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I saw this in the latest episode last night and thought of you guys.
And here’s some good dancing from my favourite character in the show.
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The great American novelist John Updike, though not a sports writer, did at times indulge his nation’s favourite pasttime. And when he did, he hit a home run.
Updike, who passed away this year, was once in Boston to visit a friend. He knocked on the door, received no answer, so with a summer’s afternoon to kill he headed to the Red Sox’s famous old home, Fenway Park, for his first visit. He picked a good day. While the press box was bloated with the city’s jaded baseball beat reporters, Updike, like a scientist who inadvertently discovers a much sought-after remedy, found he was witnessing, from the bleachers, the last game – and the memorable farewell – of Sox giant Ted Williams.
He dispatched a song of a report to the New Yorker magazine recounting poetically William’s typically cranky so-long speech and the home-run that was the denouement to a heroic career at bat. “Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs – hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn’t tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted ‘We want Ted’ for minutes after, he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.” Wow.
Those who stumbled upon the championship game in the B division of Ireland’s baseball league last Saturday may not have realised they had wandered into their own little Fenway, but I wondered what Updike might have made of the apple pie scene folded into Clondalkin all the same.
Munster Warrior players are strectched out on the grass in preparation for the final game of their maiden season. The motley playing roster are, in turn, relaxing in fold-up chairs, swapping last-minute tips, talking about their favourite TV comedy (it’s The Inbetweeners) and discussing Saturday night’s planned celebrations in Limerick city. They have a record this year of 12-0. And judging by the mood, everyone expects to make it 13 for 13 with a win over today’s opponents: The Hurricanes. Read the rest of this entry »
Dock Phillip Ellis played baseball for the Pittsburgh Pirates and famously threw a no-hitter in 1970 – apparently under the influence of LSD. Here, the tale is re-imagined with narration from the man himself. Top drawer stuff.
NOTE: I’ve come across this in a few places this week (Sport is a TV Show, Tripping Along the Edge, Funny or Die are three)
Here’s a few interesting bits and pieces that people have been saying and writing this week. Incidentally, the increased post count here can be attributed to me abstaining from alcohol for the month. Like when George gave up sex in Seinfeld and ended up learning Portuguese.
Crystal Meth is a helluva drug. So says my favourite tennis punk Andre Agassi in a 60 minutes interview.
Meet the guy who has caught 3000 baseballs at MLB games.
The remote-controlled bowling ball. At last.
Fighting styles that’ll get your ass kicked. I’m looking at you capoeira.
Everyone watching Chelsea beat Man United last Sunday saw a guy in the crowd behind the bench, brushing his teeth. Here, he explains his actions. He’s a playa.
We bend, touch, pause and engage with Hollywood’s take on the 1995 Rugby World Cup on the Irish Examiner sportsdesk blog. Thanks to Simon Lewis.
Being part of Manny Pacquiao’s entourage means you get to sleep at the end of his bed. They’re a wacky bunch.
And for those who haven’t heard, a diplomatic incident erupts over the French Federation’s request for a box for President Sarkozy at Croker.
I stayed up late to watch the first game of the World Series last night in the Bronx. Some excellent stuff as the Phillies were untouchable but there was nothing like this pitch from a player in Japan which has surfaced this week.
The great American novelist John Updike, though not a sports writer, did at times indulge his nation’s favourite pasttime. And when he did, he hit a home run.
Updike, who passed away this year, was once in Boston to visit a friend. He knocked on the door, received no answer, so with a summer’s afternoon to kill he headed to the Red Sox’s famous old home, Fenway Park, for his first visit. He picked a good day. While the press box was bloated with the city’s jaded baseball beat reporters, Updike, like a scientist who inadvertently discovers a much sought-after remedy, found he was witnessing, from the bleachers, the last game – and the memorable farewell – of Sox giant Ted Williams.
He dispatched a song of a report to the New Yorker magazine recounting poetically William’s typically cranky so-long speech and the home-run that was the denouement to a heroic career at bat. “Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs – hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn’t tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted ‘We want Ted’ for minutes after, he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.” Wow.
Those who stumbled upon the championship game in the B division of Ireland’s baseball league last Saturday may not have realised they had wandered into their own little Fenway, but I wondered what Updike might have made of the apple pie scene folded into Clondalkin all the same.
Munster Warrior players are strectched out on the grass in preparation for the final game of their maiden season. The motley playing roster are, in turn, relaxing in fold-up chairs, swapping last-minute tips, talking about their favourite TV comedy (it’s The Inbetweeners) and discussing Saturday night’s planned celebrations in Limerick city. They have a record this year of 12-0. And judging by the mood, everyone expects to make it 13 for 13 with a win over today’s opponents: The Hurricanes. Read the rest of this entry »
Politico have analysed every word Obama has uttered in a speech, off-the-cuff remark or news conference since taking office.
