The Artless Dodger.

     I am no longer shocked when I hear of yet another great baseball player caught with a needle in his ass. But for reasons that I'll try to briefly explain, today's news about Manny Ramirez whacked me more than any of the others.

     Manny Ramirez is a right-handed hitter of historical proportions. Like all hardcore fans, I've followed him since his Cleveland Indian days. His patience at the plate, ice-watered veins and natural exuberance combined to make him a unique, charismatic superstar.

     Fast-forward to his Red Sox years. I am--was, anyway--a Yankee fan, and here's this guy I loved on the Tribe kicking the pinstripes crooked on my Bronx Bombers. He was absolutely lethal, he was Manny Being Manny and he was cementing his place as one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game. I hated the Red Sox, but I couldn't hate Manny.

     Then came stories out of Boston that weren't Manny Being Manny-level entertaining anymore. The one about him knocking down an older Red Sox employee was particularly unsavory, and I wrote him off as just another pampered asshole.

     Last summer, I walked into the Poop Deck one afternoon, and my friend Dave--an L.A. guy by way of Boston--screamed at me. "We got Manny! We got Manny!" We had talked about the Dodgers a lot last summer because Joe Torre was here, the Yankees having largely told him "thanks, but no thanks" after the previous season. I was becoming more of a Dodger fan (root, root, root for the home team--in baseball, anyway), and now here comes Manny. We fist-bumped.

     I was cynical about which Manny the Dodgers had landed; the historically-dominate right-handed hitter or the guy who tackled an old man in Beantown.

     Then came the last half of last season.

     I was at Dodger Stadium the night Kirk Gibson hit the home run in Game One of the '88 World Series. It was the single greatest moment I've ever experienced at a sporting event, and I wasn't even a real Dodger fan at the time. The only other time I've seen Dodger Stadium close to that state of frenzy was last season, the night after they clinched the NL West. Everywhere I looked, there were "Ramirez 99" jerseys, kids in the dreadlocked promo hats the Dodgers began selling and the joint was rockin'. After that game, both Manny and Joe Torre took to the field and addressed the crowd. Dodger fans weren't leaving early that night.

     The Yankees now play in a fake Yankee Stadium, and I've been in L.A. too long now to move on with them. I already have a Disneyland here, so I'm not interested in the one I read about in New York papers or see on TV. I simply don't care anymore; I'm a Dodger fan now.

     I ended up giving Manny the benefit of the doubt regarding the stories I'd read about his final days in Boston. There were other stories, too; ones that hinted that maybe the Red Sox had hyped some of Manny's least-attractive qualities a bit more than they warranted. Ultimately, how the hell did I know the truth, and I loved watching the guy play. Torre was here, they were building a great young team and the young guys all worshipped Manny.

     We've read much about Manny's discipline, his routine, his preparation, his dedication to hitting. We never read about his name tied to cheating. His short time here has been infectious, and Mannywood was the hottest neighborhood in town. 

     Plus, Manny was becoming L.A.'s favorite athlete, which meant less talk about my least-favorite L.A. athlete--the unctuous Kobe Bryant.

     And then Manny got caught with a needle in his ass. 

     Just another pampered asshole, fucking up this beautiful game.

     There is no joy in Mannywood--mighty Manny has struck out.