(Photo by Stephen Dunn/Getty Images)
Everybody wins under blue skies.
Los Angeles baseball fans are notoriously apathetic. They’re also blissfully tolerant. As the regular season winds down, Joe Torre and the Dodgers are widely expected to make a run at the World Series—which might entail some serious pressure if Southern California were as stormy as New York City.
Passion is the burden of those who thrive on their own heat.
Passivity, on other hand, is the blessing of those who can live with the world’s warmth.
This isn’t exactly a tribute to Angelenos. There’s a fine line between cool and catatonic, and it’s hard to root for the home team when you don’t show up until the fourth inning. But I don’t hear Torre complaining. In a league where the manager is always at the mercy of the ticket-buyers, it must be a relief to trade the bitter yahoos at Yankee Stadium for the bronzed yawners at Chavez Ravine.
A true believer never doubts his priest.
A true fanatic never jeers his coach.
Before we condemn the SoCal faithful, we’d be wise to rethink our definition of piety.
Hardcore sports nuts play by a perverse code of ethics. Anguish, heartache, bilious outrage—they’re badges of honor, proof that the wearer has earned his place in the cheap seats. The irony, of course, is that pastimes are supposed to bring pleasure to those who pursue them. Some zealots will argue that laid-back Dodger lovers aren’t Dodger lovers at all. I’d counter that St. Paul himself said love doesn’t curse its friends in the dugout.
Sloth is bad.
Wrath is worse.
LA isn’t quite as serene as heaven, but at least the locals are relaxed enough not to put their idols through hell.
Contented indifference isn’t a cardinal sin. To seek the Way is the task of an enlightened mind; to go with the flow is the mark of a suntanned soul. Joe Torre’s California dream is the one where nothing really matters and no one really cares, because it’s too darned nice outside to worry about anything other than the weather. Every public performer longs for a night on Broadway. The one familiar with New York tabloids will generally settle for a day at the beach.
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Randy Newman never worked for George Steinbrenner, but he does know a thing or two about the Bronx Blues:
Hate New York City
It's cold and it's damp
And all the people dress like monkeys
Which isn't half as bad as when they boo like pale-faced sociopaths.
Because life's too short to lose sleep over a game, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency or only just saying, is all...
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