Civil War Day was a staple at Reginald Middle School, implemented somewhere in the shady patriotism of the Reagan era before carrying through as tradition.
On my last night in Zhenjiang, the three other laowai and I—each of us western foreigners: three upstaters and a guy from Toronto—walk the condominium-lined miles out to the banks of the Yangtze river.
When it began, he was deep in the hole, backhanding a two-hopper toward left field, and he rushed the throw, scooping it up, a cloud of dirt trailing off his glove like a cape as he raised his left
Fifty cents for tickets in the bleachers—then. Fifty cents a railroad car to Pittsburgh.
A “marvel” they’d called it. Three tiers of steel, the façade terracotta, the balls off
the deck, bouncing.
Summers to Harridge, April 20, 1950: I am writing to inform you of the changes in the Washington ball park. It is rather difficult to explain but I will try to give you a picture.
Maybe you
Well, if you're reading lips, you'll hear some words that are not necessarily used on family TV.
Then she cupped my face in her hands just like my father and said, “You’re missing it!”
The year everyone was hitting home runs, Barry Bonds made lunch with his arms.
The victim was the leadoff hitter for the Matsushima Baseball Ocean Temple Gods in the bottom of the first.
Letterman wore khakis and the camera angled up his crotch. I watched every night or set my VCR to record on the rare occasion I left my apartment.
His gravesite at Holy Cross Cemetery brought a lump to my throat.
Because fifteen feet and a quarter-sized hunk of aluminum is nothing against the smell of oiled leather...
Just mid-February but a day like summer
I saw Candy the next time I went out. And the time after that. And the time after that.
I suppose all sports officials are gods of a sort...
After a loss, I’d seen him throw his gear in the garbage and denounce baseball altogether.
Crack! The sound of impact, ball on bat...
In the original cut of the movie, Ray says, “You wanna have a catch?” But test audiences were disappointed with the complete lack of father-son acknowledgement.
My friends lived for bottle rockets and Boy Scout merit badges; I, however, lived for called third strikes.
I couldn’t cut my hair (I’m no sheep) and I sure as hell couldn’t change my love of the Houston Astros.
I ended up in right field, ponytail eschew, cap falling to the bridge of my nose, shadowing my freckled cheeks.
Picture this: It’s 2004. I’m living in Berkeley, California. I swear I am a cool girl. I’m dating a rapper who has had some success. He’s got massive dreadlocks that differentiate him from everyone.
