Good Sports

Last night I began reading The Only Game in Town: Sportswriting from The New Yorker, edited by David Remnick. Sorry to say, but I get the impression that Remnick chose a great many of these sports pieces to pay homage to the late Roger Angell (who was sports editor and one of the oldest fixtures to be found in The New Yorker offices), and, much like an old catcher's mitt, Remnick picked up these thirty-two essays based on name-recognition (there are no rookie writers tossing words in these pages). Angell, Updike, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Ian Frazer, Ring Lardner, Martin Amis, Calvin Trillin . . . all the veteran New Yorker contributors are here. And Remnick even calls John Cheever and Don Delillo out of the bullpen to pitch an inning each. Don Delillo? Okay, but this is a ringer. How can Delillo pitch while carrying his Pulitzer Prizes?

I must confess that I did use the "fast forward" button last night and read ahead in the assignments. I read Ian Frazer's football team lineup (featuring members of his own family) and Martin Amis's "Tennis Personalities"--both decent parodies, but not so much what I would call great sportswriting. I skipped over John Updike's "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu", as this one is included in at least two of Updike's own collections and, well, I've read it at least twice between other covers.

It wasn't until I read Ben McGrath's "Project Knuckleball" that I began to feel like I'd stepped onto the playing field. Now here is a great human-interest piece on the weird and wacky world of knuckleball pitchers. Tim Wakefield (Boston RS) heads the lineup here, but there are some great stories about the all-time knuckleballer greats like Charlie Hough, "Knucksie" Phil Niekro, and Wilbur Wood (the last major league pitcher to start both games of a double-header, 1973, and he lost both games). This is the type of writing I paid money for and I'm expecting more of the same as I get into the late innings of this book.

But as it stands now, I think I was an incredibly good sport for purchasing this book outright, with no prior knowledge of how the game would be played. I'll give Remnick the managerial nod for now, but the team he's assembled better put on their rally caps and come through. Lord knows these big name writers are getting paid enough to win (they are getting paid aren't they, Mr. Remnick?).

Until then, I'll be looking for the pieces that bring back memories of sandlots or pick-up basketball games. My knees are shot, but not my mind. And, unlike the book's title suggests, there are, indeed, other games in town. I've got a lot of other unread books in my library that need coddling if this one doesn't feed my need for sports romance.