DODGERS GIVING FANS A CASE OF THE BLUE FLU.

Byline: JONATHAN S. SHAPIRO Local View

THERE comes a time in every abusive relationship when the victim must summon the courage to leave, or ask the abuser to leave.

After a lifetime of pain, broken promises, neglect and abuse, I have reached that point.

Los Angeles Dodgers, please, for the sake of the children, go.

Go back to your Brooklyn. Go see if they want to take you back.

Surely they have something to trade for you, something we might want or need. Perhaps a working subway system. Or proximity to a thriving theater district. Or a good pizza place. No reasonable offer will be turned down. Bids start at a dozen pretzels and an egg cream.

Forty years is long enough. We don't want to hurt any longer. We don't want to be Dodger blue anymore.

Change is in the air. The state will soon elect a new governor. L.A. charter reform promises to usher in a new era of civic government. The San Fernando Valley secession movement promises to create a whole new city. Downtown, a new indoor stadium will play host to exciting sports franchises.

But in Chavez Ravine, the Dodger albatross continues to ruin our Sunday afternoons, destroy our commutes from work and waste the talents of Vin Scully, the patron saint of lost Dodger causes, the golden voice that has announced another Wilton Guerrero running error, another Raul Mondesi strikeout. War correspondents get to report more good news than Scully.

The team has been as many as 15 games out of first place in the National League West. If they were the chief of police or the head of the MTA, Mayor Richard Riordan would have fired them a long time ago (OK, he would have asked the City Council to fire them long ago).

They are just not the symbol for a go-go L.A. Not when the first-place team in the division hails from the Ozarks by the Ocean, San Diego, a town with less culture than a yogurt carton and more polyester than an Elks convention.

That we are being humiliated by San Diego is bad enough. That San Francisco is also in front of us is even worse. Thank goodness Fresno does not have a team.

Breaking up is hard to do. But we got over losing the Rams. And frankly, most of us started sleeping more soundly when the Raiders moved out of town. There is plenty to do in Southern California without having to watch the Dodgers' Scott Radinsky blow another lead.

All these years, beating ourselves up, thinking that if only we rooted harder, maybe they would do better. Well, what did the Dodgers ever do to deserve our love?

Destroying Chavez Ravine 40 years ago, a working-class neighborhood razed to make room for a baseball diamond, was sinful.

Introducing Tommy Lasorda into popular culture: That was unforgivable.

Integrate baseball by bringing on Jackie Robinson? That was the Brooklyn Dodgers team. Win championships? Not for a decade; before then, rarely. Field an exciting group of current players? Al Checchi ran a better race. The contemporary crop of Dodgers, hovering at the .500 mark, losing as many games as they win, is maddeningly mediocre, a mass of misplayed malaise. They are as exciting as oatmeal, as spirited as snails, as hopeful as a Carter presidency, as pleasant as a dental appointment. Dodgers players do not become good until they are traded somewhere else.

Admittedly, I am bitter. No, I never got over them trading Don Sutton. No, I never got over Ron Cey refusing to sign my cast 24 years ago. No, I never got over learning that Steve Garvey was way too much of a family man.

But I don't make this plea for myself.

I recently signed my son Abraham up for the Dodger Blue Crew, the team's fan club for children. And I've felt guilty ever since. Making him support a selfish group of underachievers is wrong. If he wants to register as a Democrat, that's his business. But he never really got to vote on being a Dodgers fan. Baseball allegiance, like religion, is inherited.

Two months after I signed him up, Abe received his membership package. His name was misspelled on the membership card, the shirt they sent was an adult size, the key chain was broken and three months later, the team traded Mike Piazza, the president of the club.

I try to explain the realities of life to my son. Baseball is a business. The people at Fox need to make changes, need to do deals. But Abe won't listen to reason. He seems to have trouble concentrating. He won't really talk much about his feelings. He throws things and seems to cry a bit more than usual.

It may be because he is six months old and is teething. But I think there is more to it. I think it may have something to do with Glen Hoffman's managing.

The split can be fair. Dodgers, if you finally get around to taking the old Hideo Nomo banners off the street lamps, you can take them with you.

You can also keep Ross Porter and Rick Monday. And, of course, the bullpen is all yours.

We get custody of Farmer John. He is still the easternmost in quality and the westernmost in flavor. And Scully isn't going anywhere. He can read books to us or recite poetry. Anything other than having to report another Eric Karros pop-up.

Just leave before you do any more harm, before you bring on any more Jeff Shaws or try and get rid of Matt Luke, again, before you turn any more people permanently off of baseball or ruin one more cookout.

It may be too late for most of us.

But Abe could still become an Angels fan.