Ron has some thoroughly unconvincing, fictional local color

My basement-induced paranoia was running high the last couple days. Could someone at the Times-Union actually be aware of my sniping at their longest-tenured columnist, the 103-year-old Ron Littlepage? Ridiculous, right? But then Sunday the T-U ran the column I’ve been waiting for since I started this silly exercise in journalistic meta-criticism, the recurring one where Ron “talks” to Jimmy Ray Bob. It’s easily the most embarrassing thing the T-U runs on a regular basis, and the fact that I couldn’t find it online for several days seemed curious. But then I got a two-for-one on Wednesday: the T-U posted the column and the World Series started. Let’s go to the daguerreotype:

Being that Election Day draws nigh, I thought it was a good idea to visit Jimmy Ray Bob, the guru of all things political.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the lame gimmick here, the fictional political guru is a good ol’ boy. But ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ You couldn’t come up with a more appropriate good ol’ boy name? How about Ewell? Or Clayton? There’s two right there off the top of my head.
After missing him at the Blue Bird Cafe, I found him at his fish camp in East Palatka.
Set the scene, Ron.
He was sitting on an overturned 5-gallon bucket, drinking a cold 'un. He had several more in the ice-filled wash tub beside him.
So he’s a drunken hick. OK.
"What's up, Jimmy Ray?" I asked.
"Just thinking about my campaign."
Huh?
"Yep. I'm going to run for office. Could there be a more perfect tea party candidate than me?
"I'm a retired jackhammer operator. I'm not a career politician. And I can get as angry as anybody.
I’ll second that ‘huh?’ Ron’s good ol’ boy talks like a copy editor from Ohio. Where are the dropped ‘Gs?’ The ‘y’alls?’ The barnyard bestiality?
"Besides, have you seen how good these gigs are? Good pay. Great benefits. Free health insurance. Pension. Free travel. Free food.
No one talks like this. Certainly not North Florida yokels.
And once elected, you get to keep the job as long as you want, or at least keep moving up the ladder."
I had to ask, "Isn't it a contradiction for an anti-career politician to want to be a career politician?"
"Not if you're the right career politician," Jimmy Ray said.
Why ‘Jimmy Ray’ and not the full ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ The half-assed stab at local color just disappeared after the perfunctory bit about the beers. Maybe ol’ Ron has another angle he’s about to throw down.
I asked him if he had given any thought to what his campaign message would be.
"Right now I'm toying with this as a slogan: I'm not a witch.
I should have known. The hammered yokel gimmick is just a cover for Ron to vent his geriatric rage at the Tea Party, which at some point he will compare to the Brown Shirts.
"Or how about this: My boiled peanut company never had to pay a $1.7 billion fine.
Ding Ding Ding! We have the obligatory I-hate-Rick-Scott moment. I am now rooting for Scott to win the governor’s race just because it might make Ron’s beard explode.
"Or, why get to work when you can be an elected official instead?"
I asked Jimmy Ray if some of his past problems might not be dredged up by an opponent,
A glimmer of a hope for something entertaining from Ron and his fictional yahoo. Let’s see what he’s got.
such as the incident when everyone at the V.F.W. dance got sick after eating his boiled peanuts.
VFW dance? Is it 1952?
"As the CEO of Jimmy Ray's Boiled Peanuts, I take responsibility for that. Mistakes were made. I've learned from them. I should have hired more monitors to watch for bad nuts."
More Rick Scott hatred.
"And how about the time you were caught hunting deer at night at the state forest when it wasn't even deer season?" I asked.
"That's a private matter," Jimmy Ray said.
"But you're running for public office."
"I'm not going to talk about it."
Still with the Rick Scott hatred. Scott wouldn’t meet with the T-U editorial board, probably because he was afraid Ron would try to castrate him with a spork.
I caught a twinkle in Jimmy Ray's eyes. Once again, I couldn't tell if he was having fun with me or if he was serious.
This is one subtle redneck.
About that time, a big F-250 dually, crew cab pickup truck with a diesel engine came roaring up.
The driver was Jimmy Ray's wife, Sissy Lu,
Goddammit, Ron. Sissy Lu? Really?
and in the back seat was their son, Billy Bob Bob.
I’m starting to identify with the depth of your rage.
There was no mistaking that Sissy Lu was serious.
"Quit your foolish talk, Jimmy Ray, and get in," she said.
Jimmy Ray did as he was told.
So Jimmy Ray’s not just a drunken hick, he’s pussy-whipped.
