Summer is officially here—the beaches are packed with tourists and college kids on break, the weather is heating up like a secret Argentinean tryst, and the Boys of Summer are back in full swing.
I’m talkin’ baseball. Not Willie, Mickey, and the Duke exactly, but Manny Ramirez and the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Ramirez will return to the lineup on July 3, just in time to find out if he’ll be starting in this year’s All-Star Game. The unfortunately nicknamed “Man-Ram” will be fresh off a 50-game suspension he received after testing positive for a women’s fertility drug, according to ESPN reports. Maybe he was trying to beat the system or maybe he was just trying to be the next “Octomom,” but the Dodgers didn’t seem to miss their $25-million investment. They’re running away with the National League West division and staking claim to the best record in baseball.
During Manny’s exile, minor league baseball fans came out in droves to catch a glimpse of the 12-time All-Star and former World Series MVP. As one young fan watching him in Albuquerque told the Associated Press, “He’s a cheater, but I still want to see him play.”
Kids say the darnedest things, don’t they? A lot of the time, they’re right. That statement seems to typify what most baseball fans feel about steroids. They want a confirmed substance abuser banned from the sport, unless, of course, he’s on their team. Or they just don’t care.
The issue has plagued baseball for years. Apparently, the only people to whom it matters anymore are sportswriters, Congressmen in need of a safe pet project, and Major League Baseball executives who don’t want the integrity of the sport “tarnished.”
People forget that the so-called “season that saved baseball” back in 1998 was highlighted by an historic home run race between two Goliaths who have since been linked to steroids under the scrutiny of federal investigators: Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa.
In fairness, McGwire has never admitted to or been convicted of steroid use. Sosa did fail a test for performance-enhancing drugs back in 2003, as reported by the New York Times in June.
I believe steroid users are like cockroaches: For every one caught, there are 30 more hidden in the walls. From my perspective in the cheap seats, the whole thing boils down to a simple equation: Fans love to watch the long ball. Players on steroids hit the long ball. Therefore, fans love to watch players on steroids. I’m not defending the use of the juice by any stretch, I’m just saying.
Whatever luster Ramirez has lost with the public remains to be seen, but with his bat in the fold once again, the Dodgers have a legitimate shot at a World Series ring in 2009. It would be the first for the franchise since 1988, when Kirk Gibson made his famous Limp Heard ’Round The World.
Promoting a return to those glory days, the Dodgers’ slogan is “Think Blue,” which I don’t quite understand from a marketing perspective. When I try, it makes me think first of Smurfs, and then depression—as if June wasn’t gloomy enough this year, what with worsening economic news and a series of iconic celebrity deaths.
After David Carradine and Ed McMahon shuffled off the mortal coil, two giants of the ’70s and ’80s passed away on June 25—Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. I’m too young to remember when Fawcett was in her prime, but I grew up with MJ. When I heard the news, it triggered memories of the Captain EO ride at Disneyland, The Wiz, his line of L.A. Gear tennis shoes, and those Pepsi commercials. Oh, and then there was the music. The first vinyl record I ever bought with my own allowance money was Bad, and I still give Off the Wall and Thriller a spin every so often. I’d also venture to guess there’s not one bipedal creature alive that’s never tried to moonwalk at least once.
Given the eccentricities—Bubbles the chimp, amusement park rides, the hyperbaric chamber, plastic surgery, skin bleaching, the Elephant Man’s bones, and showing up to court in pajamas—it was hard to admit to being a Michael Jackson fan. Say what you will, and many have, but the guy was an unparalleled musical talent who created some of the catchiest pop tunes ever.
He was undoubtedly the biggest star of my generation in any artistic genre, and in this disposable era of downloaded music and fragmented audiences, there probably won’t be another one of his caliber and popularity ever again. The only entertainer one could even compare him with is Elvis, and even that doesn’t seem to explain the scope of the “King of Pop” phenomenon.
It was surreal to experience the denouement of his passing in the place where his downfall arguably began. From the open door of a bar just blocks from the courthouse where Jackson was once acquitted of four counts of child molestation, I heard a jukebox blasting a nonstop selection of his songs throughout the evening.
Though I wasn’t here at the time to witness the worldwide media circus, a lot of residents still talk about it, and even more would like to forget the chaos it wrought on this usually quiet city.
But when I tell people I live in Santa Maria, the most common question I hear is, “Where is that?” The next is, “Isn’t that where the Michael Jackson trial was?”
For good or ill, Jackson and the city will forever be inexorably intertwined. For instance, I received more Google News alerts for “Santa Maria, California” in the first few hours after Jackson’s death than I’d had in the previous four months I’ve lived here combined.
Instead of pretending it didn’t happen, why not celebrate the most famous event in the city’s history? How about capturing the moment MJ danced on top of an SUV during his first appearance at the courthouse with a bronze sculpture and a plaque reading, “He Beat It Here. June 13, 2005.”
If you build it, they will come.
But what do I know? I’m just a bum, and that’s my view from the bleachers.
The Bleacher Bum roams the Earth like Caine in “Kung Fu.” He can be contacted at jthomas@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 2-9, 2009.