Manny Ramirez shows little gratitude to his fans

The citizens showed up early in hopes that the mayor would come out early to greet them.

He didn't.

The citizens began cheering as he ran out for the start of the game in hopes that the mayor would acknowledge them.

He wouldn't.

The citizens chanted his name as he finished his first warm-up tosses in hopes that the mayor would at least throw them the ball.

He threw it in the left-field stands instead.

After blowing off honesty, accountability and one-third of the season, Manny Ramirez did something more egregious in his return to Dodger Stadium on Thursday.

He blew off Mannywood.

In the first inning of his first appearance in a left-field corner adorned with the "Mannywood 99" banner and filled with hundreds of loving fans who paid a premium for their proximity, Ramirez acted as if none of it existed.

As if his employers had not just compromised their integrity by continuing to name an entire section of seats in honor of a drug cheat.

As if his fans had not just gone against all reason to embrace him in his first home appearance after 50 games on a drug-policy suspension.

As if he didn't owe anybody anything.

"I was just mentioning that to my wife," said Mike Jaramillo, a postal worker from Torrance who was seated in the heart of Mannywood. "I came here to see how he would react, but he didn't look at us, didn't acknowledge us, seemed kind of arrogant."

Kind of? On a night when Ramirez could have finally returned some of the love that has been showered on him over the last two months, he gave little.

In a 3-0 loss to the Houston Astros, he failed to hustle after a line drive that bounced off the bullpen fence, struck out twice, flailing, and showed little respect for his most loyal fans.

Not that they minded, of course,

There were still standing ovations, shaggy wigs, screaming fans from corner to corner, cheers as big as Barry Bonds' neck, the same type of cheers that once fell upon that neck.

"Twenty-one years is a long time, we can only live off Kirk Gibson for so long," said Brent Aguilar, a Mannywood visitor. "We've got to sell our souls to get another one."

At least he was honest about it. So was postman Jaramillo, who was the only soul in Mannywood who actually, momentarily, jeered the slugger.

"Cheat-er, cheat-er," he chanted before his voice wilted in the face of hundreds of scowls.