Some non tabloid style dirt on my Spring Training experience.
Go out to Spring Training at some point. While it probably won't be the same when the worst seat in the house is further than 15 rows back, there's something really cathartic about watching baseball that doesn't mean a thing, and watching guys play that you'll never see in a Dodger uniform ever again. Not just guys like Blake Dewitt who will probably get traded eventually, but the Anthony Raglani's and Luis Maza's of the world who I'll probably never see again and have been nothing but numbers to me before this. Jamie Hoffman hit by far the furthest shot I saw that week, and there's no way I'll even be able to say that again.
I came into the week looking to get someone to sign something and quickly gave up that hope after about five seconds. I lack the killer instinct and lack of regard for my fellow man necessary to fight my way to the front. I ended up regretting that decision on Tuesday when Tommy Lasorda announced he was signing, me having no desire to elbow people in the face to get to him so I gave up the ghost. Tommy proceeded to set up shop for about half an hour, gave everyone in line a hard time ("You're from Hondruras? Where the hell is that!?") and take pictures with the attractive women that showed up. Since some facial recognition site says I'm a dead ringer for Sophie Marceau, I would have been totally in.
Television does not to Jonathan Broxton justice. Before, I wondered if you would take Chad Billingsley or Broxton to start your offensive line, but now I realize that Broxton has no equal. Not only is he way bigger than Billingsley, he also filled up way more space than 6'11'' Nationals pitcher Jon Rauch.
Don't go to the bathroom right before Clayton Kershaw is about to pitch. You end up showing up two outs in asking "who's that 96 guy out there?"
I know way too much about baseball. When I was able to identify the nameless minor leaguers that had no name on their jersey before they were announced, and could tell people a decent amount about them, I realized that my chances for finding a mate were somewhere around Juan Pierre's on base percentage. Making that analogy probably lowered it another couple points.
Holmann Stadium makes Dodger Stadium feel like the Coliseum circa 400. Both the charge chant and Car Wash got literally zero participation at the Red Sox game, and things were silent enough during the Nats game that a guy a few rows behind me could ask Chad Cordero how tall Jon Rauch was.
A notable exception is the reaction to Blake Dewitt who after a couple less than stellar defensive plays managed to get the old timers around me wanting his blood.
I watched Delwyn Young play second base and quickly learned why he was moved from the position. In three or four total chances, he let a ground ball totally play him and Chuck Knoblauched a double play opportunity. Small sample size, but from what I saw Young has some fundamental issues with defense.
I watched Nomar and Kent do some rehab and they seemed to be completely fine in my non professional opinion, running the bases and fielding grounders with seemingly no hesitation.
Despite calling them Dodger Dogs, Vero Beach has the worst hot dogs known to man. Unrolling my two dogs resulted in half my bun clinging to the wrapping. In fact, anything involving a bun was best left alone. To their credit, unlike the clerks at Dodger Stadium, they actually realize it's efficient to have a separate food fetcher and cashier.