"Where are you off to, Sissy Lu?" I asked.
"To my campaign headquarters."
Huh?
"That's right. The momma alligators are going to take our country back."
Of course you would end your unimaginitive, hacky column with an out-of-left-field but passive-aggressive reference to Sarah Palin. Fuck you, Ron.

The Wee Rhino

On rare occasions the Times-Union’s stupefyingly predictable editorial page is enlivened by someone of questionable sanity. Unfortunately, it’s never one of their own writers, and true to form, the relevant bit on Sunday’s page was from Ben Rich, a former St. Johns County Commissioner who, in his outspoken belligerence, is a throwback to old-style Southern politics. Today he’s is going to spin us a yarn.
One sunny morning, a newly born baby rhinoceros and his mother were walking through the bush in search of the morning meal when they happened upon a mirror.
I sense a whole boatload of anthropomorphism behind one of these metaphorical bushes. I’m giddy.
The baby rhino looked down curiously at the mirror and blinked his moist eyes. "Is that me, mama?" he squeaked.
"Yep," replied his mother.
Touching. It reads like a children’s book. I’m trying to come up with a title.
The baby looked up innocently at his mother and asked, "Why am I so ugly?"
I’ve got it: The Little Fugly Rhino. It’s got a nice ring to it.
The mother looked at her baby lovingly and then in the mirror, surprised at the depth of the scars inflicted by predators when she was a youngster herself. There she stood, seemingly in a trance, at a loss for words.
Not surprising, since she’s a rhino.
The baby rhino asked the question because he was inexperienced, naive, uninformed and had no frame of reference from which to draw sound conclusions.
Metaphor alert!
These are not problems that you have when it comes time to vote on Amendment 4.
But...I wanted to hear more about the adorably ugly rhino.
Here are some facts. As a former St. Johns County commissioner, I know these things to be true.
In 18 words Big Ben feels the need to assure us twice that what he’s about to assert is The Word. Let’s go.
- The developers, their attorneys and those who stand to make money from mega-development will stop at nothing to control your elected commissioners regarding land use matters. I sat for two years on a commission totally controlled by these special interests.
A little over the top -- did commissioners have to get a developers’ OK if they had to take a whiz during a meeting? Get pre-approval on their outfits? -- but sure, St. Johns County was real friendly-like with developers.
- Without reform to the system of changes in land use designation, it will be a matter of time before your commission once again falls under the control of the development special interests.
Maybe. I can kind of picture what your argument to back this claim might be. But it’s your job, not mine, to make your arguments compelling. My job is to wonder why, dear Lord, is that little rhino so fucking ugly?
- If we continue down the present road, you will become a mirror image of counties like Dade, Broward, Palm Beach and Duval (the murder capital of Florida).
Caving in to developers will make people murder each other. That’s the point of this gratuitous mention of the murder rate, right?
The historical facts clearly show what the influence peddling of the development industry leaves in its corrupting wake.
You should cite some of those facts. Like, now.
- If you do nothing to change the course of history, you, too, will suffer under future crushing tax burdens to prop up failing schools, build water desalinization plants, expand gridlocked highways into bigger gridlocked highways, close beaches and expand jails, courts and government bureaucratic services.
If you don’t agree with me and VOTE AS I ORDER (I’m betting Ben will roll out the all-caps soon), the evil tide of history will overwhelm you and unleash Commie Ebola zombies on the land who will close the beaches.
You now have a frame of reference.
Well, we have yours, but I’m a little skep-
You are no longer uninformed, naive or inexperienced. Look at the facts and take control.
Aye aye sir.
Vote YES
(all caps)
on 4.
Unlike rhinos, for you, ugly has an alternative.
Goddammit, Ben, I thought you were done with the aesthetically-challenged wee rhino. I’ve lost interest in the beast, and your return to the topic is confusing me. The rhino’s ugliness is like... what, development? Craven politicians? Wait...are you saying that, unlike the Little Fugly Rhino, I don’t have to be ugly? Please tell me that’s what you’re saying.

Did you get the memo?

I suspect that Abel Harding, the Times-Union’s columnist/reporter/blogger/multi-tasker, didn’t get the memo from his colleague Ron Littlepage. Harding wrote a brief item about the Chamber of Commerce’s annual leadership trip, but he did not, as Ron would have, make a tedious point of how much money the trip would cost and how much city employee time and/or salary was being expended on it. Maybe Ron sent the memo by carrier pigeon and it simply didn’t arrive in time. Whatever the case, I’m picturing him muttering darkly through his beard about whippersnappers and such. Let’s go to the scroll:
Jacksonville Chamber group visits Indianapolis for ideas
Because we all know the Midwest is a freakin’ Fertile Crescent of innovative thought.
