Bill Mueller, third baseman for the Dodgers. Bill Mueller. Dodgers.
This is like finding out your ex-girlfriend is dating again. Hey, great. We all have to move on. Then you find out she's already moved in with the guy. Okay, whatever. That's a little quick, but we just weren't a good fit together. Then you find out her new boyfriend is Pol Pot, and she spends her evenings drinking Chianti out of a gourd fashioned from the skull of a dissident.
Bill Mueller. Dodgers.
My password for this site was Mueller. It was a password I hadn't used anywhere on the internet since 2000, but it seemed to fit for this site. Every time I'd get ready to post an entry - a stunning, brilliant entry - I'd rap out the name Mueller on my keyboard. It was almost a rite of passage. No more. I'd sooner have NeifiLUV00 as a password than that of a Dodger.
To paraphrase Kenshin: We could do a lot worse than miss out on a 35-year old corner infielder with declining production. Mueller is no guarantee to hit better than he did in 2000, his longest go around in Mays Field, and that type of hitter is hardly an upgrade on even Pedro Feliz. Still, if there were one player to bake a fruitcake of sentimentality for, it was Mueller. He could have hit .250, and I still would have found nice things to say about him. I'd talk about him like Jim Barnett talks about Mike Dunleavy. I like what he did there. I like what he was trying to do. He hit to the opposite side of the field to advance the runner! That's one of the little things that doesn't show up in the box score! Did you see that?
Here's another little thing that doesn't show up in the box score: Every time a Dodger scores a run, an angel has its wings ripped off by a demon, and is forced to tearfully beg the demon to cauterize the wounds. The demon will refuse, and the sobbing angel will lie in a puddle of angel blood and feathers for eternity, wondering why the Dodgers are allowed to score runs. That's not me talking; that's science. I hope Mueller is happy to be a part of that.
Bill Mueller. Dodgers. I didn't think I'd take it this hard, but I am. It will be a nice experiment. I will never be able to boo Bill Mueller. I will never be able to refrain from booing a Dodger. Irresistable force meet immovable object. This'll be one for the scientific journals.
I wasn't around to see Marichal on the Dodgers, and never experienced Duke Snider on the Giants. So the Bizarro-world roster swapping between San Francisco and Los Angeles that can occasionally take place really doesn't have a precedent with me. There's no wishing him good luck. Just a single tear rolling down my cheek. Why, Billy? Why?