With His Scars Healing, Kent’s Feeling Optimistic

Jeff Kent came back to the Dodgers on Tuesday. Turns out, his right wrist won’t be of much use for a while. On the bright side, his hair and mustache are short and neat.

He got the mandatory -- and, frankly, awkward -- hug from the special assistant to the chairman.

“We’ll see what an old guy can do,” he told Tom Lasorda, wrestling himself away.

He found some acquaintances, made some new acquaintances who someday could become longtime acquaintances, and an hour later accepted a six-hopper into the palm of his glove, starting his 15th year in the big leagues.

Maybe this is his final spring training. He said he was not sure.

Thankfully, it does not appear we’ll have to consult the Internet hourly.

He all but broke down at the memory of leaving his wife and four children behind in Texas the night before, however, pausing behind his cap for a few seconds to allow the glassiness in his eyes to pass.

Nobody needed to come in from batting practice to find the cleanup hitter in tears, not on the first day.

These things can overwhelm a man at almost 38, up against another season, in another walk year, having spent the winter rolling around in his head 91 losses and a quite nasty feud with the center fielder.

Not five months ago, he’d loaded up the pickup truck, hitched up the trailer, and led his parents away from Los Angeles for a 22-hour drive, thinking, “I’m glad that’s over.”

By the time he’d reached Austin, Jim Tracy was fired.

“I was very nervous,” he said. “I didn’t have a good feeling about what was going on.”

He tracked Paul DePodesta’s search for Tracy’s replacement, which had become clumsy, and DePodesta’s sudden termination, also clumsy.

“And then I’m really pulling my hair out,” Kent said.

In between, however, he returned to Los Angeles, drove to Dodger Stadium and knocked on Frank McCourt’s office door. When he sat down, he was prepared to conclude the meeting by asking to be traded. He had thought through the words, the reasoning, the presentation. He did not wish to retire, but neither would he go on in an organization whose management seemed bent on self-destruction.

Amid the turmoil, he said, “You start to wonder about the suits.”

There was only one suit left: McCourt’s. They talked for three hours.

“I walked out of there with a completely different feeling,” Kent said. “It was his interest in wanting to try to fix this.... I understood his conviction, his passion. I like his integrity in wanting to do something good here.”

Other than the wrist surgery, which he expects to be healed by opening day, you could say the rest of the winter went pretty well for him.

He had recommended Ned Colletti as general manager, and Colletti is in DePodesta’s old office. He had hoped for a sound, mature manager, and Grady Little is in Tracy’s old seat.

It feels OK, he said, “Putting the remainder of my career in their hands,” if it is to be so.

And, he had clashed with Milton Bradley, and Bradley is in Oakland.

It was here where Kent’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. He gestured forcefully with his right hand, its wrist bearing three pink blotches left from surgery six weeks ago.

He said he would explain himself once more and that is all, because it is tiresome and bothersome and, really, no one’s business but Milton’s. He said he likes Milton, sees emotional and professional growth for Milton, even tries to comprehend Milton, and then made it clear the issues between him and Milton largely were about Milton.

“We all have baggage,” he said. “Sooner or later, he’ll have to detach that baggage.”

Bradley, nodding toward Kent, probably would say he already has.

“Well,” Kent said, “I’m not the team shrink. All I know is I tried to take care of what I thought would help.”

Then, of course, everybody ended up with their hair blown back and powder burns on their cheeks.

“I had a good relationship with Milton,” he said. “I believe he’s going to fix what needs to be fixed. And he’s going to be a good baseball player.

“And I hope he understands the things that happened with this team are only for the betterment of what goes on out there on the field.”

Maybe it all goes better this time. Maybe Kent gets healthy, his fellow old guys stay healthy with him, J.D. Drew plays 140 games and a division that is again winnable is manageable for the Dodgers. Already there’s less talk here about getting along with Kent and more about hitting in front of and behind Kent, particularly if that means another 105 RBIs out of Kent.

Either way, there will be a pretty fair body of work behind him, and four kids in Austin waiting.

His old pal, Barry Bonds, had spent the previous couple of days cheapening the sanctity of retirement, such as it is in baseball. Kent cracked a funny little smile, placing his reaction somewhere between bemusement and blow-a-lung hilarious.

“I read his comments, because I signed on to AOL and it popped up, so it got in my face,” he said. “That’s just another one of Barry’s, well, you shrug your shoulders. Barry’s proud to be a baseball player. We all are.”

And then it’s time to go, sometimes gracefully, sometimes in a hail of sleeping pills and anti-inflammatories.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if by fate Bonds and Kent stood together in six years, shoulder to shoulder, bust to bust, on a stage in Cooperstown?

“That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?” he mused.