More than 100 members of the Jacksonville Regional Chamber of Commerce will fly to Indianapolis, Ind.,
We all know where Indy is, Abel. Kind of like Minneapolis. No need to mention the state. Check your AP stylebook. You have access to one, right? It’s best not to rely on your editors for shit like this.
today on a three-day fact-finding mission. The group, which includes several mayoral candidates, is led by Hugh Greene, the Baptist Health executive who will head the chamber next year.
The Chamber is a black hole as far as news goes. No normal reader cares what they do. So name-checking Hugh Greene? Waste of time (though I hear he’s a lovely chap and plays a mean game of Wii Mario Kart). I’m more interested in who those mayoral candidates are who signed on to this junket. Can it be called a junket if it involves Indiana?
Greene visited the city to prepare for the trip and came back convinced it would be time well spent, particularly the time spent learning about how Indianapolis has transformed its downtown.
Indy transformed its Downtown? Great. You will provide some evidence to back up this alleged transformation, right? No? Sigh. Is your desk right next to Weathersbee’s? You might be spiraling down into the cone of ignorance. Anyway, I’m sure the wizards of Indy have thought of stuff to revive downtown that hasn’t occurred to any of us gap-toothed hicks down here in the 23 years since the Landing failed to do the trick. Can’t wait to hear what it is.'

"They've implemented a cultural trail," he said. "Art was a big part of what they did there."
Oh. Well, say no more. Why didn’t we think of that? Wait, we did -- putting a contemporary/modern art museum Downtown, art walks, those wacky painted manatees that were all over town for a while, like the animal kingdom version of the obese natives.
Greene, who wants the chamber to focus on downtown, educational reform, and urban neighborhood redevelopment, said the trip would be a learning experience and a chance to replicate best practices.
This paragraph reads like a press release, complete with flaccid phrases like ‘learning experience’ and ‘best practices.’ Sending 100 or so would-be big shots to another city to learn their ‘lessons’ is a ludicrous waste of time and effort. If it wasn’t, Downtown wouldn’t be the stagnant, bum-infested blight that it is, and I wouldn’t worry about my imaginary girlfriend being down there after 3 p.m. And who are these mayoral candidates, and how do they justify spending money on this boondoggle? Oh, shit. Tarnation, I’m starting to sound like Ron.

More spot-on education analysis

I really don’t have anything against Jane Bowman, who took the time to compose a letter to the Times-Union about teachers, or education, or something. But I can’t help myself. Weathersbee and Gancarski were too boring to concentrate on, and I just dealt with Ron, so here we go:
I taught school for 31 years.
Get ready for an argument from authority. Always questionable, occasionally entertaining.
I have some strong opinions about education issues.
Testify, sister. If you do, in fact, have some strong opinions, that will be a welcome change from the usual pap that passes for opinion journalism in these parts.
Almost daily we hear about the plight of public education in the United States and how low our ranking is compared to other countries. Now we hear the dismal news that Duval County public schools have a low ranking compared to other school districts in the United States.
It might be a long wait for those strong opinions. And while we’re waiting, it looks like we won’t be diverted by anything like news.
Much of the conversation about education often is about funding.
Sooner rather than later an academic will out herself with vague and boring language and a retreat to platitudes. ‘Much of the conversation’ sucks; bringing up funding is the platitudiest of platitudes.
Most people can agree that it takes money to have schools, but it takes more than money to manage them effectively.
Jane’s prose and her argument are starting to circle the drain. Schools need money, yes, and something else. More money, or competent administration? Which will she favor?  
It is disturbing that government fails to see the damage done by high-stakes testing. Particularly egregious and misleading is to give schools grades based on Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test scores.
The teacher rant against testing. No doubt testing unmotivated brats, unsupervised by feckless parents, translates into crappy test scores. But not testing gives a pass to bad teachers and administrators who shuttle kids through the system. The public doesn’t want that any longer. That’s your lot as a teacher. Deal with it.
If testing is to be used, it should be used in grades K-3 to identify children who need to be tutored in reading, writing and math. Children lacking some basic skills need to be helped early,
We could start with the proper use of commas and periods, goddammit.
Provide them with a good foundation for further education.
I have given considerable thought to how to improve the situation in our Duval County public schools.
