Manny Ramirez predicts this will be his last year with the Dodgers.
“I know I’m not going to be here next year,” Ramirez said. So you don’t think you will re-sign with Dodgers? “I doubt it, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m happy to be here. I’m going to try to enjoy myself.”
Asked what made him think he wouldn’t be in Los Angeles in 2011, Ramirez replied, “I don’t know. I just know that I’m not going to be here.”
Meanwhile, Bulldoggin’ Bill Shaikin uncovers a ghastly forecast within the McCourt/Dodgers finances. In short, “The Dodgers could seek to keep their player payroll below last year’s level through 2018 while the average ticket price and club revenue could nearly double, according to confidential financial documents included in a court filing last week.”
Though I’m not a HUGE Will Leitch/Deadspin fan (jealousy?), he knocks it out of the park today with his “1977 Dodgers” analogies, and some very nice insight (truth) on this wonderfully putrid city: It’s a fantasy land, a ballpark complex in the middle of a downtown that isn’t a downtown, a distraction but one tucked away, a film set off a freeway exit. It gives them that unique artificial quality we demand from Los Angeles: The Dodgers are fake, but comfortably fake, an illusion that’s constant, and therefore not an illusion anymore at all. Squint, and all those young guys, your Kemp, your Ethier, your Kershaw, they feel like your Garveys and your Ceys and your Lopes. The Dodgers should always be perfect and stupidly beautiful. They should feel like the ideal of their age. They are not showy like the Lakers, not flashy, not dangerous, not quirky. They are Bob Hope. They are not Jack Nicholson.
Lastly, Vicente Padilla is back after a few more grisly details about his self-inflicted shooting wound this offseason.