The Only Game in Town
Sportswriting from the New Yorker
(Sprache: Englisch)
For more than eighty years, The New Yorker has been home to some of the toughest, wisest, funniest, and most moving sportswriting around. The Only Game in Town is a classic collection from a magazine with a deep bench, including such authors as Roger...
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For more than eighty years, The New Yorker has been home to some of the toughest, wisest, funniest, and most moving sportswriting around. The Only Game in Town is a classic collection from a magazine with a deep bench, including such authors as Roger Angell, John Updike, Don DeLillo, and John McPhee. Hall of Famer Ring Lardner is here, bemoaning the lowering of standards for baseball achievement in 1930. John Cheever pens a story about a boy's troubled relationship with his father and the national pastime. From Lance Armstrong to bullfighter Sidney Franklin, from the Chinese Olympics to the U.S. Open, the greatest plays and players, past and present, are all covered in The Only Game in Town. At The New Yorker, it's not whether you win or lose it's how you write about the game.
Klappentext zu „The Only Game in Town “
For more than eighty years, The New Yorker has been home to some of the toughest, wisest, funniest, and most moving sportswriting around. The Only Game in Town is a classic collection from a magazine with a deep bench, including such authors as Roger Angell, John Updike, Don DeLillo, and John McPhee. Hall of Famer Ring Lardner is here, bemoaning the lowering of standards for baseball achievement in 1930. John Cheever pens a story about a boy s troubled relationship with his father and the national pastime. From Lance Armstrong to bullfighter Sidney Franklin, from the Chinese Olympics to the U.S. Open, the greatest plays and players, past and present, are all covered in The Only Game in Town. At The New Yorker, it s not whether you win or lose it s how you write about the game.
Lese-Probe zu „The Only Game in Town “
PART ONEFROM THE BLEACHERS
THE WEB OF THE GAME
ROGER ANGELL
An afternoon in mid-May, and we are waiting for the game to begin. We are in shadow, and the sunlit field before us is a thick, springy green an old diamond, beautifully kept up. The grass continues beyond the low chain-link fence that encloses the outfield, extending itself on the right-field side into a rougher, featureless sward that terminates in a low line of distant trees, still showing a pale, early-summer green. We are almost in the country. Our seats are in the seventh row of the grandstand, on the home side of the diamond, about halfway between third base and home plate. The seats themselves are more comforting to spirit than to body, being a surviving variant example of the pure late-Doric Polo Grounds mode: the backs made of a continuous running row of wood slats, divided off by pairs of narrow cast-iron arms, within which are slatted let-down seats, grown arthritic with rust and countless layers of gray paint. The rows are stacked so closely upon each other (one discovers) that a happening on the field of sufficient interest to warrant a rise or half-rise to one s feet is often made more memorable by a sharp crack to the kneecaps delivered by the backs of the seats just forward; in time, one finds that a dandruff of gray paint flakes from the same source has fallen on one s lap and scorecard. None of this matters, for this view and these stands and this park it is Yale Field, in New Haven are renowned for their felicity. The grandstand is a low, penumbrous steel- post shed that holds the infield in a pleasant horseshoe-curved embrace. The back wall of the grandstand, behind the uppermost row of seats, is broken by an arcade of open arches, admitting a soft backlight that silhouettes the upper audience and also discloses an overhead bonework of struts and beams supporting the roof the pigeonland of all the ballparks of our youth. The game we are waiting for Yale vs. St. John s
... mehr
University is a considerable event, for it is part of the National Collegiate Athletic Association s northeast regional tournament, the winner of which will qualify for a berth at the national collegiate championships in Omaha in June, the World Series of college baseball. Another pair of teams, Maine and Central Michigan the Black Bears and the Chippewas have just finished their game here, the first of a doubleheader. Maine won it, 10 2, but the ultimate winner will not be picked here for three more days, when the four teams will have completed a difficult double-elimination tournament. Good, hard competition, but the stands at Yale Field are half empty today. Call them half full, because everyone on hand some twenty-five hundred fans must know something about the quality of the teams here, or at least enough to qualify either as a partisan or as an expert, which would explain the hum of talk and expectation that runs through the grandstand even while the Yale team, in pinstriped home whites, is still taking infield practice.
I am seated in a little sector of senior New Haven men Townies rather than Old Elis. One of them a couple of rows in front of me says, They used to fill this place in the old days, before there was all the baseball on TV.
His neighbor, a small man in a tweed cap, says, The biggest crowd I ever saw in here the biggest ever, I bet was for a high school game. Shelton and Naugatuck, about twenty years ago.
An old gent with a cane, seated just to my left, says, They filled it up that day the Yankees came here, with Ruth and Gehrig and the rest of them. An exhibition game.
A fan just beyond the old gentleman a good-looking man in his sixties, with an open, friendly face, a large smile, and a thick stand of gray hair leans toward my neighbor and
I am seated in a little sector of senior New Haven men Townies rather than Old Elis. One of them a couple of rows in front of me says, They used to fill this place in the old days, before there was all the baseball on TV.
His neighbor, a small man in a tweed cap, says, The biggest crowd I ever saw in here the biggest ever, I bet was for a high school game. Shelton and Naugatuck, about twenty years ago.
An old gent with a cane, seated just to my left, says, They filled it up that day the Yankees came here, with Ruth and Gehrig and the rest of them. An exhibition game.
A fan just beyond the old gentleman a good-looking man in his sixties, with an open, friendly face, a large smile, and a thick stand of gray hair leans toward my neighbor and
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt
David Remnick has been the editor of The New Yorker since 1998. A staff writer for the magazine from 1992 to 1998, he was previously The Washington Post's correspondent in the Soviet Union. The author of several books, he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and the George Polk Award for his 1994 book Lenin's Tomb. He lives in New York with his wife and children.
Bibliographische Angaben
- 2011, Repr., 512 Seiten, Maße: 15,5 x 23,4 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Herausgegeben: David Remnick
- Verlag: Modern Library
- ISBN-10: 0812979982
- ISBN-13: 9780812979985
- Erscheinungsdatum: 24.01.2012
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Dazzling. BooklistAn absolute grand slam for sports fans or anyone who loves great nonfiction storytelling . . . Readers are in the hands of masters. Minneapolis Star Tribune
Start reading or re-reading and you won t be able to stop. . . . Each selection is a gem. Bloomberg
There are many revelations in these pages. The New York Times Book Review
A treasure chest of great writers. San Antonio Express-News
Terrific . . . a splendid array. The Plain Dealer
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