I’m waiting with bated breath. (Notice how I didn’t write ‘baited’ breath? Yeah, I didn’t go to high school in Duval County.)
Quit wasting money.
You, ma’am, are entirely too radical for modern-day America. Quit wasting money? What’s next?
For example, use the academic, reading and math coaches to tutor children, not teachers. How can teachers be effective when they are constantly being trained or in meetings?
Dear Jane: (Can I call you Jane? I feel like we’ve forged a connection that transcends the impersonal nature of the Internet and my obnoxious criticism of your letter.) I’m with you, girl. I don’t know what the answer is to improving teachers, but I’m certain that it doesn’t involve sitting in a conference room and being droned at by some pompous asshole reading a power point presentation.
Furthermore, do our School Board members and superintendent really need a travel budget?
No they fucking don’t. Go Jane!
Try respecting teachers.
OK. Um, I think we do. I know my imaginary friends who have kids respect and like their kids’ teachers.
They work hard. It should be a concern that our county has a teacher retention problem. Treat teachers fairly. Teacher evaluations are less about good teaching and more about getting along and going along.
Shit. I thought we were making progress, Jane. ‘Getting along and going along?’ What the fuck does that mean? I thought I might be reading a teachers’ perspective I hadn’t seen before.
Do away with the district policy of "recovery."
You should explain what recovery is, rather than putting it in scare quotes and assuming we all now what it means. (I know what it means, Jane -- do we sill have a chance? I’ll be at the Sun Dog at 9 on Sunday, the sad fat guy with the bleached out Braves cap.)
This is most detrimental to student learning as it allows students to ignore their teacher and class assignments and then do some computer work (recovery work) at a later date.
Why should it matter if students learn in class or from some anti-teacher’s-union robot? The goal is for them to learn the material, no?
Coupled with the fact that teachers in the middle grades are pressured to give all As, Bs and Cs, this could explain why many students are not graduating from high school.
What? I think the magic is gone, Jane. I was with you there for a moment, when you were manning the ramparts against useless meetings and power point. But how does grade inflation in middle school lead to failing in high school? Unless there’s no grade inflation in high school, which I doubt.
Restore discipline. Teachers must give the students so many chances, the system is not taken seriously by the students.
Restore discipline, by all means, but give me some specific suggestions. Unless you have a magic wand you can wave that will do the trick. Do you-- no, I didn’t think so. Also, that last sentence is slip-and-fall awkward.
Change district policies that are not working, value and support teachers and provide them with a safe and fair work environment.
Jane, Jane, Jane. You got my hopes up early, you little minx, only to collapse into bland education-speak: ‘value and support teachers,’ ‘safe and fair work environment.’ And again, calling for  change in policies that aren’t working couldn’t be more vague and unhelpful.
Our children will then be the beneficiaries.
Oh, well if the children will be the beneficiaries, then all of your points are air-tight.

Ron Littlepage: Boring opinions. Click. Budge Huskey: Bitter commentary.

The news cycle inspires so many original thoughts in the Times-Union’s Ron Littlepage he can contain them in a traditional column only by an alchemical condensation into trenchant, bite-sized pieces. It’s an old-timey, Larry King-ish format, and it makes me wonder what century Ron was born in. Let’s go to the mimeograph:
Spinning around the news dial ... click.
When was the last time any “dial” actually “clicked?” The 1980s? The ‘70s? I’m excited, though. I can’t wait for him to repeat the click gimmick.
You may have noticed that things are heating up in the political world.
I did. Not news.
The race to become the next governor has become particularly nasty with Alex Sink and Rick Scott exchanging body blows in television ads.
I’ve seen most of the ads and they don’t strike me as particularly nasty. Unless there are some I missed that include Scott and Sink punching each other in the torso. That would spice up the race.
Previously, the big guns were usually fired closer to Election Day, but that changed with early voting, which begins Oct. 18.
Candidates have to make their points now because a lot of people will have already voted by the time Nov. 2 rolls around.
Wait, that’s it? That’s your whole point? Now I suspect you’re not condensing, Ron, you’re stretching because you actually have little to say. Here, I’ll demonstrate this by making your point for you in 16 words. “Florida gubernatorial candidates have already rolled out ads this year because early voting starts Oct. 18.” See? Why am I reading this piece again?
Click.
Ah, that’s why.
Two "sevens" will likely haunt Scott for the rest of this month.
The two “sevens:” A resurrected Mickey Mantle, looking for a bottle of gin, and that psycho from the movie “Seven” with Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box.
