Most of the time, I ignore baseball. It's boring and, at least since the Steroid Era, tainted. Tainted to the degree you just can't tell anymore who's dirty and who's clean.
Even so, you want the heroes in any sport to be able to stand tall, to be god-like and to represent the game in all its finer virtues. And this is where Manny Ramirez comes up way short. When you look at him, it becomes abundantly clear right at the getgo, he ain't no Bad Henry. He ain't no Mister October. He ain't even a Charlie Fucking Hustle. You look at Manny, you try to smile and nod patronizingly as he mumbles and drools his way through what passes for an interview and you think, "This guy's a fucking fruitloop. It's like having Bozo the Clown as your star player."
And it's true. For $45 Million, we got a clueless, dumb-as-dirt, goober-picking country cocksucker who couldn't string a subject, a verb and a direct object together if you put a gun to his head.
Add to this the fact that we signed the motherfucker for stratospheric megabucks at a time when no other team in the known universe wanted him. Let me repeat that. No one else was bidding. The Dodger owner (pictured below heading toward a hotel suite to celebrate with his gay "nephew") was bidding against himself. If you ever had doubts about the business acumen of American capitalists, Frank McCourt is your guy.
Years ago, when the Red Sox were looking to sign Manny from Cleveland, some of the Boston scouts were of the opinion he was borderline retarded. They were probably right, and you have to wonder, if this doofus couldn't hit a baseball, could he hold down a job at, say, McDonalds?
For that matter, could the Dodger owner?
Okay. One more time. Here's what you got for $45 Million. Click on the video. Enjoy!
