Closer Minus C
So fuck Jonathan Broxton. Fuck that guy.
It’s not that he’s been a terrible closer. It’s not that last Tuesday night he managed to throw exactly 11 pitches — eight of which were balls — before getting yanked. It’s not that the Friday before that, a diving Tony Gwynn catch was the only thing that saved another blown save. And it’s certainly not that last season he dropped a sure-thing win against the goddamned Yankees in rare cross-league play, because a rag-tag collection of eight-year-olds is apparently capable of lighting this bum up like a pinball machine.
Oh, no. It’s that he does all these things — each and every one of them — after the build up of his intro.
Come the ninth inning, Dodger Stadium goes dark and the thunderous, thump-thump grind-grind opening of “Iron Man” starts up, blue lightening and 10-foot-high “100 MPH” graphics flashing over everything. And… the air actually goes out of the place, like a rock concert held in a deflating bouncy house. The Don’t Stop Believin’ Guy generates more excitement, because he’s more reliable.
The entire tradition of closing pitcher music is stupid, but to see such hype lavished on someone whose introduction elicits groans from the bleachers is embarrassing. My digestive tract is performing better against Dodger dogs, and with fewer fireworks. How about we put away the “Congratulations!” banner until junior unwedges his finger from his nose? They’re the Dodgers, not the Bush Administration.
All-Star, my ass. (By which I mean, man, those Dodger dogs…)
Andre Ethier is two games away from breaking a 42-year-old franchise hitting record, and what does he get? Cheers of the crowd. I guess he’ll have to settle.
“Iron Man”? Sad Trombone.
