Pity the prima donna who loses her voice.
Manny Ramirez is a prolific hitter. He’s also a perennial headache. In 17 big league seasons, the Los Angeles Dodgers left fielder has justified his shenanigans in the clubhouse with his statistics on the field—which would be better news if his recent numbers didn’t raise the specter of a looming collapse.
Distinction means running ahead of your peers.
Decline, on the other hand, means fading back into the pack.
I’m not suggesting that Ramirez is entirely washed-up. His 2008 performance still speaks for itself, and it would be premature to write his epitaph after one subpar season. But then again it’s never too soon to confront the inevitable. In a league where every hero is a has-been waiting to happen, no million-dollar problem child can afford to bet on the permanence of his prowess.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
The higher they were, the lower they feel.
If there’s a moral to Manny’s story, it’s simply that the trip down the ladder of success is most unpleasant for those climbers who made it all the way to the top.
Selfishness is a superstar’s inalienable right. Skipped practice sessions, sulky press conferences, special privileges in the postgame buffet line—they’re merit-based entitlements, gifts that accrue uniquely to the gifted. The catch, of course, is that elite status erodes just as quickly as elite skill. Old-school moralists will argue that Ramirez shouldn’t have been pampered in the first place. I’d counter that he’ll never receive anything more or less than precisely the treatment he deserves.
Insolence is bad.
Ineptitude is worse.
Manny has always been a bit too big for his boots, but at least he used to be able to competently fill his cleats.
There’s no curse more noxious than an expired blessing. Excellence inflates egos; deterioration bursts bubbles. Manny Ramirez will reach the bitter end when MLB teams decide that his output is no longer worth his outbursts, at which point he’ll have to swallow his pride and get in line with the rest of us. Every vain virtuoso worships the idol in the mirror. The one who’s made a religion of Manny Being Manny may find himself praying to a new god when Manny is no longer a divine thing to be.
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Saint Paul never graced an All-Star roster, but he did know a thing or two about the singular license of the chosen:
Before this .OPS came, we were held prisoners by the law, locked up until .OPS should be revealed. So the law was put in charge to lead us to the batting cage that we might be justified by .OPS. Now that .OPS has come, we are no longer under the supervision of the law.
Which doesn't bode well for an aging slugger accustomed to playing by his own rules.
Because arrogance without talent is as dead as faith without works, and any diva who demands more leeway than he earns is doomed to a fate worse than only just saying, is all...
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