The first is the fact that he has only lived in Florida for seven years, knows absolutely nothing about large swaths of the state and has contributed little to the civic good during his short tenure here, unless you count making media outlets happy by spending more than $50 million of his personal fortune in an attempt to buy the governor's office.
Ron hates Rick Scott: ‘knows absolutely nothing,’ ‘contributed little.’ And spending $50 million of his own money on media buys? What a prick.
The second seven is in the 75 times Scott used the Fifth Amendment in a lawsuit involving one of his companies.
So it’s only kind of a ‘seven,’ since the actual number is 75. Gotcha.
One doesn't do that unless one has something to hide, which is a reasonable conjecture about Scott's sealed lips
‘Sealed lips’ is kind of suggestive. Sure you want to stick with that, Ron? Have anything to say about Scott’s bald head? You could call it a ‘naked dome.’
since his health care company ended up paying a record $1.7 billion in fines for defrauding Medicare and thus the taxpayers.
What’s the point here? Oh yeah, Scott is an evasive bastard who took the Fifth. Any news to impart, Ron?
Click.
Scott is basically still pleading the Fifth today by refusing to meet with editorial boards of the state's newspapers.
With the one-sided treatment Scott gets from the newspapers, I wouldn’t talk to the T-U either. Especially if I could spend $500 trillion on ad buys that take my message straight to the voters.
Same question: What is Scott hiding?
Click.
OK, at least we’re off the evil Rick Scott now, and clicking to something else, like Walter Winchell or Will Rogers. Right?
Whenever Scott
Dammit
is asked about meeting with an editorial board, his stock answer is: "I'll have to ask Susie." That would be Susie Wiles, a former mayoral aide in Jacksonville who is managing Scott's campaign.
Weak attempt to localize his I-hate-Rick-Scott rant by bringing up someone who used to work in Jacksonville. Also, still on Rick Scott and nothing about Alex Sink. And nothing on the nasty ads. I was hoping for some ad-related nastiness soon.
If he is elected, is that the way he will govern when facing tough issues? I'll have to ask Susie?
Click.
Polls are showing the governor's office is still up for grabs.
Now I’m confused. Why all the clicking of Ye Olde News Dial? I thought each ‘click’ would deliver me to a new, different, still-boring topic. Maybe it’s a way to suggest that Scott’s evasiveness is on all three channels of Ron’s vacuum-tube Victrola, or that the point is being shouted out on every corner by the town crier in Williamsburg.
Some have Scott ahead.
Whatever.
Others show Sink with a slight lead.
(getting sleepy)
As of now, it's probably even.
Goddammit. I don’t know what’s worse: the spineless parroting of what the polls say or ‘as of now.’ No, wait, I’ve made up my mind (unlike Ron). It’s the invertebrate-ness.
For this late in the race, there's still a large number of undecided voters.
Winning them over and then getting them to the polls will be the key.
True dat. Other things that are facts: the earth is round, Gator fans miss Tim Tebow, the largest state east of the Mississippi is Georgia. None of this is worthy of mention in a newspaper piece that’s supposed to contain news.
Click.
Most folks are counting Charlie Crist out in his bid for the U.S. Senate.
Wow, we’re finally off Rick Scott. The ‘click’ now seems inadequate for an actual change of subject, no? I think he should have gone with ‘Zounds!’ Maybe with multiple exclamation points. Ron’s ‘news dial,’ btw, is more accurately a ‘boring political semi-news dial.’
John Thrasher, our state senator who also serves as the chairman of the state Republican Party, is predicting Crist will finish third.
Thrasher says that with glee in his voice. He is still hacked off at Crist for abandoning the Republican Party to make his run as an independent.
Yes, many Republicans are pissed at Charlie. Those Ron’s age have been heard to mutter shit like “by gum” or “sakes alive.”
But recent polls aren't backing Thrasher's prediction.
Is Crist ahead? Because if he is, by Thor’s Hammer, that would be news.
Democrat Kendrick Meek is running a distant third in the race.
So Crist is second? He’s not third, but you haven’t said he’s first. Is he first? Goddammit, Ron, put down the white lightning and answer me.
That could help Crist as Democrats, realizing Meek can't win, switch to Crist in an effort to stop Marco Rubio.
Possible, I suppose, but sounds like wishful thinking to me. No one any longer likes Charlie Crist, whose politically expedient flip-flopping makes (the politician you most hate) look like (your personal political icon).
