Ben McGrath's year of magical sportswriting has passed into the annals of journalistic feistyness, and not, it shouldn't need to be said, given the profile of the celebrated organ that employs him, without some considerable notice. Not the least of which notice recently came from the Boston straightedge veterans over at The Medicine Agency, whose quick recap of the three subjects McGrath and his editors (what up, D. Remnick) saw fit to take down a notch (or three) is as mercifully brief as their forgivable Red Sox bias is plain to see. Among the more egregious of the blogosphere's crimes (and there are many) is its tendency towards redundancy, and it's in recognition of this that I'm not going to spend any time excerpting or repeating what it was that McGrath actually wrote about Manny Ramirez, Scott Boras and Lenny Dykstra. The internet's got that work. Read it, son.
What I will spend a second to say is that it feels like I-don't-even-know-what to have good sports copy lying around. Lloyd and I have had several meetings of the tex-mex-clogged mind on the subject of what is asked of a self-respecting man that he might subject himself to printed baseball news. Putting aside what one deals with on the radio and TV (notwithstanding the yeoman's work this hero puts in on behalf on that OTHER game), one nevertheless is, and has long been, reading either the roteness of any one of the interchangeable dailies, the post-Seinfeldian/post-Olbermann&Patrick-Big-Show snark of so ma

Guys like me inhale this stuff because it affords the prestige of being a true-blue litman, without requiring any of the work. It's The Official Sub-Genre of Stuff White People Like. But just because I'm addicted to it doesn't mean it won't occasionally make me feel like I just came from a swing-dancing lesson in the summer of 1998. It's got literally nothing to do with being a man. And that is why each new dispatch from youngbuck McGrath is being welcomed like an Age of Reason strongman general just back from his latest campaign. It's because there it is in the New Yorker, but instead of allegory, you get swearing. Instead of a finely honed, three-dimensional character sketch of Dizzy Dean, you get Lenny Dykstra answering a cellphone that rings to the tune of "Stuck on You" by Lionel Richie. Instead of patronizing white-guilt-laden reminiscences about Satchell Paige's "down-home personality," you get Dominican-ass Manny dealing with traffic violations and smoking cess in the Green Monster cubbyhole. McGrath specializes in the passive-aggressive undermining of the rich California asshole, but it's obvious, not just from his choice of subjects but from the sheer length of Persnickety Scribe Signature Series-brand rope with which each of them so far has gamely hung himself, that he's got no shortage of that fratboy dogg blood in his own damn veins and he's not afraid or apologetic about letting the boorish manners of the Yaley that he is shine through. He is what every self-styled smarter-than-the-average-bear sports fan thinks he is. He is, for the moment, my favourite American.
Welcome sir. Your middlebrowery makes my lowbrower seem even lower.
ReplyDeleteI must concur
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