Between a broken computer and a train ride from Bakersfield to Stockton, which is another story altogether, I've only halfway paid attention to all the benign information I said I'd refuse to care about until April 5th. But some things have gone down these past few weeks that we can't ignore.
First thing, Willie Davis passed away about a month before his 70th birthday. Davis, who played outfield with the Dodgers from 1960-1973, dazzled fans and spit as much physical poetry upon the brickdust and grass as any player in history. While not a Hall of Famer, He certainly remains one of the most renowned Dodgers in the history of the franchise, especially in Los Angeles where he grew up. Signed out of Roosevelt High, East Los. His career encompassed two Dodger championships and he won three gold-glove awards. I wasn't alive when he played but last week I was sitting in a backyard smoking dope and drinking beers with an older gentleman. He was 72 and a lifelong fan. The sentiment expressed and the tear in his eye wasn't a result of Davis' death but rather his life, his career. I wish I could have seen him play. R.I.P.
Vin Scully hit his head but is apparently ok. I thought I was going to have to cut my wrists prematurely this year. It's like when my grandfather gets a cold and we have to ask every five seconds with a heart full of gravel, "Is he ok? Oh, fuck what if...?"
So Vin is fine. The Dodgers are fine. Springtime is warm and poised for bluntsmoke.
Dewitt has seemingly hit is way into the starting line-up once again. James McDonald has pitched his way out of the line-up once again. God damn you , James. You're from Long Beach. This is your town and your team. I'm still on your side, man. Get it together.
Other than that nothing is surprising. Gagne's career is over, Giles retired, Kershaw is a fucking badass. No surprises there.
Like everyone else, I'm sick of Arizona. Let's get the fuck out and get into this gauntlet.