Surely the radio schmuck was wrong I said, so I tuned into sports radio to confirm this was in fact a late April Fool's joke.

But it wasn't.

How could they trade their best player, their leader and their future hall of famer? Better yet, why? And of course, the answer was painfully obvious - they did it for the dough.

And maybe that's what hurt the worst. It wasn't a baseball decsion. It had nothing to do with the game. Afraid they'd lose Piazza to free agency after the season and get nothing in return, Fox honchos traded the strongest man in Southern California for Gary Sheffield and a bunch of used parts (I'm looking at you Jim Eisenriech).

All I ask is that they lose the game on the field. I can get over a tough loss. That's just a part of baseball. Trading a bonafide face of an organization is handcuffing me and repeatedly kicking me in the nuts. It affects the game without the players deciding the outcome.

So, you ask, how does this make me a stronger Dodger fan? Well, for all of the gaffs, bobbles, blown leads and 1-0 gut wenchers, I'll still have 1988. But that's a post for another day. Now, it's time for me to sit back and watch the Dodgers somehow blow this 9-7 lead to the St. Louis Cardinals. Yes, I'm a bit pessimistic, but I still bleed Dodger blue.