Black & Blue

OK, now, listen up, this is a newspaper, so I’m only going to take newspaper questions. Ask about my adjectives, my alliterations, my incessantly irritating use of italics, but only ask newspaper questions.

What about your prediction streak?

Newspapers, newspapers, newspapers. Nobody cares about my prediction streak. That chapter is closed. That novel is out of print. That publisher is out of business. That bookmobile has crashed. That . . .

But the only thing interesting about you today is your 11-game Super Bowl prediction losing streak. For the last 11 years, you have picked the wrong team to win the game.

I’m white. I’m poor. I’m cursed.

But you’re not the victim. Those people who have foolishly followed your public predictions are the victims. You need to speak to them.

That’s old news. That’s yellowed news. That’s news that somebody has already dumped into a green recycling bin and, amid much cursing, is hauling to the end of the driveway at 2 a.m. on a Monday and . . .

But 11 consecutive incorrect predictions? The only similar Super Bowl record is the 11 combined turnovers in one game, a record shared by four teams.

Get the facts right. Doesn’t Joe Montana also have a record with 11 something-or-others?

That’s a career Super Bowl-record 11 touchdown passes. Not quite the same thing.

Figures. It was my doubting in Montana that began this streak. In 1990, I thought the San Francisco 49ers were too old and the Denver Broncos were too overdue.

Understandable, perhaps. But what explained, then, four consecutive years of picking the Buffalo Bills?

The first year, when I picked the Bills against the New York Giants, I had the right team. But Scott Norwood made the wrong kick. Then the next three years, I kept figuring it was the Bills’ turn.

But didn’t you learn, man? Where was your heart? Didn’t you feel any remorse about picking Thurman Thomas when he lost his helmet, or Marv Levy when he lost his mind, or . . .

Nah. Uh-uh.

Time out! America, quit torturing Plaschke! He has paid his price. The pain has to stop. Take him off the rack. Put away the whip. Unknot the noose. Unhook the electrodes. Unclamp the . . .

Thanks, Simers.

But Bill, some people say that your losing streak--and the fact that you write about it every Super Sunday--is nothing but a cheap attempt at humor, a shtick.

Who do you think I am, Simers?

Bill, here in the back, I have a newspaper question.

Finally.

What about your irritatingly short paragraphs?

So?

Don’t you think they are hard to read?

No.

Bill, back to the streak, what was your worst prediction?

Aren’t you listening? Newspapers, newspapers, newspapers.

Please, you owe it to your city, your country and our resumes to talk about this streak. Now, your worst predictions, please?

OK, I was dumb enough to believe Steve Young could not win the big one, just before the 49ers pounded the San Diego Chargers in 1995.

I was naive enough to think Bill Parcells would always win the big one, just before the Green Bay Packers pounded the New England Patriots in 1997.

But the worst was when I believed in the destiny of the hopelessly outmatched Atlanta Falcons against the Broncos in 1999.

Destiny? Wasn’t that the name of Eugene Robinson’s pregame date?

Don’t remind me. I have been burned by a hooker, robbed by Larry Brown, mugged by Desmond Howard, and last year tackled one yard short of a possible victory by somebody named Mike Jones.

I have picked with my heart, and the smarter team won. I have picked with my brain, and the luckier team won.

Swept up in the hype of this national celebration day, I have annually predicted the magical. Then, about two hours into every game, I have realized that it’s still only football.

John Elway beats miraculous. Brett Favre will throw a ball through improbable coverage. The Dallas Cowboys can gang-tackle magic.

So will that realization affect your prediction this year?

First let me say, I love the New York Giants. They are the classiest team here. It’s not even close. They have a brave and maturing quarterback, a tough defense, a smart coach. Who would have thought the New York team would be America’s team, but they are it.

So you’re picking the Giants?

Let me also say that I dislike the Baltimore Ravens. Their owner is slick, their coach is arrogant, their players talk trash. Their leaders can be callous, condescending and graceless.

So, again, you’re picking the Giants, right?

Remember, I said I learned, this game is not about who you like. It’s about who you fear.

The Giants are a better story, but the Ravens are a tougher team. The Giants have the magic, but the Ravens have the muscle.

For all their talk, the Ravens may indeed have perhaps the best defense in history. They have a hot punter. They have a great return man. They have no offense, but what does it matter if the other team never crosses the 50-yard line?

I’ve learned. The Super Bowl is like any other game. Bad guys throw the baddest punches. Nice guys get creamed. The Ravens win, 10-3.

That’s it, people. That’s enough. This interview is over. Absolutely no more questions about the streak. You’re sounding like ambulance chasers. Fire truck mechanics. Police car salesmen. Siren manufacturers . . .

Who are you?

Your limousine driver.

Nah. Uh-uh.

*

After the Giants whip the Ravens tonight, you can rip Plaschke at his e-mail address: bill.plaschke@latimes.com.