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Extra
innings were over. My beloved Cleveland
Indians had beaten my almost as beloved
Senior Circuit franchise 6-4. I'd gone
crazy with the screamin' and the
hollerin' and whatnot, all but
physically sparring with my boys — who
live and die with Ye Olde Brooklyn
Trolley Dodgers. And when the Tribe of
my youth beat L.A. in its first-ever
trip to Chavez Ravine I let out
something — but only something — like a
war cry. It felt awesome, like clowning
Giants' fans did last year when my
Dodgers swept them in S.F.
That's why I felt a little sad about
what was said early that day. I'd mocked
Major League Baseball a bit because of
its creeping irrelevance among young
Americans. It's sort of offensive to me
the sports administrators and marketers
are content to narrow its audience and
feast off the disposable income of aging
boomers. Isn't baseball supposed to be
the national pastime?
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Donnell's Bio
Source's August cover story on
the rapper Common. And my byline is misspelled.
There's not much more you need to know about me.
(Except that the piece totally rocked!) A lot of
people know my work, but they have irregular ideas
about me. (I pretty much fuckin' rock. Accept it.)
Those who actually know me? They're huge Donnell
fans. Closest to me are my girlfriend Nil and
children Forrest, Wyatt and Sol.
I edit a magazine called New Angeles, which focuses
on the enormous portion of Los Angeles that sits
east of La Cienega. It's a huge, fascinating job. My
first issue hits Labor Day week.
Sports obsess me. Music makes me high. And sex! I
could go on about screwing for days at a time. Don't
get me started.
My next book comes out in the first part of 2008.
Co-authored with Bruce Williams, this non-fiction
work is called Rollin' with Dre.
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