November 25, 2003


While I was enjoying an excellent martini with Cathy Marshall in the lobby bar at the St. Francis -- for my money (and it's quite a lot of money at that, the prices being mildly spectacular) the best lobby bar in the world -- Linda rang to say that she'd read Roger Angell's annual world series report in the current New Yorker and discovered that Angell mentions

It's very strange to find your friends, however peripherally, in Angell's baseball story. A dream come true, really, except it's obviously such a preposterous dream that you'd never dream it. I realized in second grade that I was never going to play second base for the White Sox -- Professor Hannaford hadn't yet brought me over to the Cubs' side -- and it wasn't until grad school that Angell rekindled my interest in baseball with his wonderfully literate and insightful essays. Angell teaches you to see what's really in the game, and why it's all not a silly waste of your time. And, my, can he write.

So, now Meryl's poetry has appeared in The New Yorker. What a nifty turn of events. And Angell's essay is like the record books; it may have been an amusing little stunt, but now it's in the book.