These aren't those grumpy Dodgers

Nine years ago this week, same day as the wife's birthday, I wrote my first column on Page 2.

Catcher Chad Kreuter apparently had someone read it to him and holding it in my face he said I'd never be allowed in the Dodgers' clubhouse again.

A few minutes earlier Kevin Brown had thrown a tantrum, about the only thing he threw with any effectiveness while with the Dodgers, and demanded team officials prohibit all Times writers from entering the clubhouse.

That was odd, because it would keep Brown from enjoying his favorite pastime, lowering his pants and smacking his bare bottom any time a female reporter passed by.

Later Davey Johnson would say he would never talk to Page 2 again while he was manager of the Dodgers, compelling me to write the next day, "I hope I can wait the three weeks."

Ah, those were the days.

Catcher Jason Phillips said his family was living paycheck to paycheck on $339,000, becoming enraged when challenged.

"I'll show you my check," he screamed.

"I'd be more interested in seeing your bills," I said.

There were a string of fired general managers, each blaming the media rather than the team's record. There was also the effort to check J.D. Drew for a pulse, check the scale as Andruw Jones stepped on, and make sense of anything Kenny Lofton had to say.

Then there was Jeff Kent, who said, "I laugh at your patheticness," and everyone knows Kent never laughed, obviously making an exception when using a word that really isn't a word.

I haven't even mentioned Mr. Guerrero, Lisa's husband, who took up locker space briefly, the Choking Dogs or the look that Milton Bradley could give you when asked, "How are you doing?"

Bradley's response: "What does that mean? You're out to get me, aren't you?"

Those were the days, all right, the wife younger, so much grist for Page 2 and for some reason F.P. Santangelo allowed to wear a Dodgers uniform.

Here we are nine years later, and things couldn't be worse, the wife gumming her food and not a single Dodger willing to do battle with Page 2, every day a love-fest.

Even Larry Bowa is a pussycat.

Now I haven't talked to the relief pitcher picked up on suspicion of DUI because I've kind of made it a rule to leave the stadium before he gets into his car.

But do you know I actually give knuckles, or whatever they call them, every time I get together with Andre Ethier or Matt Kemp? There are times when Kemp gives me his headphones so I can listen to rap music. What do you think, bro?