The Dodgers found their way into the news cycle for all the wrong reasons this season: the unthinkable Bryan Stow beating, the divorce saga of Frank and Jamie McCourt, the seemingly fitting bankruptcy proceedings, the slumping attendance, the overall on-field mediocrity (see: watching the playoffs from home).
Now, when the Dodgers finally have something to celebrate, the Los Angeles Times botches its online coverage with a grammatical nightmare in the subhead (below). You're killing me, Smalls!
Well, it's finally here. Brewing for more than two years and brought violently forth as I slogged through The Book of Basketball was an all-in-good-fun tirade against Bill Simmons, the ESPN blogger extraordinaire whose Grantland website launched earlier this year. Now it's written, organized into a list of 33 reasons (the number an ode to The Sports Guy himself) and filled with the stretching-it analogies, random pop culture references and mindless footnotes for which he is famous. Plus, it'll serve as my gift to Simmons because it arrives just in time for his Sept. 25 birthday. And, best of all, its title is based on a popular meme, the Manning Face, that is often attributed to Simmons -- even though it was conceived by a reader.
So what, then, is the Manning Face? It's is a grimace of frustration, a look of angry dejection, an expression of utter hopelessness. It's how a quarterback reacts when his receiver drops a perfect pass with the game on the line, or what a basketball coach is thinking when his player calls timeout after all the team's timeouts have been used. It's also how I feel when I read Bill Simmons' work.
The anticipation is palpable, so here's the rundown (and I know you carefully process every word of Simmons' columns, so the length of this piece won't deter you at all):
33. I Think, Therefore I'm Right
That heading pretty much sums up Bill Simmons' philosophy on writing. Why? He hardly does any reporting, relying instead on other journalists and columnists for angles, stories and quotes. He is to sports what Jay Leno is to news: Leno sits back while journalists uncover the day's news, then takes their collective work and turns it into a humor-laced monologue. The Book might as well have been a copy of David Halberstam's The Breaks of the Game with Simmons' notes in the margins; that's how frequently he leans on Halberstam for the meat of his assertions. Yes, there is a space -- even a need -- for outside commentary in sports journalism, but it doesn't have to come from a guy whose son's middle name is Oakley.1
32. When $h!t Hits The Fan
One of the supposed factors in Bill Simmons' meteoric rise is his fan-centric perspective; people enjoy reading his work because he, they say, is like one of us. But is he really? Maybe he was as the Boston Sports Guy, when his audience and ego were much smaller -- when he, too, was an outsider. Now, though, Simmons is a full-fledged media personality with an ESPN paycheck, easy access to the most prominent sports celebrities and connections to the most influential people in the sporting world. Which is all well and good, but let's face it: Fans don't get to interview David Stern or sit poolside in Las Vegas with Isiah Thomas. Fans don't get to direct and produce videos with the backing of the Worldwide Leader. He'd like you to think otherwise, but Bill Simmons is an insider parading as a fan.2
31. Pyramid of Failure
The funny thing about the conceptual Pyramid of NBA legends -- the driving force behind The Book -- is that Bill Simmons rarely follows the complex rubric that he rolls out during its introduction. We learn, eventually, that there isn't much rhyme or reason to it at all. For one, the player profiles are formulaic and bland: Each athlete was some combination of the greatest ever (in his era, at his position, considering his circumstances); or had unrivaled talent but didn't put it to use because of various maladies (drugs, injuries, woeful work ethic, bad timing); or wasn't all that impressive but is nonetheless remembered for one legacy (moment, move, style or off-court incident). Then, in the final segment of his Pyramid chapter, Simmons defends Michael Jordan as the greatest player of all time as much via personal anecdote -- Stop the presses! Simmons and MJ were once at the same upscale restaurant! -- as through memorable moments in the highlight-filled career of His Airness. It calls into question any grains of logic that existed between No. 96 and No. 1.