There's almost four weeks to go before the election, and that can be a lifetime in politics.
It will be a tough road, but with support from independents and Democrats, I'm not counting Crist out yet.
Well, what the hell, I will. I will count out Charlie Crist, a once-popular governor whose popularity turned out to be wholly dependent on good economic times. It’s not Charlie’s fault the economy tanked especially badly in Florida, but neither is it the economy’s fault that on closer inspection, Charlie appears not to stand for much of anything other than Charlie Crist. See how much more interesting it is when you make a prediction and back it up with a defensible argument? Ron? Dammit, he’s turned off the Victrola.
Click.

You think locals are bad? Check out Howie

There’s a common thread to bad writing: the writer tries too hard, writes some bad shit, but mistakenly believes he’s committed Poetry or Literature or Truth. That this happens to sportswriters is both puzzling and hilarious, given their feeble grasp of the language, but it does provide an opening for hypercritical jerks like me. Today’s offering comes from outside of Northeast Florida, but indulge me. It’s baseball playoff time, and there are few things ol’ Budge likes more than hunkering down in the basement and crunching stats and watching a four-hour playoff game. One of the things I like more is the sycophantic faux-poetic baseball column. Ladies and gentleman, ESPN’s Howard Bryant wants to gush about Dusty Baker. It will be painful.
"Light a candle," Dusty Baker says, his lone voice softly skimming the looming silence of the empty church. "I'm sure there's someone out there you want to pray for."
I don’t know if I’ve ever read anything by Mr. Bryant, and I clicked on his column to see if there was anything enlightening about Baker, who has been successful as a manager but holds some odd baseball opinions (denigrating on-base percentage, for example, which is wrong, but let’s move on). Dusty can be nutty, but Bryant instantly vaulted past him in the first paragraph. Not a bad quote, but look at the dreck in between. A voice is skimming the looming silence? No. No.
He lights a candle, points the flickering matchstick downward in his large hands, the athlete's hands, dousing it into the cool sand. It is here in the solitude of St. Peter in Chains Cathedral -- funded by Ohio Catholics who donated 12 cents per month toward its construction in 1841 -- where Johnnie B. Baker, born Baptist in California, raised in the traditions of the southern black church, kneels alone among the long pews and nourishes his spirituality.
A little history lesson, eh? OK, fine. I’ve got all night -- really, all night, the playoffs don’t start until tomorrow. But I’m already wondering how much it cost to build this church funded by 12-cent donations. Seventy-three dollars? Twelve hundred lire? And I’m afraid you won’t tell me and that you’ll come back to this old-church reference in a lame and predictable way.
After several moments of prayer, he rises and walks gingerly toward the altar, marveling at the Greek architecture, the Corinthian columns and stained glass mosaics, comforted, despite its bruises, by the sanctuary and the ritual of the church.
Things that might be bruised, based on how this sentence reads: Greek architecture, Corinthian columns, the sanctuary or the ritual of the church. Don’t ask me how the ritual (sic) could be bruised.
"I come in here before homestands, sometimes a couple of times a week during the season," said Baker.
OK, this is Journalism 101: your attribution should be in the same tense (past, if you’re wondering). The first quote is followed by ‘Baker says,’ this one by ‘Baker said.’
"I pray for my family, for my team, and for Barack Obama, because I've never seen people try to take a president down like this, never seen such anger. I mean, what did he do to anybody?"
(wondering angrily why Howard Bryant won’t start writing about baseball): Note From Your Apparently Imaginary Editors: Drop the politics, write about baseball.
History surrounds Baker this morning, as it does every morning. He is humbled by its density,
The density of history makes me itchy, or at least it would if the density of history had a meaning.
energized by its lineage and his place in it. The ghosts are touching him.
This is where it starts to go off the rails. Bad writing is one thing, invoking ghosts, unless you’re writing a piece of fiction that has ghosts, is awful in a new way. Also, where are these ghosts touching him?
History is not something that happened to others a long time ago,
Yes. That’s exactly what history is.
but alive as the river upon whose banks his team plays.
Are the Reds actually playing on the banks of the... oh, never mind.
His baseball team, the Cincinnati Reds, the original professional ballclub in America, proud but down and dowdy in an era of big money, is on the cusp of a first playoff series since 1995, revived by a man who has won three Manager of the Year Awards but was run out of two big jobs in San Francisco and Chicago, and out of baseball in 2007.
