Dear Darryl Strawberry: Say It Ain’t So : The way things are going, it looks like we might have to do the wave for you. The wave goodby.

DARRRR--RYLLLL!

It was so much easier when the man was a Met.

DARRRR--RYLLLL!!

This is sung as a taunt, not a cheer.

DARRRR-RYLLLL!!!

Make that a plea. If you can hear me, Darryl, wherever you are, say it ain’t so!

My hope was that you had a good explanation for your disappearance--that maybe you were on your way to the game Sunday when you spotted an orphanage in flames and rescued 14 kids, only to be overcome by smoke and rushed to the emergency room. My fear was that you’d gotten in trouble with gangsters or a new girlfriend.

To paraphrase “Mrs. Robinson,” where could you be, Darryl Strawberry? Whatever the story, don’t expect clucks of sympathy. Another millionaire athlete with a “substance-abuse problem.” Alcohol? Cocaine? Chewing tobacco? Fred Claire wouldn’t say.

You turned up AWOL just when I was preparing to wax lyrical on our national pastime and its deeper meanings. If George Will can devote a page of Newsweek to Lenny Dysktra, then I should be able to indulge my delight over Chan Ho Park, Delino DeShields and Mike Piazza. The Dodgers seemed poised to make this one of those “next years” that Dodger fans, dating back to Brooklyn, have historically waited for, and sometimes received. But now you’ve put me in a foul mood.

Your timing was perfectly awful and awfully perfect. In a way, it’s an appropriate way for the season to begin. To be a Dodger fan is to ride the proverbial roller coaster, and things had been going too well, really. Your latest escapade made my heart sag, but no Dodger fan could really be surprised.

One of the nice things about not working for the Sports section is that I don’t have to hide my allegiances. As the baseball scribes put it, I’m a homer. I can take it personally. Of all the teams in all the sports, amateur or pro, the Dodgers are my team. They are also L.A.’s team, more so than all the rest. It’s all very nice that Gretzky scored his 802nd goal, and I’m happy that Magic is coaching the Lakers. But as a hometown boy, Darryl, you know that no team can lift the spirits of Los Angeles the way the Dodgers can.

The daring of Wills, the magnificence of Koufax, the chin music of Big D--all helped win my young heart. The Angels tried to woo me with a new stadium within biking distance of my home, but I stayed true blue. Why, I even became a fan of the Dem Bums of Flatbush, reading those heroic biographies of Reese, Robinson, Campanella, Snider. . .

More so than other sports, baseball is steeped in tradition and continuity. True fans hang tough in the lean years, and we Dodger fans have been rewarded time and again for our loyalty. When I think about Game 1 of the ’88 World Series, with Gibson limping up to the plate against Eckersley, it almost makes me pity the fans of other teams. Almost.

All considered, Dodger followers have had it pretty good. Our memories are more sweet than sad. I think I’m a fairly typical fan. Offhand, I can think of only a couple of things that may distinguish me from most.

The first is that I witnessed Fernando’s final performance with the Dodgers--in an exhibition game at Vero Beach. A sportswriter friend nabbed me a press pass. When Fernando struck out the first batter, I committed a sin: I applauded in the press box. Then I was embarrassed. Now the memory makes me proud.

And remember when the Marriott Corp. took over the concessions at Dodger Stadium and tried to do away with grilled Dodger Dogs? Many fans were angry, but this one was positioned to channel his rage into a journalistic crusade, grilling Marriott executives like so many wieners.

Now, I’m not saying it was my efforts alone that persuaded Marriott to install more grills. (But if anybody sees me at the game, I take mine with mustard and onions.)

So when I started to write this column, I wanted to celebrate Park or DeShields or Dodger Dogs--any aspect of Dodgerdom, really, except DARRRR-RYLLLL! I was just happy that the season was finally about to begin. And this team seemed like it might be special, that it might lift L.A.’s spirits, even with the annual reports of a “rejuvenated” you-know-who.

Promises, promises.

Your troubles off the field and in the clubhouse have been well-documented. Quite possibly I was the last Dodger fan to think you might live down your domestic altercations and the intemperate “let it burn” quip last November during Los Angeles’ wildfires. Maybe it has something to do with a chat I had once with your older brother Michael, the Los Angeles cop who dodged death during the riots of ’92.

You know the story: Michael was riding in a patrol car with Officers Charles Cho and Mark Ramirez when a sniper shot out the rear window. All three men were wounded, none severely. But it was a close call all the same. For Michael, it was a bullet fragment wedged in his skull.

Michael seemed to be a dedicated officer and a decent guy. With a brother like that, maybe there was hope for you. The “let it burn” quote didn’t bother me. For all your bad karma, I thought you might come through in the clutch, that you could still have the happy ending.

Oh well. The way things are going, it looks like we might have to do the wave for you. The wave goodby.

Lasorda says the Dodgers will win with or without Darryl. It’s not like I’m going to sell my 1/9th share of two season tickets. It’s not like I’m waiting ‘til next year.

CHAN HO PARK! CHAN HO PARK! CHAN HO PARK!

That’s a cheer. I hope.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesday s , Thursday s and Sunday s . Readers may write Harris at The Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth, Calif. 91311.