He’s mentioned “basketball” 33 times, but, tellingly “hockey” only once.
He’s clearly not an NHL fan but amazingly the President has referred to hoops more than “gay” and “abortion” combined.
I can’t find any reference to baseball, American football or soccer. Though I know he certainly spoke about throwing the first pitch at the All Star game last month. In a White Sox jacket. Check it out here.
Last week’s revelation that the Red Sox talisman David Ortiz as well as Manny Ramirez had tested positive for steroid use in 2003, had Boston fans feeling miserable once again.
Ortiz – or Big Pappy, as the baseball-mad city lovingly knew him as – was the heart and soul of the side that broke the so called curse that saw the Red Sox go 86 years without a World Series.
The title victories in 2004 and 2007 are now tainted in many people’s eyes. However, The New York Times, you may have heard of them, ruffled feathers this weekend, arguing that every team had it’s juicers and these wins aren’t diminished by these revelations. It’s worth a look.
Young autograph-hunters at the new Yankee stadium are finding it hard to get access to their heroes.
Previously, players had to walk from their parking lot across a small street, Ruppert Place, to a private entrance by the media door, exposing them to the sleeve-jerking pleas of Yankee-crazed children and strange men, before and after games.
Nice piece in today’s NYTimes.
Jose Conseco may be best known on this side of the Atlantic for being the Simpsons character who missed the Power Plant’s big softball game becuase he was distracted by saving a woman and her white goods from a burning house.
In America though he was a superb outfielder with the Oakland A’s and then the Texas Rangers before blowing the lid on the steroids culture in the game with a tell-all book. He made his MMA debut in Japan this week and his Cuban ass kicked. Within 77seconds.
I’m just back from covering the Cork City v Galway United game at Turner’s Cross. Around the corner, Musgrave Park was packed out for the Munster v Scarlets game. While it was the usual die hards who shuffled into the soccer game.
Maybe it’s time to follow baseball’s lead and have themed nights. Bring-your-boss night? Cowboys and Indians week? Rotten fruit: a funny ol game?
Here’s a selection of real promos from the States:
1. Disco Demolition Night
Disco-hating White Sox fans wrecked the Comiskey Park field when the Detroit Tigers visited Chicago, causing thousands of dollars in damages, as a “harmless” 1979 promotion created a near-riot and forced the Sox to forfeit the game. Believed to be the night the (disco) music died and it proved a costly 10c beer night. As the BeeGees sang: tragedy.
2. Hawaiian Night
The Phillies fill the area round their new ground with hula dancers, fans get traditional leis, and players posed in Hawaiian shirts for their scoreboard photos.
3. Mullet Night
The do that’s business in the front and party in the back, brings those same inclusive qualities to the ballpark. On Mullet Night, White Sox fans – again – wearing mullet wigs can parade around the ground while mullets are imposed on players’ scoreboard images. Here’s a fun fact, fact fans: a mullet is called a Bundesliga in the Czech Republic and it’s true, this promotion may not work in German soccer stadia.
The last time Yankee Stadium opened, the legendary Babe Ruth starred and the ballpark soon became the house he built.
Today, 86 years later, a new Yankee Stadium was ready to make its debut.
The receently-finished stadium, which restores the arched main gate and other elements from the original ground, stands across 161st Street from the old stadium, which is slated to be transformed into a park or museum.
Hall of Famer Yogi Berra earlier threw out the ceremonial first pitch.
The talismanic Derek Jeter spoke immediately after the final game in the old stadium over the PA system. “We’re relying on you to take the memories from this stadium, add them to the new memories from the new stadium and continue to pass them on from generation to generation,” he said then.
It’ll be interesting to see how they begin this afternoon.
UPDATE:The house is not yet a home. 10-2 Indians. Report here.
The Mets opened Citi Field last night the way they closed Shea – with a loss to the San Diego Padres. Still a nice stadium though.
The Yankees open their new stadium on April 3rd; The Mets even earlier – March 29th. The New Yorker got a peek at the two.
The Jackie Robinson Rotunda
Nice piece in the NYTimes about Citi Field – which replaces the famed – but much maligned – Shea Stadium. It opens at the end of the month, before the season starts in April.
Looks savage but I can’t imagine Daryl Strawberry, Mookie Wilson and the rest of the (remedial) class of ‘86 feeling at home in these plush surroundings.