I bring this up because the article began with PlaschkeGraphs™ -- the single-sentence contrapuntal paragraphs that made him famous -- thusly:
Around the hotel table sat Dodgers executives discussing trades.
In the corner sat the old scout watching television.
Around the hotel table they were talking about dumping Milton Bradley and wondering whom they should demand from the Oakland A's in return.
In the corner sat the old scout who has never worked with radar gun, computer or even stopwatch.
Around the hotel room table, someone mentioned an unknown double-A outfielder named Andre Ethier.
In the corner, the old scout jumped.
Poetry, my friends. Pure, unadulterated, terrible, poetry.
Anyway, I was smurfing the WW Web today and came across this little number, also from Plaschke, which assaulted my retinal arena in a frighteningly similar way.
On one end of the dark wood table sat baseball's ideals -- the swaggering, swarthy starting pitcher.
On the other end of the same table sat baseball's reality -- the slinking, shirking steroid pusher.
On one end of the table, Roger Clemens bragged about tough times and hard work and never taking a shortcut.
On the other end, Brian McNamee talked about syringes and abscesses and bloody pants.
Look. I know it's probably really hard to file 3-5 stories a week, when you're a sportswriter. (Or 0-1/month, if you're Stephen A. Smith.) I know that Plaschke has won awards and gets to be on television and stuff, so there's no real incentive to change anything. But come on.
At the L.A. Times, Plaschke sits at his typewriter.
Here in my mom's basement, I make fun of Plaschke.
At the L.A. Times, Plaschke lazily concocts another identical opening to one of his columns.
Here in my mom's basement, I ask my mom for more Kix.
Etc.
Ad nauseam.
Labels: bill plaschke, mother's basement, samuel johnson
