More On Manny

Man, you non-Dodger fans must be pulling your hair out reading this blog this week but... well, I can't quite help it. Like I said, there's a buzz in the air... a kind of magic surrounding the team that hasn't been felt in a long, long while.

I just can't seem to find anything else that I want to write about - not yet anyways. I'm sure it'll come and come soon but for now, it's all about Number 99.

There has been a lot written about Manny over the past few days - some of it right here on this page - but this is one of my favorite pieces.

Some highlights...

Maaannnyyy, Maaannnyyy," came the chorus, ringing through the left-field bleachers. "Maaannnyyy! Maaannnyyy!"

Manny Ramirez, No. 99 in his baggy Dodgers uniform, stood at the plate.
A pitch came.

He swung.

Thwap!

The ball lofted from his bat and traced a smooth arc in the sky, heading directly for the patch of seats where I happened to be sitting with a group of the Dodgers' most rambunctious fans. When it landed just feet from us -- Ramirez's first Dodgers homer -- the bleachers shook with euphoria.

"Maaannnyyy! Maaannnyyy! Maaannnyyy!"

Helping lead the chorus was Gabriel Ruiz, a 25-year-old from South L.A. who is also a left-field, cheap-seats lifer, on hand for every game he can possibly make.

...

Sitting on splintered seats, Ruiz and his fellow Dodgers loyalist Renato Casas told me Saturday night they feel like they've died and gone to heaven.

"Surprised isn't the right word, really," said Casas, leaning in to speak to me just after the beginning of the game, which turned out to be a 4-2 Dodgers win. "More like, I just couldn't believe it. I thought I was dreaming."

"I mean, we're talking Manny Ramirez," Ruiz added, tugging his Dodgers cap. "Manny Ramirez? He's the best hitter in baseball. It's that simple. . . . Trust me, one man can make a difference."

...

I hated to be a killjoy but amid all of this positivity, all this belief, I spoke of my skepticism. It's hard for me to imagine this team getting much better just because it now has a left fielder who trudged to Hollywood with a shaky glove, a .299 batting average and 20 home runs this year, even if he is a lock for the Hall of Fame. Ramirez, 36, isn't exactly in his prime, I reminded.

No way, you gotta keep the faith, Ruiz told me. I noticed that he was also the only person in the stands wearing an Andruw Jones jersey.

"One man can make a difference," said Ruiz, who often sits in the stands with a blue Mohawk skullcap perched on his head. "You gotta believe."

...

Look, I said, this is the ultimate .500 team, a group of underachievers whose slogan should be "wait till next year."

They eyed me like I was either nuts, or simply a Giants fan about to get mauled.

This is the year, they vowed. This is the year.

We laughed together. We turned to the green field and the large crowd. Ramirez was up. He walked to the plate, swung, and the ball he struck popped off his bat as if shot from a bazooka, landing just a few rows from us.

When the chorus of cheers and the high-fives died down, Ruiz spoke up.

"You see?" he said. "One man can make a difference!"

Caught up in a great moment, I found myself agreeing. Sometimes it's good to be among the true fans, and to believe like they do.

At one point this year, a very wise man repeatedly said about his favorite basketball team - "You've gotta believe."

Well, that one didn't turn out so well in the end, I suppose...

But the believing never ends.

One man can make a difference. If you don't believe it, give Kirk Gibson a call.