Daily Archives: January 2, 2009

The good people at Sports Illustrated did us a major service last year when they launched the SI.Vault on-line.  The entire SI archive–what a treasure chest of goodies, man.  About the only trouble is that the site is still difficult to navigate–there is no author index for example.     

But I’ve been poking around anyway, thoroughly enjoying getting to know some of the great SI contributors from the past–Curry Kirkpatrick, Roy Bount Jr, Dan Jenkins, Rick Reilly, and of course, Frank Deford.  So I figure I’d share some the gems I’ve found with you.

First up is the late Myron Cope’s 1967 profile of Howard Cosell, Would You Let This Man Interview You?

“Oh, this horizontal ladder of mediocrity,” sighs Howard Cosell, ruminating on the people who make up the radio-television industry, which pays him roughly $175,000 a year. “There’s one thing about this business: There is no place in it for talent. That’s why I don’t belong. I lack sufficient mediocrity.”

Cosell fondles a martini at a table in the Warwick bar, across the street from the American Broadcasting Company headquarters. Anguish clouds his homely face. His long nose and pointed cars loom over his gin in the fashion of a dive bomber swooping in with lighter escort. “This is a terrible business,” he says. It being the cocktail hour, the darkened room is packed with theatrical and Madison Avenue types. A big blonde, made up like Harlow the day after a bender, dominates a nearby table, encircled by spindly, effete little men. Gentlemen in blue suits, with vests, jam the bar. A stocky young network man pauses at Cosell’s table and cheerfully asks if he might drop by Cosell’s office someday soon. Cosell says certainly, whereupon the network man joins a jovial crowd at the bar. “He just got fired,” Cosell whispers. “He doesn’t know that I already know.” The man, he is positive, wants his help, but what is Cosell to do when there are men getting fired every week?

“This is the roughest, toughest, crudest jungle in the world,” Cosell grieves. A waiter brings him a phone, and he orders a limousine and chauffeur from a rental agency. He cannot wait to retreat to his rustic fireside in Pound Ridge up in Westchester County. It is Monday evening, barely the beginning of another long week in which he, Howard W. Cosell, middle-aged and tiring, must stand against the tidal wave of mediocrity, armed only with his brilliance and integrity.

Never be another like Cosell.

Come to think of it, there will never be another like Myron Cope either.

I don’t remember the first time I saw Al Hirshfeld’s wonderous charactures in the New York Times. They were always there as far as I’m concerned. Those drawings were the closest the Times had to actual comics other than the Sunday political cartoons.  As a kid, I looked forward to picking out all the “Nina’s”–his daughter’s name–that he embedded in each piece. Hirshfeld was a master of lyrical line drawing.

So is David Levine, though his line is dramatically different.

I didn’t see The New York Review of Books much growing up, but I was familiar with Levine’s work.  A good friend of my family, a lawyer who also happens to be is a fine draftsman not to mention a dry wit, was very influenced by Levine.  His annual holiday postcards reinforced this familiarity, so I knew about Levine before I really knew his stuff.  

It wasn’t until high school probably that I actually saw Levine’s drawings.  I was hooked instantly.  I drooled over them during my college years, studied and copied them.  Levine has remained one of my favorite artists ever since.  I can look at his drawings time and time again; they still give me an enormous amount of pleasure. 

(more…)

So here’s my personal list of baseball-related goals for 2009:

1. Stop reading stories about A-Rod and Madonna

It’s either that or stop drinking – I simply can’t afford to keep losing this many brain cells. And every time I click through to Page Six and read about how, say, there may be some tension in the relationship because Alex has been skipping Kabbalah classes (no, really), I lose another chunk of my ever-dwindling self-respect.

This resolution also applies to whoever A-Rod dates after Madonna, and all of Derek Jeter’s myriad starlet flings. Though if Joba starts dating Britney Spears I cannot make any promises.

2. Decide whether or not I believe Pete Rose should be in the Hall

I’ve been waffling on this one for years and years; I intend to get off the fence with a well-supported argument by Spring Training at the latest.

3. Find something interesting about Mark Teixeira

I mean aside from his prodigious on-field skills, of course. There must be something… but I sure haven’t discovered it yet. Dude’s Wikipedia page appears to have been written by Scott Boras.

Also, I only just now realized I’ve been misspelling “Teixeira” for years.

3a. Stop misspelling “Teixeira”

After Mientkiewicz this will be a piece of cake.

4. Sell or pawn whatever is necessary to buy tickets to at least one game at the new Stadium this year

and, related,

4a. Continue complaining incessently about the cost of everything at the new Stadium

Seriously, nobody should have to chose between a Loge seat to a game against the Orioles plus a beer and a hot dog, or their child’s college education. I’m not getting past this.

5. Watch (even) more Mets

Just because their broadcasting trio of Gary, Keith & Ron is so awesome, and a significant step up from the YES Network’s revolving door of Michael Kay plus the Vaguely Ill-At-Ease Ex-Player of the Day. It’s nothing against Kay, and Ken Singleton is silky smooth, and of course I will always love Paul O’Neill just as deeply as I did when I was 13 (which is to say very, very deeply) — but the Yankees’ booth just doesn’t have  the rapport of the Mets’, in part I suspect because it changes so often.

(And yes, Hernandez did make those rather unfortunate remarks a few years back about how women have no place anywhere near a baseball field in a professional capacity — the exact words being, as I recall, “I won’t say that women belong in the kitchen, but they don’t belong in the dugout” — but you know what they say: you are what you love, not what loves you back).

6. Refuse to watch any speech or announcement by Bud Selig lasting more than 90 seconds.

Life is too short. It’s not even what he says, though I have my share of issues with that; it’s the sucking void where his charisma should be. I’ve felt more engaged watching mold grow on broccoli.

Finally, the resolution I’ve been making for years now without discernable success:

7. Learn how to throw a knuckleball.

I practice sometimes when I’m throwing the ball for my dog, but unfortunately my knuckleball still looks remarkably like my changeup.  (Even more unfortunately, my curve, slider, and fastball also all look remarkably like my changeup).

Anyone else have any?