Notes on a Scorecard of an Extraordinary Life, Career. . . .

I have decided to think of it as his last meal. Things make more sense that way.

It was last Friday, Paul’s Kitchen, a long table, just four occupied chairs.

Allan, Tom Lasorda, publicist Bill Caplan, myself.

Four guys sitting around heaping mounds of food on a mid-September afternoon talking pennant-race baseball.

The perfect setting for that perfect old-school sportswriter everyone called Mud.

There were big bowls of soup, and arguments about pitchers.

Long plates of coated shrimp, and discussions about infielders.

Lasorda would point to some imaginary foe and curse. Mud would smile.

Lasorda would recount a story about some player who dared challenge him and his fists. Mud would laugh so hard, his eyes would water.

It was a perfect setting for a perfect listener.

Which is what Mud did better than anybody.

The beauty of his column was that he wrote it by listening; through a phone receiver at 7 a.m., in a luncheon booth at noon, behind a batting cage at 7.

He would listen, and jot in a tiny wrinkled notebook, and the next day the stuff would be in the newspaper.

Just as he heard it.

With rarely a rip or cheap shot or dumb joke or any of the other tools so overused in today’s sports pages.

By listening, Mud recently broke one of the biggest sports stories in Los Angeles in 20 years. He was a full day ahead of everyone on Lasorda’s surprise retirement.

By listening, he became the Los Angeles sports world’s trusted friend. And yours.

He even listened last Friday afternoon when the talk turned to health.

“I think I need to go on whatever diet you are on,” he told Lasorda.

He then began quizzing Lasorda about his post-heart attack diet and workout schedule.

He had asked nearly the same questions the previous evening in the press dining room at Dodger Stadium, and received nearly the same answers.

“Mud, if you’re worried about your health, start walking every day,” Lasorda told him Friday.

“Mud, quit eating so much meat.”

“Mud, give up all those fried foods.”

Mud talked about using the stationary bike in his apartment complex.

“I’m going to start doing that, I promise,” he said.

He nodded and yawned and it was my turn for a question.

“Mud, what are you going to do after this lunch?”

“Go home and take a nap.”

Now everyone else was laughing as Mud threw up his hands and shrugged. He was who he was, in an era when not many are.