An ill wind manages to put it all in perspective

The first thing I thought about, of course after the health, welfare and good wishes for everyone in Southern California, was the fact we wouldn’t have to worry about the World Series beginning here Wednesday.

Thank heavens we have crummy baseball teams.

We’re lucky like that, our fine police officers left to help those really in need rather than lining each side of a baseball diamond to protect Shea Hillenbrand or Maicer Izturis.

Just think if the Rams were still here, everyone probably calling what happened Sunday a “tragedy,” the Rams falling to 0-7.

I can picture Georgia Frontiere calling the fire department and demanding it stop whatever it’s doing, and send every one of those hunky guys over to help celebrate her 90th birthday.

There’s already talk that somebody started some of these fires. If we still had the Raiders, there would be no question about that.

We’re lucky, all right, and even blessed at tough times like these to have the poor sports that we do have here. But no question, it’s awkward at wind-whipped times like these to write about sports -- as if they are really relevant, although that would quickly change if the Kobester had something to say.

If the Lakers traded the Kobester tomorrow, that would put out the fires, or certainly shift the attention.

The good thing about living in L.A., though, whether it’s mudslides, earthquakes or fires, we still have Donald Sterling, the Parking Lot Attendant, Jerry Buss and his latest young escort and Phil dating Jeanie, every one of them capable of bringing a diversionary smile to our faces at a time when we need it the most.

Tell me you didn’t chuckle on this somber morning when you got past all the bad news to read the Galaxy season ended without David Beckham registering a single shot on goal in the 252 minutes he played for the team.

Laughter is the best medicine, all right, or as Galaxy GM Alexi Lalas put it a few months ago, “There will be interest in Beckham over here that exceeds everything else. The U.S. will never have dealt with an athlete who has had this kind of international impact. Tiger Woods has that international appeal, but with due respect to Woods and Michael Jordan, David Beckham is at an entirely different level.”

He sure is, right now on the same level as the Kings and Sparks -- and there’s a franchise that might want to change its name in these dry, windy times. Or maybe move somewhere else.

Sports can be such a morale booster, or teacher. The daughter was advised she might have to evacuate Sunday, but I was able to calm her down.

I told her about the unhappy people who are still going e-mail crazy over Karl Dorrell’s decision not to go for it on fourth and one, UCLA winning the game, but a reminder to everyone no matter how bad you think you’ve got it, you could be a Bruins football fan these days.

Or take the Daily News. Those who do didn’t get their newspaper Monday because of the fire, but Sunday they all awoke to read this front-page headline: “NFL to LA: Forget It.” And those readers probably thought the news could get no worse.

Reality can be a real bummer. That’s why I urge everyone to include a little sports and silliness in their lives -- maybe even a story written by Plaschke or Dwyre, which would certainly take your mind off of anything that really matters.

I understand Plaschke wants USC to start Mark Sanchez, while Dwyre wants John David Booty.

Amazing that two great football minds would be so far apart, although it will be Pete Carroll’s decision who starts, and if healthy, that will probably be Booty, who is less of a risk when it comes to turning the ball over.

A better question might be, who would you start your day reading? Plaschke or Dwyre?

I know this, the sooner we can make that the burning issue of the day, the better off we’re all going to be around here again.

MR. AND Mrs. Alan Grossbard donated $8,200 recently to Mattel Children’s Hospital at UCLA -- $100 for every Dodgers victory. They were more than willing to write a larger check, but the Dodgers failed to cooperate.

THERE ARE two problems when you have to deal with skin cancer on your shoulder. The first, of course, is putting the knife in Dr. Teresa Soriano’s hands.

The last time I visited Soriano, she stuck a knife in my head because I called her Dr. Ryan, figuring she’d be thrilled that someone had agreed to marry her so late in her life.

It wasn’t until later I learned she was in shock -- never expecting to land a guy. She’s now had her name legally changed to Soriano-Ryan. Instead of just carving a “S,” though, on her patients, she now likes to sign off as “S-R,” which is more painful.

That brings me to problem No. 2, and the fact most men now like to smack each other on the shoulder when they get together.

I ran into John Robinson in the Rose Bowl press box, and “bam” he smacks me on the incision not once, but twice, while telling an Al Davis story. It’s not the first time, I’m sure, he has brought a sportswriter to his knees.

A minute later it was Casey Wasserman, and then it was Scott Ostler, the former brilliant columnist for The Times, who still packs a pretty good wallop. He tells me he went out with Jeanie Buss a couple of times, and he’s patting me on the shoulder -- instead of the other way around.

I don’t get it. Doesn’t anyone just shake hands anymore?

TODAY’S LAST word comes in e-mail from Jim Barrick: “Let’s see, (several Angels have been mentioned in regard to steroids and HGH) with lots of other players rumored to have used the stuff. Could this Angels’ team have been the biggest ‘roid squad ever? How about Barry Bonds losing the World Series to a team of juicers?”

Disney owned the Angels back then, and I’d like to think it was still a “small, small world.”

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