…one of the finest sports writers I’ve ever read, there’s a lot of his work out there. A regular contributor (and longtime fiction editor) to The New Yorker since 1944, his essays have been collected into books, anthologies, etc. Links? Uh uh. You’re gonna hafta find ’em on your own. Don’t kid yourself, you can do it. The games and players he wrote about had no links. From whatever rural perspiration or urban sweat they came, serious ballplayers didn’t just walk up to the mounds and plates of diamonds, they had to work for it to get there. Just like you can do with or without a seventh inning beer.
But without going into extra innings, Roger Angell was born in 1920 and is still with us, still writing. The other day I found his essay “This Old Man” from The New Yorker. Read it. The most certain thing about existence is death, and life is too short to be ambushed by superfluous gifs and extraneous links.