30. Tyranny of Statistics
The purpose of The Book -- to determine the best players and teams in NBA history -- is supposedly based on the premise that statistics cannot capture a player's essence like stories, anecdotes and colleague evaluations can. But what dominates The Book more than anything? Numerical data -- page after page after page of percentages, ratios and averages. In fact, The Book has more numbers than any book I've read save for Introduction to Algebra.3 True or not, it feels as though Simmons uses statistics to accomplish one of the following goals: support previously formed opinions; fill in where stories and anecdotes fell short; confuse the reader into buying a ridiculous argument; or maintain his status as an alleged research guru in the Google age.
29. D'oh! Excessive Homerism, Part I
Did you know that Bill Simmons is from Boston? (Of course you did.) Well, he writes his columns as if he's the protagonist in Memento and needs tangible reminders -- of his birthplace, his favorite teams and his most cherished sports memories -- to survive. His incessant doting on the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots and Bruins is hard enough to stomach, and he complements that annoying adoration with childish jabbing at the Lakers and other rivals. But karma, as they say, is a boomerang:
28. Attempted Persuasion Through Personal Anecdote
An early example of classic Simmons: "Once upon a time, the Boston Garden fans cheered [John Havlicek] for 510 seconds," he writes. "And I was there. I was in the building. I cheered for every one of those 510 seconds ... " (p. 25). It's composed as if Simmons' presence makes that moment more memorable to the sports world, when in reality it serves as an obstacle. Perhaps Bottom of The Barrel says it best: Bill Simmons "does not believe in the existence of dinosaurs. You know why? If Bill Simmons does not experience something firsthand, then that event did not happen ... " We'll call this the Bill Simmons Test.
t's one of those potentially perfect evenings in the middle of August, a darkening blue blanket chasing the sun toward the horizon, a warm breeze crawling gently through the grass. A father and son play a relaxed game of catch, not exchanging many words, not needing to. The child is perhaps 10 years old -- old enough to keep the ball from slipping out of his brown leather glove, young enough that he still enjoys the simple thrill of throwing a stitched sphere of cork back and forth.
The ball skies overhead in a towering parabola. Soon it will slam with a thud into the boy's well-worn glove. Soon it will zip eagerly back toward the father, each time carrying with it an intangible scrapbook of fond childhood memories. And soon the mosquitoes will have their turn to frolic about in the twilight air, and their would-be victims will sneak off into the night to fetch root beer floats at a nearby parlor.
The youthful father's next toss soars into the air, higher than the one before it. But the ball, not seconds ago a bonding baton, is now a distraction device. As the boy scrambles to get under it, the father reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a small contraption -- one that will put him in touch with people other than his son. The scene is a 21st century twist on a timeless tradition, a modern mangling of an otherwise heart-melting moment.
Words are sprayed calmly and carelessly into the phone, maybe to a wife, maybe to a friend, maybe to a business partner. The father holds out his glove, gesturing that he can still catch with one hand. His child obliges, returning the ball to what might as well be a catch-playing robot. Now, though, the ball lingers in the father's glove, his throwing hand busy holding the phone to his ear.
"Dad!" the boy hollers, at first sounding more eager than upset. He waits a few moments more, becoming slightly less patient with each moment his father's conversation doesn't cease. "Come on!" The father appears to hear his son's plea, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his throwing hand. His mind is still elsewhere.
Even against the beams of man-made light shining from the poles that surround the field, darkness reigns. The phone call ends. So does the game of catch. "Time to go," the father says quietly, not having to compete with many other sounds. "OK," the boy replies, removing his glove and heading toward the car as his father, with the benefit of longer strides, makes up for the distance that existed between the two during their game.
Car doors open and shut. An engine starts. The child is too excited about ice cream and soda to think about it, but somewhere inside he feels let down. Like a runner stranded at third base at the end of an inning, he's almost home, yearning for what could have been, his potentially perfect evening disappearing into a black web of mosquitoes and cellphone signals.
The old-as-time clock that sits atop Jackson Tower in downtown Portland and watches over Pioneer Courthouse Square gets the Salvador Dali treatment in this photo, which turns a nearby building into a set of giant, manipulative mirrors.
