Frankly, They Gave a Damn

Thank goodness, this wienie business finally got settled.

The war of dogs is over.

You laid-back Dodger fans can lie back in rest now. You win. Oh, and don’t talk with your mouths full.

In the first four months of 1991, there have been three major protests in Southern California--one over the war, one over police brutality and one over grilled hot dogs.

I thought the biggest crisis of the baseball season would be the Dodgers’ getting rid of Fernando Valenzuela.

Nope . . . although for a few days the Dodgers were accused of not using enough Mexican players, which is ridiculous, because if he could hit .300, the Dodgers would use a Martian player.

Then I thought the biggest crisis might be the Dodgers’ dumping of Mickey Hatcher.

But nope, the person outraged most by the dumping of Mickey Hatcher appears to be Mickey Hatcher.

Two weeks into the season, I figured nothing could be a bigger crisis than what to do about Kevin Gross, who can’t seem to win a game, even though the Dodgers are paying him the gross national product.

But nope, something was disturbing Dodger fans far more than Gross’ poor start.

More than Darryl Strawberry’s low average.

More than Eddie Murray’s injury.

More than Orel Hershiser’s painstaking recovery.

More than Jose Offerman’s demotion to the minors.

More than that alleged Dodger defense.

From the very first Chavez Ravine game of the season, the home crowd turned into a home mob. A cry went up throughout the stadium:

Grill our dogs!

Grill our dogs!

Grill our dogs!

Well, the protest worked. The official scorekeeper for the Marriott Corporation, new concessionaire for Dodger Stadium, gave the company an error. If Dodger fans want their Dodger Dogs grilled on Dodger grills, then by gum, whatever Dodger fans want, Dodger fans get.

Frankly (which I’ve been dying to say all column), I think we should award Marriott points for acting so quickly to quell such a potentially violent, volatile situation. Schwarzkopf medals for everybody!

I don’t really know what Marriott was doing to the dogs besides grilling them, but I just hate to see grown baseball fans cry.

It could have been worse, you know. Instead of Marriott, the new concessionaire could have been Ultra Slim-Fast. Then we all could have gotten stuck drinking wiener-flavored shakes.

Just so I’ll know for future reference, what exactly were they doing to those dogs, anyway? Boiling them? Microwaving them? Serving them raw, like sushi?

(Next thing you know, Dodger Stadium will start serving sushi and be forced to grill that .)

Were they grilling the buns? Was that the problem? Did you ever watch a baseball game with your buns grilled? Were they using Spam? Were Dodger Dogs getting smaller, like Vienna sausage? Did you ever have a sausage in Vienna? Was it small?

Exactly what was all the commotion about?

Around the rest of the country, everybody thinks Californians are too damned healthy for their own good. They figure Dodger Stadium serves charbroiled turkey-frankfurters on 12-grain bread. They think we eat organic cotton candy. They think we drink decaf beer.

Whenever a Dodger pitcher is sent to the showers, the rest of the country assumes he’s actually being sent to a Jacuzzi filled with hot bubbling Evian and an actress named Bambi.

They don’t realize that out here, we can eat junk food with the best of them. Boiled hot dogs? We don’t need no stinking boiled hot dogs!

Our baseball fans should feel proud of themselves. I hear the Anaheim Stadium crowds are ready to start protesting the Angel food they’re being served. Like that baked potato stand. They want grilled potatoes, buster, and they want ‘em now!

And those cinnamon rolls they serve out there at the ol’ Gene Autry chuck wagon. Enough of that yuppie chow, Cowboy Gene. Grill us up a couple of steaks and a big pot of beans.

Hungry Dodger fans wrote to me angrily complaining not only about their dogs, but about single bags of peanuts being sold for the price of the old two-bagger. That’s what it’s like to be a baseball fan out here. Not just nuts; twice as nuts.

Never having paid for my own bag of peanuts or Dodger Dog in my entire life, I feel that I understand baseball fans better today. They have priorities.

If those Marriott people try messing with the Cracker Jack, there will be hell to pay.