‘Proud but down and dowdy?’ I think these failed stabs at poetry by Howie (I’m going to call him Howie because he writes like a precocious eight-year-old) are the result of him running a hip-hop beat through his head as he writes his column. I have zero evidence for this, but then he has zero evidence for ghosts that molest Dusty Baker.
Thirty-eight years ago, Baker had just completed his fifth season in the major leagues when Jackie Robinson threw out the first pitch before Game 2 of the 1972 World Series between the Reds and Oakland A's at old Riverfront Stadium.
Um, OK. Weird transition, but let’s see where he goes with this.
Robinson would be dead nine days later, but before he passed, he said famously he hoped there would one day be a black third-base coach or field manager in the major leagues. The National League, first to integrate, would not integrate the managerial ranks until 10 years after Robinson's death. Robinson died in 1972, and Baker, 36 years after, became the Reds' first African-American manager.
(slapping my face to stay awake) Jesus, that’s a bad paragraph. Here, I’ll help by rewriting that first sentence. “Robinson made headlines by saying he hoped one day to see a black manager in the majors. He died nine days later.” Short, succinct, not awkward. You’re welcome, Howie. The rest of your paragraph is even worse.
"I think about that. He said that here," Baker said of Robinson. "Imagine being able to win a World Series in the place where Jackie Robinson made his last public appearance, where he said that."
You would have to imagine it, Dusty, since the stadium where Jackie spoke in 1972 was torn down in 2002.
Baker lurches his silver Toyota Tundra
Baker is a bad driver? Why else would you use that verb? (the verb, in that sentence, was ‘lurches’). Also, weird transition.
along West 8th Street south, toward the Ohio River and the Great American Ballpark. The river stirs more ghosts.
Fuck. Again with the ghosts.
In September 1841, when the region's Irish Catholics donated their pennies to build St. Peter's, where moments earlier Baker's hands waded through holy water, black and Irish dockworkers engaged in three days of rioting, quelled only when the city dispatched the military.
My amusement is starting to curdle into anger: that sentence suggests that Baker’s hands waded (really, goddammit? his hands waded?) through holy water moments before something ethnic and violent went down in 1841.
The fighting took place above ground ("Riots and Mobs, Confusion and Blood Shed," wrote the Sept. 6, 1841, Cincinnati Daily Gazette) but under the streets, at the grassroots, whites and blacks conspired to subvert the system. Baker -- known since his playing days as a bridge between black, white and Latino players -- feels these ghosts, too, understanding that he, as the poet Maya Angelou once wrote, is the dream of the slave.
(throwing up my hands in confusion) What the hell, Howie? 19th century whites and blacks gathered in a subterranean clubhouse to subvert the system ... Latino ghosts ... Maya Angelou. Does no one read your copy before it’s posted?
He points directly in front of him, at the Underground Railroad Freedom Center, situated next door to the ballpark, a museum that displays portions of the original Underground Railroad. He mentions that behind him, in the deep basement of the watering hole O'Malley's in the Alley off of Vine Street, just under his feet, remnants of other tunnels that weaved from the south to Canada, to freedom, still remain.
Five commas in one sentence. Bad idea.
"You have to remember that Ohio was a free state and Kentucky was a slave state," Baker says. "The Underground Railroad was right here. Sometimes I close my eyes and think about that, about what that must have been like. 'Just get across the river and you're free. Just get across the river.'"
Forget all the details of everything that happened in San Francisco to turn a baseball renaissance into the bitterest memory: from former Giants managing partner Peter Magowan attempting to diminish Baker's achievements (as the walls closed in, Magowan once said that Baker's Manager of the Year awards had less to do with him and more with the organization), to the 5-0 lead and nine outs from the first World Series championship in San Francisco Giants history to the runaway envy that led club executives to privately refer to Baker derisively as their "celebrity manager."
Another weird transition, but even worse: a 96-word sentence.
Forget Chicago 2003, when Baker was a hair from taking the Cubs to the World Series, up three games to one on the Florida Marlins, coming home with Kerry Wood and Mark Prior on the mound to close out the National League Championship Series. Forget Steve Bartman.
"Chicago wasn't good to me at the end, but it was good for me," Baker said. "You don't want it to end like that, because everybody wants to be the one to do it, to win the World Series. I still think I was the one to do it. Didn't happen."
Chicago was mean to Dusty, but it was good for him in the long run. Can you elaborate on that? No? Sigh.
