Professional basketball has long passed its expiration date but there was a time when the games mattered. Los Angeles, in fact, had a pretty good team and its standout player, the guy that hit big shot after big shot was a dude named Dr. Jerry Buss.
It’s been one year since I quit the Dodgers, and it’s now six years and counting since most people have seen a Dodgers game on TV. In an era when watching live sports is ubiquitous – literally ingrained in the fabric of society – the fact that the Dodgers make it impossible for millions and millions of people to watch their product is the biggest “fuck you” in the history of professional sports.
There was a time when reading the Los Angeles Times sports section was the highlight of my day, and while that is an accurate barometer of the sorry state of my life, I wasn’t the only one. There were legendary writers, namely Jim Murray (he won the fuckin’ Pulitzer Prize for chrissakes) and Scott Ostler and guys like Rick Reilly and Mike Penner and John Hall who wrote daily poetry about the magical nuances of sports and the people, places and intrigue that turn athletics contests into some of life’s most precious memories.