These days, doughnuts are sweeter than sports

I went out for do-pos (doughnuts) with the 7-Eleven Kid, just the granddaughter and G.P. -- a gutsy move, risking the chance of hearing at any given moment, “I go potty.”

She picked out three frosted-covered do-pos -- one for her, one for G.P. and one to take home to “mommy,” and then sat down and tried to eat them all.

G.P.’s job was to use the store’s entire supply of napkins to wipe off her hands every time she picked up the sticky donuts. A G.P., though, has only two hands, while everyone knows a 2-year-old has something like 20 -- one of them always intent on running fingers through a mop of blond hair. A mop of sticky blond hair now.

She was wearing an “I love Grandpa” shirt, and although it’s true she doesn’t know how to read yet, she’s smart enough to wear anything that the guy buying the doughnuts wants her to wear.

We talked about Minnie, Mickey and Hilary, and then she began serenading me with something about a choo-choo, scooting forward to get in my face, swaying joyfully back and forth as she sang -- as uninhibited and as happy as anyone could be. A hug to reward the applause.

I don’t know how it can get any better for a G.P. Just pure pleasure.

I know a little something about pure pleasure. I have two kids, after all, one of them conceived shortly after Bucky Dent hit the playoff home run to beat the Red Sox, before returning home to the wife.

Talk about pure pleasure, you should have seen the plays Graig Nettles was making at third base.

Pure pleasure is also playing a great golf course on a gorgeous weekday afternoon while everyone else is working. As long as you don’t have to play with Dwyre.

Pure pleasure is getting a kiss on the cheek from Salma Hayek, knowing she’s doing everything she can to control herself from going any further.

Pure pleasure is getting word the Grocery Store Bagger is going to be out of town for a few weeks -- always the chance bad weather might delay him further.

I chose this career because of pure pleasure -- pure pleasure for sports, which is pretty much gone now.

We might never see a better NFL team in our lifetime than the Patriots, found guilty of spying and now accused of poor sportsmanship for running up the score.

Just imagine the 7-Eleven Kid sitting in front of the TV, G.P. pointing to the screen and telling her, “Look, you see the hood over there, the grouchy man with the mean look on his face? That honey, is the face of pure pleasure.”

Barry Bonds breaks baseball’s most coveted record, and decades from now she will be able to tell her own children, “I was alive to see Barry Bonds get indicted.”

With my luck, Mr. HGH will be her favorite player.

A-Rod is the best player in baseball right now, maybe ever, and you would think he would be an endless source of pure pleasure -- and I guess he is, if you take pure pleasure in the fact Scott Boras has been knocked down a peg.

Beckham was brought here because of the pure pleasure he gives soccer fans, and then he did everything he could to avoid mixing with everyone.

Is there pure pleasure in sports any longer? Can there be with all the money, drugs and impatience for success?

Can there be pure pleasure in sports with all the blogs, message boards and other mechanisms designed to incite fans already obsessed with games people play?

What’s the pure pleasure return after the cost for parking, tickets, concessions and contending with L.A. traffic?

Do you point to Kobe Bryant and tell the 7-Eleven Kid, “He’s so good, he might score 100 points someday for Chicago?”

One might say the Dodgers drew 3.8 million fans because of the pure pleasure of watching baseball in Chavez Ravine.

But I might argue the Dodgers sold 3.8 million tickets with the promise of good baseball, only to have hundreds of thousands of fans not use them -- because there is no pleasure in watching mediocrity at work.

How many people recall falling in love with sports because of the pure pleasure of holding mom or dad’s hand while walking into a stadium? Is a stadium today any place to take a child?

Is pure pleasure a fine Saturday of USC football and tailgating, or does it have to be 11 winning Saturdays in a row?

I had the 7-Eleven Kid watching the first quarter of the Lakers-Bulls game, explaining the object of the game is to put the ball in the basket. Hard to explain to a kid who is used to having Elmo always make good on everything why no one could put the ball in the basket.

Also hard to explain the pure pleasure of watching the Chargers lose again, although her eyes seemed to light up when I mentioned the Spanos Goofs.

“Goofy?” she said.

“Very,” I said.

THERE ARE still pure pleasure exceptions. Vin Scully’s voice delivers, but what if G.P. sits the 7-Eleven Kid down to listen to Vin and it’s one of those days he invites the Parking Lot Attendant to join him on the air? Come on, she’s just a baby, and scares so easily.

Now I find pure pleasure in watching Tiger Woods trounce the opposition, but that means watching golf, and how do you explain to a 2-year-old -- Phil Mickelson choking and no one willing to help?

And yet, some people e-mail to complain: “Why not write more positive stories?” What -- lie to people?

A positive sports story these days is about someone overcoming drugs. Or UCLA winning a football game, and how often does that happen?

It just seems like things are different now. The pure pleasure of sports is often in the anticipation, but even that has changed.

You can’t wait for the Golden Boy’s next fight -- why don’t you ask Oscar De La Hoya if the pictures of him dressed in women’s underwear on the Internet are really him.

Just give me a minute to put my hands over the 7-Eleven Kid’s ears.

--

T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.