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.
When Newspapers Go, Brain Cells Go With Them
Did you ever have a paper route? Greg Quinn had one and sometimes I’d help him fold the papers. There’d be a stack of them waiting for him when he got home from school. He’d have to assemble the paper (it came with various sections), fold them up and then cram them into a canvas carryall that fit over his head and rested on his shoulders. Then he’d get on his bike and toss the papers, grabbing the next paper as he rode along until his canvas tote was empty. I think all the papers had to be delivered by 5 PM. It seemed like a good gig until that time of the month when he’d have to collect from his customers and some of them would tell Greg to go fuck himself because instead of delivering the paper onto the porch each evening Greg would mostly toss the paper into the bushes. read more