The Battle For Dodgertown: McCourt V. McCourt

I have an awful sense of justice.  That is to say, it’s not that I don’t know right from wrong or have a sense of fairness, but I claim an impish streak, one of mischievousness. 

And the battle taking place in Dodgertown right now is just too good to resist.  The team owner Frank McCourt is going through a divorce with his wife and former CEO of the team, Jamie McCourt. 

Of course, he fired her.  Do you suppose she stole a bunch of pens before she could be escorted out?  Oh, what I wouldn’t have given to be a fly on the wall of that exchange.  Did it come at a very public lunch spot? 

“(to waiter) Yes, I’d like a little more wine, thank you.  (to Jamie) How’s your salmon?  Good? . . . I’m glad. . . I want a divorce.  Oh, and you have til 5 to clean out your desk. . . Are you going to eat your garlic crostini?”

Now as property gets split in any good marital pillaging, Jamie claims she still owns the team even though they signed a postnuptial agreement naming him sole owner.  I guess “sole owner” doesn’t prevent other sole owners???  Or maybe she took it to mean that he owned only the soles of all the players’ footwear.

So if someone doesn’t sell their right to the team (assuming she is given the partial ownership she claims), they both may be stuck with each other.  If I’m the judge, I’m voting for joint custody, 50/50, right down the heart of the strike zone.  That's my sense of justice.

That will make for some fun situations:

Frank McCourt:  You signed our utility infielder to a 3-year, $30 million deal?!

Jamie McCourt:  I asked him what he wanted and he told me. 

Frank McCourt: The guy’s batting .212 and he plays an inning a game!

Jamie McCourt: But do you see how he fills out those pants?  Me-ow!

Or maybe you’ll hear Vin Scully announcing the game one evening, “And the Dodgers take the field on this beautiful Southern California night; temperatures hovering around 70 degrees.  Tonight the Dodgers unveil their new uniforms.  In place of the player’s names, it says, “Jamie McCourt is a raving bitch” across the back.  Russell Martin throws Clayton Kershaw’s final warm up pitch down to second and we’re ready to go.” 

Or one night Manny isn’t on the field because Jamie needed him to help her move some furniture around one of her homes. 

Pretty soon they’re each giving Joe Torre different advice on who to pencil into the lineup card that night.

Let’s just aim those tv cameras at the owners’ box all game long, just to get a glint of the contempt they’ll be exhibiting for each other.

But it could actually lead back to love.  Y’know, like in the movies where the two leads hate each other, but then their passion turns to love by the end. 

Sandra Bullock, coming off a star turn in another sports movie, could play Jamie and perhaps we could reteam her with Hugh Grant and turn Frank into a British gentleman, like they did in “Two Weeks Notice.”  

“You are the most selfish, disrespectful man in baseball.”

“Don’t be silly . . . have you met everyone in baseball?”

I smell a People’s Choice Award.  (Or maybe an ESPY.) 

The reason this is relevant now is because the infamous trading deadline is approaching and the Dodgers need help.  The Padres aren't going away, the Giants are a darn good team, and you can never count out the Rockies under manager Jim Tracy.  The men in blue want to be buyers, but it looks like they'll continue to cut payroll, all the while McCourt says his personal troubles will not affect the team.  Then for the sake of his argument in divorce court, he claims he’s not really worth that much.  “I’m but a pauper,” he says.

At the same time, Jamie’s asking for almost a million dollars a month for expenses.  Even Dr. Evil would think that’s a little exorbitant.  But she needs to keep up the mortgage payments on her six homes and one condominium.  Evidently, she needs all of these.  (Some people can’t sleep without their favorite pillow.  This woman can’t sleep without six homes and one condo.)

But she contends that Frank can easily afford this as he has billions stuffed in one of his mattresses, not the paltry millions he says he’s valued at.  Regardless of how much he has, until Jamie is able to close out games, I don’t think she deserves millions a month. 

Well, this is going to play out in front of all fans of Los Doyers.  The deadline is a good gauge, but only time will tell if he actually has the money or doesn’t.  It should be easy enough to see – if players start wearing cleats from Payless Shoes; if ushers start asking fans to return any foul balls caught in the stands; if the concession stands start serving unpopped popcorn; if you have to share your Nacho cheese with your neighbor; if fans have to bring their own flashlights during night games to be able to see; and if, instead of Dodger dogs, they’ll serve Dodger pigs-in-a-blanket.

Forget “Real Housewives of Orange County,” how about “Real Divorcees of the Los Angeles Dodgers?”  It might be the most compelling thing coming from the ballpark this season.