What's in a Name?

The blinking cursor in the blank white box stared back at me like Don Drysdale in his prime, eyes piercing the narrow space between the bill of his cap and the tip of his glove. I felt exposed and utterly vulnerable. What was I going to name this blog? Time to step out of the batter's box.

"Ump, time please!"

I glanced down to my third-base coach in search for help. What I saw only compounded the pressure I was already feeling, as countless catchy monikers already dotting the Dodger blogging landscape flashed like signs before me: Sons of Steve Garvey, Vin Scully is My Homeboy, Mike Scioscia's Tragic Illness, Dodger Blues, Memories of Kevin Malone, Juan Pierre's Oversized Hat.

Still without a clue, I stepped back into the batter's box. The Big D's next delivery sent me crashing down like a house of baseball cards. Fastball, high and tight. There's nothing subtle about Drysdale, nor with some of the other blog names already out there: Dodger Thoughts, Blue Heaven, Dodger Divorce.

Then it came to me like the gentle waft of grilled Dodger Dogs. A strategy. I picked myself up, dusted myself off and dug back in. As the next pitch was delivered, I dropped the barrel of my bat, squared my body, and laid down a perfect bunt down the third base line. It was more than just a base hit. It was Maury Wills small ball. It was the Dodger Way to play baseball.

***

When I was about 8, I received as a gift a paperback copy of The Dodger Way to Play Baseball, by Al Campanis. How much of it was arrogance versus reality, I'm still not entirely sure. Was there really a Dodger Way to play baseball as opposed to Other Teams' Ways? Regardless, I sensed even as a child that there was a certain mystique about the Dodger organization. A certain pride. A certain tradition.

The title of my blog is an attempt to recall those days when there was no question as to who would be the Dodger manager the following year. Or the following 10. No question who would play third base next season. Or shortstop. Or second base. Or first base. Or who would do the play-by-play for...ever.

A time when there was no need to explicitly lay claim to the city's allegiance. Los Angeles belonged to the Dodgers and the Dodgers to Los Angeles. The Lakers were still a sideshow, the Angels a pesky younger sibling.

But it's not that simple. My blog name is an allusion to the current era of Dodger baseball as well, a period chockful of unfulfilled promises. There was the unfulfilled promise of Mike Piazza's Dodger career. There is the unfulfilled promise of the no-longer youthful Dodger core. And of course, there are the unfulfilled promises of current Dodger ownership.

The McCourts had boldly announced - promised - to renovate and expand Dodger Stadium. Their plans foretold of a state-of-the-art center field promenade that would include restaurants, shops, and a stunning, tree-lined walkway entrance into Dodger Stadium that would be named, appropriately enough, Dodger Way.

And so it goes with the name of this blog, the old inseparable from the new. Because no conversation about today's Dodgers would be complete without referencing their storied past. And no part of the Dodger past can be fully appreciated without using today as comparison.