5.2.00 LOS ANGELES DODGERS vs ATLANTA BRAVES
Understand now, I hate the Braves. I hate everything about them. I hate that prick Chipper Jones, I hate the big asshole Andres Galarraga (I don't care if he did beat cancer—the guy still plays like a bully and still crowds the plate), I hate the smug sons of bitches that make up their starting rotation, I hate punk-ass Andruw Jones, I hate their dick of a manager, I hate their idiot fans, their ballpark, the appallingly racist Tomahawk Chop, and that horrifying, excruciatingly annoying, and equally racist droning organ “Injun music” listeners are subjected to every five minutes when trying to follow a game played at (ahem) Turner Field. The only good thing about the Atlanta Braves, in fact, is the way they choke every year in the postseason.
The point is, I hated the Braves long before I ever saw John Rocker, and I hated John Rocker from the very first time I saw his developmentally disabled ass running onto the field. I remember posting a message to a bulletin board some friends and I had going during last year's playoffs, explaining that I was having difficulty settling on the one word that most accurately describes John Rocker's demeanor on the mound. The finalists included “jackass,” “ape,” “retard,” “boob,” “oaf,” “moron,” “nimrod,” “Neanderthal,” and “dipshit.” So when SI published its now famous profile of Rocker last December, it only confirmed for me that indeed, he is as stupid as he looks.
Of course, it has now become clear that the Rocker phenomenon is one of those events, like the Gulf War, the O.J. trial and the Lewinski proceedings, that only serves to disabuse observers of the notion that the collective American IQ is any greater than that of the average seven-year-old. I'm talking about the standing ovations in Florida and Georgia, the obstinately dim-witted autograph seekers in southern California, the legions of imbeciles whose infantile understanding of democracy leads them to believe that because the Bill of Rights guarantees our freedom to publicly disparage queers and foreigners, this makes it okay to do so, and for this reason Rocker should not be subject to huge, steaming mounds of abuse and public censure wherever he goes. On the contrary, I feel strongly that it is my duty as a citizen to tell Rocker, loudly, that he sucks, that he's a jackass, that he's a fucking piece of shit, that his mom says hi, and that his dad likes it in the ass. And you'd better believe that I performed my civic duty with vigor tonight.
My high school buddy, former bandmate, and fellow loudmouth Rob was in town, so I got tickets for my brother and I and Rob and a co-worker of his, and spent the extra eight bucks for field level, which turned out to be well worth it. Right field, field level. Easy shouting distance from the visitor's bullpen, field level. Starting to get the picture? The game—the one chance the Dodgers might have had to beat the Braves, with Terry Mulholland on the mound and Atlanta's lineup studded with B-listers—sucked, but that almost didn't matter. Tonight was about the hollerin', no doubt about it.
FINAL SCORE: BRAVES 5, DODGERS 3
MEMORABLE HECKLE:
There were many. I won't even go into the pounding taken by unsuspecting platoon
outfielder and former Dodger Trenidad Hubbard, which was so unlikely and so
unmercifully savage that it defied belief. Nor will I specify the chant directed
at Galarraga when he entered the game in the eighth, which earned each of
its perpetrators his very own Go Directly to Hell card. It's enough to stick
with the chants leveled at the Braves fans in attendance, accompanied by mocking,
arm-waving, Chop-like motions, all incorporating the same slow, rising-then-falling
cadence—“Red-necks! Red-necks!” “Trailer-trash! Trailer-trash!”
“Hill-billies! Hill-billies!” “In-bred! In-bred!”—and
the continuous Rocker bashing, which reached a brilliant crescendo between
the top and bottom halves of the eighth inning, when Rocker actually came
out of the pen to play catch with right fielder Brian Jordan, and was subjected
to choruses of “Crack-er! Crack-er! Crack-er!” Jesus. I hadn't even
thought of that one. Still, immodest as it may be, I must take credit for
the best line of the night, issued as Rocker sprinted to the mound before
the ninth: “Run, Forest, run!”
