Hold page one… this is news.
In the 21st century’s ongoing race to provide unusual snack items there is now this.
Wendy’s. Strawberry. Frosty.
Took Wendy’s 37 years to figure out vanilla, now only another 16 to discover this third stream.
Sign me up for this.
A full report will follow.
You may have heard a rumor that yesterday I turned 40 years old.
For further details, head here.
The scales of justice and common sense have turned, and my faith in the Cosmos has been restored. The Golden State Warriors have tied the series in the NBA Finals with a trouncing of the Boston Celtics Sunday night in Mission Bay.
And in other news, water is wet, fire is hot, and in a recent development, the earth revolves around the sun.
Hope you didn’t go to bed early last night.
Those of you who went to sleep after three quarters of Game One of the NBA Finals woke up to quite the surprise this morning. Spoiler alert: the team that was up by 12 going into the last frame actually lost by 12.
As mentioned recently, this is why I don’t bet on basketball.
But I’d still take the Warriors.
Game One of the Western Conference Finals of the NHL Playoffs: Colorado 8, Edmonton 6.
The game was in Colorado.
Possibly at Coors Field.
One of the greatest records in sports started inauspiciously on this day 40 years ago.
The Baltimore Orioles were shut out that afternoon at home, collecting exactly one hit in the contest.
Their third baseman was 0 for 2 with a walk.
That was Cal Ripken Jr., and he wouldn’t miss a game for the next 16 years.
Shortly after Ripken’s streak began I was brought into this world.
Which means I must also soon be turning… no, that can’t be right.
Happy Memorial Day, everyone.
After the Miami Heat went up two games to none over the Boston Celtics in the Eastern Conference Finals last week I assumed the League would have Miami tank one or more to bring in some revenue. More games = more money.
But with their third win in as many games Wednesday night the Beantown ballers are poised to take the best of seven with a win tonight at home.
So much for everything I thought about life and the universe prior to this series.
Baseball writer Roger Angell died this past Friday at the age of 101. Though calling Angell a “baseball writer” is a little bit like calling the London Philharmonic a “band,” that’s what he was, the most famous baseball writer on the planet for more than half a century. He lived from global pandemic to global pandemic, from the first year of Prohibition to the decriminalization of marijuana in some form in nearly every state. He witnessed every New York Yankee World Series win, writing about the game from when Willie Mays was in his prime to when the World Series was officially “presented by YouTube TV.”
A hundred other public obituaries have said more elegant things than I can about the life and career of Roger Angell. Most say he wrote more like a fan than like a sports-page scribe. More like a writer is what they mean to say.
He didn’t write a million books. As a matter of fact he kind of wrote only one, A Pitcher’s Story, written with another of my other heroes, David Cone. Most of Angell’s books are collections of short stories, and I’ve read them all. Actually I own most of them, and I’m extremely cheap about buying books. Angell didn’t write a ton of books, I suppose, because he did have a day job: fiction editor (among other things) at The New Yorker, the magazine where he worked for something like 62 years. As far as I know only Hugh Hefner can top that one.
Featured, naturally, in Ken Burns’s Baseball, Angell speaks of the game with the same seriousness and joy he brought to the printed page. I believe one can say that about the game itself: seriousness and joy.
And a day in the life of Roger Angell.
Seriously, that’s like Murderer’s Row on ster-
let’s just say it’s a really good start to a lineup.
When that group goes one-for-eighteen and the only two other hits you get are from your eight and nine hitters…
probably not the best game to have on national TV.
Tomorrow would be my dad’s 80th birthday. Funny how as you yourself age the number thought of as “old” increases as well. I used to think 80 was ancient; now it’s closer to eh, my dad would only be 80.
As I’ve noted previously we are all in the business of becoming our parents, and I’m pretty much the poster boy for turning into my own father. Same deal: used to think it awful, but now it’s a solid plan.
I’m near a milestone birthday myself, exactly half of the aforementioned number. I’m pretty much on the Mike O’Connell Sr. program, but with one major difference regarding fathers and sons. It occurred to me only recently that the biggest difference between my dad and me is that when he turned 40 his dad was still around, and would be so for another five years. By the time I’m 45 my dad will have been gone for more than two decades.
That’s your math for today. For some musings, head to today’s episode of Math and Musings.