Think instead first about him being a kid, and the promise of having your entire life in front of you, 19 years old, protected by the great Henry Aaron. It was Henry who promised Johnnie and Christine Baker back in 1967 to always look out for their son. It was Henry who introduced Dusty to the world, jazz clubs and civil rights and the big leagues. It was Dusty who was on deck when Henry hit home run No. 715 that night in April 1974. It was Dusty -- oldest child, Marines platoon leader, big league manager but always heir to Aaron and his dad and the dreams of Robinson -- who was always the prodigy.
Wait, Dusty was not just a Marine but a platoon leader, and maybe, based on the timing, in Vietnam? I would be much more interested in the Dusty Baker Story, and a little less dismissive of Howie’s shitty writing, if he gave me some details about that.
Today, the prodigy is gone. Only the adult remains. Dusty Baker is 61 years old and the hell of aging conflicts with his boyish fire for baseball.
‘The hell of aging ... the boyish fire.’ Lame.
His dad, Johnnie B. Baker Sr., always a signature presence in the dugouts pregame where his son managed, died in 2009 at the age of 84 from, as Dusty says, "diabetes, high blood pressure, dementia, everything."
To be the adult means looking ahead and seeing no one ahead of him, no one leading the way. It means walking to the mound to remove a pitcher while talking to your father, who is gone physically, as Baker has done this season.
If I were a Reds fan, I would be alarmed by the fact that our manager talks to dead guys while making pitching changes.
In November 2001, after a routine checkup, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The doctors were aggressive, immediately removing the prostate -- no radiation treatments, no chemotherapy.
You didn’t think this piece could get worse, did you? Just wait.
"They told me I had to have a PSA [prostate-specific antigen].
You should say ‘test’ here, even if Dusty didn’t. You could put it in brackets or something.
They had been charting me, told me it was 1.0, 2.1 and then they told me I spiked to 4.0 [PSA levels under four nanograms per millileter generally indicate the absence of cancer]. It wasn't a huge surprise because all the Baker-Russell men died early," Baker said. "They took out the entire prostate."
Information I don’t need: Dusty Baker’s prostatectomy. By the way, who are they facing in the playoffs that start Wednesday? Have you named a single player on the 2010 Reds?
The 242 home runs he hit as a player, the three World Series appearances, all the years he walked into a bar and the place -- the women, especially --
Dusty, you scamp
went wild, all those years in the clubhouse as a member of the world-class athlete fraternity, all disappeared in the face of his mortality. Baker was the leader of a group of men whose identities are forged on the physical, and accepting the withering effects of cancer -- being unable to maintain an erection, for one -- was a difficult reality to confront.
‘Forged on the physical’? Christ, you’re bad. Here’s a difficult reality to confront: an ESPN columnist getting way too specific about the effects of prostate cancer.
"It changes your idea of your own manhood. You think you're this macho cat, but you're not," he said. "With some patients, the nerves never come back and you lose your erection permanently.
Make it stop. Please?
With others, it can come back on its own. I was lucky, some of the nerves returned. Luckily, they have those blue pills these days, knock on wood.
Pun! If I was listening to this I would either change the channel or, if I heard it in person, rip my ears off to avoid hearing any more.
People may laugh, but these things mess with your head, make you rethink how you see yourself. You question your whole sense of being.
"Some of the guys used to make fun of me back then -- I'm not ashamed to say it -- because one of the side effects is incontinence.
Oh. Oh no.
I was walking around wearing a diaper because I couldn't stop peeing all the time. The guys would see those things in my office, look at me and say, 'Are these your diapers?'"
Howie, wtf?
Still, don't forget the slights because they are unimportant. Forget them because, they are today, in the face of disease attacking his body and age taking his family from him, unimportant gnats to be brushed aside.
That last sentence was so bad, Howie, I’ve shifted from feeling sorry for Dusty to hating your writing again. In like 5 seconds.
Still, Baker remembers them all, and at times in his office, hours before the Reds will clinch a division title, it requires enormous concentration for him not to think about the member of the Giants ownership team who once sat him down and told him he needed to learn to be "more of a company man." To not think about the fact that he has taken three different teams to the postseason, could win a fourth manager of the year award and yet finds himself constantly hounded by the criticisms of what he supposedly cannot do, that he cannot win with young players or handle pitching staffs.
That last string of words is not a sentence, sir. Return to your high school and seek out a competent English teacher. Apologize.
The article goes on for another 50,000 words, but it’s about players and teams and playoff-relevant stuff, rather than ghosts and prostates, and who gives a shit about that when we can leave with the image of Dusty Baker walking around a major league clubhouse in a diaper?