Almost Everyone Can Find Their Smile on Opening Day

By T.J. Simers

April 13, 2005 12 AM PT

You have to spend some time with Jeff Kent, and believe me I know how grueling that can be, to fully appreciate what happened after the Dodgers’ victory in their home opener on Tuesday.

Kent is all baseball business, repeatedly and tiresomely so, glaring while he says, “I’m paid to just do my job here,” and then when I mention something about “entertainment,” he says, “I’m not going to be a part of any of your ...” well, nonsense.

My opening line to him in San Francisco last week was, “I’ve got you guys pegged to finish third.”

His reply: “Outstanding. So do I.”

I wrote it down, told him that would make a great story: “Kent Has Dodgers Pegged to Finish Third,” and he adjusted his remarks. So we know he’s smart, but he did so with all the charm of an accountant erasing a final calculation and beginning anew.

We talked on opening day in San Francisco and it went nowhere, one baseball cliche after another. I can’t imagine a brain surgeon being any more serious.

Moments after Milton Bradley’s dramatic game-winning hit, I was standing in front of Kent again.

“Never a doubt,” I told him, and I kept a straight face so he could relate.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Kent droned, while adding a melting stare.

“We just play baseball,” he said, and I wrote it down because it appeared that was going to be as good as it got.

Then I went off to interview others, the crowd around Kent dwindling before I returned for one more try. (It’s just like trying to talk to Mike Garrett.)

As promised, I came to the game wearing the genuine blue Dodger cap given to me by the Micro Manager, along with a blue pullover -- to cover a growing stomach to avoid any confusion of who is really pregnant, Mrs. Bagger or her father.

No question, I looked like a genuine Dodger yahoo, and so I went back to Kent and told him, “We did it; we won,” while adjusting my genuine blue Dodger cap. “You and me, big guy, we’re 1-0 together now.”

And you know what, I got Kent to smile.

“I knew we were going to win today when I saw you in the locker room before the game wearing the Dodger cap,” Kent said with a grin, and to think he said he was never going to be a part of any of my, well, nonsense.

TWO HOURS before the first pitch at Dodger Stadium, you know, when they would really turn up the music, I was on the field.

I was counting the number of ads the Dodgers could get on the new wrap-around video board at any one time -- 53 -- when I spotted the team’s new vice chairman, Jamie McCourt, who has been avoiding me.

She was chirping away with Doug Krikorian, a hard-nosed, brilliant, L.A. columnist years ago before going to work for a Long Beach shopper. Now I’ve heard Doug say on the radio that McCourt has great legs -- Jamie, I presume, and not Frank -- and he has also told me, “I wouldn’t even be talking to her if she didn’t have those legs.”

So I wasn’t worried about interrupting an important interview.

“What happened, you lose my phone number?” I asked Jamie.

“Is this on the record?” she said, and I can’t imagine a day in my life when I’d want to just make small talk with the Screaming Meanie, so I told her it was, and she locked her attention on Krikorian as if he was the one with the great legs.

Krikorian, of course, was beaming. No one reads his columns anymore let alone listens to him talk, so he tried to act like a real reporter, asking her how her duties have changed with her promotion.

She leaned forward, so I couldn’t hear and whispered into his ear.

I was ready to catch Krikorian in case he went weak in the knees, but he came right back with one of his trademark hard-hitting questions.

“Are you still swimming?” he asked her, and I wrote that down, which seemed to unnerve McCourt, because she began jabbing at my notebook with a pointy finger.

I told her, “I’m not making fun of you, I’m writing down what Doug is saying so I can make fun of him.”

It has been 69 days since McCourt promised to call, so I asked if she was ever going to get back to me, and she feigned ignorance, or at least seemed to feign.

Then she said she’d love to talk, so right away I knew she wasn’t telling the truth, but that first I must stop insulting family members before we could talk again.

I had no idea she cared so much about the Grocery Store Bagger, the daughter with the big butt now that she’s pregnant, the daughter who can’t get a date or the old wife.

Can you imagine me not insulting the Bagger?

Then I realized she was talking about her family, so I told her, “Your family needs to do a better job of getting its message out,” which means, “It doesn’t look like we’ll be talking any time soon.”

That’s when one of the crisis managers hired to rebuild the McCourts’ image grabbed Jamie and told her they needed to get to the turnstiles to greet the fans, anything to get away from Page 2.

She pulled McCourt away, but instead of heading for the turnstiles, McCourt spent the next 15 minutes talking to friendly reporters. That’s when I offered to help, moving toward her again, which sent McCourt and her crisis manager scurrying for the turnstiles.

I don’t know what they’re paying these crisis people, but it seems to me I’d come a lot cheaper and produce better results. All they have to do is call me.

SPEAKING OF a crisis, another one was averted when Bradley got a hit in the ninth inning rather than striking out to end the game. (Just a joke, Milton).

BEFORE THE game, third baseman Jose Valentin fielded a bunch of ground balls down the line, a week after losing the ball in the chalk at SBC Park. I pointed out to the Micro Manager that no one had put chalk down for infield practice, which made the exercise futile. He said he’d take care of it.

I take wearing this genuine blue Dodger cap very seriously.

T.J. Simers can be reached at [email protected]. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.