Almost as Bad as the Dodgers' Season Itself

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!

Nowadays, Even Father-Son Time Has a Catch

Image source: John Wong Photography via AllPosters.com

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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 Greatest Joke of All Time, Perhaps

So, there's this guy named Jim, and Jim loves baseball (although we'll never know why). He probably goes to  four or five games each season, usually with his friend Frank. This time it's a beautiful summer afternoon, and Jim and Frank are seated in a sunny section on the third-base side. Perfect day for baseball, as they say.

A few innings in, Jim gets thirsty, and he doesn't feel like waiting for a vendor howling "Cold drinks here!" to come down the nearby aisle. So he asks Frank if he wants anything to drink -- he doesn't -- and makes his way to the concession stands. But things have changed since Jim's last trip to the stadium.

He learns as much after talking to one of the food cashiers: Now, instead of selling drinks at the various food stands, the stadium has a separate line for each beverage. So there's a Sprite stand and a Coke queue, a lemonade line and a Barq's booth. There's even a line for Full Throttle energy drinks because, let's face it, you need energy drinks at baseball games.

Slightly puzzled by the new arrangement, Jim heads toward Refreshment Row. He walks slowly behind the dozen-or-so lines of people, analyzing each beverage option, but nothing's jumping out at him. He doesn't really like Coke. He's not in the mood for Sprite. The lemonade line is two innings long. For whatever reason, Jim just can't make up his mind.

So he ambles back toward the food stands without buying a drink, stops at the drinking fountain for a few sips of water and approaches the cashier who told him about the weird new setup.

"Sorry to bother you again, but I was just over at Refreshment Row and couldn't decide what to get," Jim says. "Are there any other choices?"