Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
At last, Maureen Dowd has written a column I can endorse completely: “Angell in the Outfield.” It’s about premiere baseball writer, Roger Angell, whom all true-blue fans have come to know and love over the years.
A lot of years. The man’s 93.
If you like baseball, you’ll be warmed by Dowd’s mini-bio. I was warmed when I read that Angell “proclaims himself a ‘foe of goo.’” Also that he’s less “Angellic” than astringent.
“Baseball is linear,” says Angell. “It’s like writing.”
He should know. His mother was the New Yorker’s fiction editor and his stepfather was E. B. White.
I haven’t read Roger Angell in quite a long time. I think I’ll grab a copy of The Summer Game and relive my youth, but if you prefer something less baseball-oriented, you might try his memoir, Let Me Finish.
It’s great that he was honored at the Hall of Fame ceremonies Saturday. I like seeing writers with literary credentials toasted by a bunch of jocks.
He is quite the poet, after all. As Dowd quotes him at the end of her piece:
I believe that everyone in the world wants to be with someone else tonight, together in the dark, with the sweet warmth of a hip or a foot or a bare expanse of shoulder within reach.