This is the team I grew up with and, in theory, remain a fan of.

As noted before on this blog, anyone who has spent time covering a professional sports team as a working journalist … well, that person loses the ability to think of pro athletes with any regard. Let alone admiration or (gag!) veneration. The mass of pro athletes are dimwitted egocentrics with antisocial  tendencies. They are not worthy of anyone’s veneration — let alone admiration or regard.

So, the 2009 Dodgers. Where do we go to find a guy we can root for … and not feel like idiots?

No, it can’t be Manny Ramirez.

Manny can amuse you. He may astonish you. He probably will get your attention. But he is not really someone to root for. He left too much flaming wreckage when abandoning his previous posts, as we noted during the reaction of Boston print journalists when the Dodgers traded for Manny last summer. Not every one of those guys is a snarling racist with memory banks so overdrawn that they can’t recall his positive contributions to two World Series championships.

They have made it clear that, given enough time, Manny being Manny means he will be a selfish jerk. Just because he now wears blue doesn’t mean he became a different person.

Let’s not go there.

Let’s be cruel and dismiss some folks straight away. Matt Kemp is a dope. His dopiness practically oozes from him when he runs the bases, which he does with the foresight of a toddler. He already is giving off serious “wasted talent” vibes that the older observers among us can attach to other Dodgers outfielders with enormous gifts and microscopic wit — Pedro Guerrero and Raul Mondesi. Andre Ethier, more than a little whiny, no? James Loney, a guy that big who plays first base ought to put the ball in the seats a lot more often. If we wanted an elegant, singles-hitting first baseman, we’d get Doug Mientkiewicz. (Oh, the Dodgers tried out Mientkiewicz? Never mind.)

Rafael Furcal? I’m sorry, but he falls into the middle of the “mysterious, unknowable Dominican” ranks of Major League Baseball. You can appreciate them, but as American natives we can’t really fathom them. And he arrived as a free agent. Hiroki Kuroda is one of the “mysterious, unknowable Japanese” pitchers who isn’t Hideo Nomo, who was the original MUJ; everyone after is just a knockoff.

Looking at backups, I can’t root for Cory Wade or James McDonald or Ramon Trancoso till I know which is which. Never liked Guillermo Mota. Just cuz. OK, he seems like an underachiever. He was here, he was gone, now he’s back. Whatever. Actually, nobody in the bullpen warrants any attention other than Jonathan Broxton, and there’s something just sort of empty under JB’s cap (and I don’t mean his uniform, which is anything but empty) that says, “Uh, don’t root for me, I can’t take the pressure.”

Starting pitchers? Jason Schmidt? Nobody with one victory in the first two years of a three-year, $48 million contract is someone I have warm and fuzzy feelings for. Plus, he’s still hurt and probably won’t pitch this season, either. Randy Wolf? His peregrinations practically shout out “mercenary!” Which they all are, but some more than others. Clayton Kershaw? I will keep my eye on him, but I believe he has major prima donna young lefty punk potential. I don’t believe I’m imagining this. Let’s see where he goes with it.

I am mildly annoyed with all the Dodgers’ backup infielders because they aren’t very good. Can’t a team in a major media market do better than whatever trio of Juan Castro/Tony Abreu/Mark Loretta/Doug Mientkiewicz makes the roster? The first two are just dreadful, the third is with his sixth team since 2002 (counting two stops in Houston) and DM … the only singles hitting 1B I’ve ever liked was Wes Parker, and you are so not him.(Update: The backup infield is Loretta and Blake DeWitt, which means the Dodgers had the wit not to mess with Mientkiewicz/Abreu/Castro … and means DeWitt will be sitting around a lot in Los Angeles instead of playing a lot in Las Vegas.)

Brad Ausmus, the backup catcher, is a sort of dilletante who hasn’t been useful for a decade (and arguably is the least productive hitter in the bigs; no, really) but somehow ingratiates himself with baseball executives. He annoys me, too.

Backup OF … we’re looking at Jason Repko, a guy who never contributes much of anything but a broken bone along about May. (Update: Repko is out and Delwyn Young is in; I like the concept of Young, and I’ve talked him up in the past, but he won’t play nearly enough to be worthy of a fan’s attention.)

So, where does that leave us?

Russell Martin. The compact catcher (he’s smaller than you think) plays hard, wants to play every day (to his own detriment) and plays smart. His physical gifts are limited; I’m gonna pull a number out of thin air and suggest he is playing to 98.9 percent of his ability. That’s a guy you can root for.

Casey Blake. Any man who looks like an uptight high school chemistry teacher (that beard is far too immaculately trimmed) — but can put 20 homers into the seats — well, I can get on board with that concept. He never will inspire wild devotion, but he takes all this seriously. (And would you kids all sit up and please pay attention?)

Chad Billingsley. Another marginal guy. I could go the other way with him. There is something compellingly regular about him that prompts a sense of affinity. Like, he could be you or me if we were a little bigger and could throw 92 mph. He seems fragile, though, mentally. Do you feel it, too? He doesn’t seem all that much impressed with himself, even though he is the club’s ace, such as it is. He seems to be worrying he will screw up. I guess I’m just interested in the “flawed human” part of him. Along with the fact that he is a career Dodger, and has learned how to pitch, a little, before our very eyes.

Orlando Hudson. Any guy who likes to be known as “the O-Dog” (as Vin Scully will mention something like 10,000 times between now and October), well, you’re off to a good start. He plays second base with fiery efficiency, he hits fairly well, and with some pop, and he seems to have lots and lots of fun out there. And he’s already attaching his name to the sorts of charities and off-field concepts that so many players shy away from — like Curing Autism Through Hope and Change. (Which the O-Dog apparently calls CATCH, even though it looks a lot more like CATHC.) All those are compelling qualities. I am prepared to like Orlando Hudson, even as a hired gun.

And, yes, Juan Pierre.

I know. I know. Those of you who read this blog with any regularity know I have been trashing Juan Pierre from the moment the Dodgers signed him to that $44-million, five-year contract. Juan Pierre is a mistake of Ruthian proportions. No power, rag arm, as non-instinctive with the leather as any man ever sent, regularly, into center field for a big-league team.

But it is not JP’s fault that Ned Colletti gave a “star” contract to a man with such narrow talents. Was Juan supposed to say, “hey, wait, you know that anyone with rudimentary knowledge of baseball analytics realizes I barely belong in the bigs, never mind at nearly $9 million a season, right?” Of course not. Ned handed him that contract knowing that JP’s talents were limited to running speed, an ability to make contact and, well, running speed.

I can hate the contract and like the player/man, and that is where I have arrived with Juan Pierre.  He is no fool; he knows most everyone thinks he sucks. Yet he’s not outwardly bitter. Like Russell Martin, he is making the most of really limited tools; he is a tiny man who can’t weigh much more than 150 pounds. (Forget that 6-0, 180 he’s listed at.) Juan Pierre is a guy who cares, from what I can tell, quite deeply, who knows some baseball history (he venerates Jackie Robinson and was named after Juan Marichal) and who takes being a major leaguer quite seriously. He is as good a Juan Pierre as any Juan Pierre can possibly be. Always in shape and playing hard. And he is a guy who wants to be in the lineup every day because he honestly does believe he can help. He certainly wants to help. He will be out there, eventually, when Manny gets hurt or Matt Kemp again is deeply surprised to find an unyielding wall about 30 feet behind him or when Andre Either holds his breath till he turns blue. And when he does, let’s hope Juan can do something useful. Which, for him, might mean a stretch of hitting .350, stealing bases and not turning too many singles into doubles while wandering around center field.

So, let’s play the games, already. I know who I am rooting for.