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Classic review: The Only Game in Town

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All well and good, but the happenstance that Angell – long a chronicler of big-league exploits and a regular observer of both the Mets and Yankees – would be there, and in the company of a 91-year-old former Red Sox pitcher named Smokey Joe Wood, makes for delightful reading. Angell flits back and forth between the action on the field and the conversation in the stands, backlit by Wood’s brief but impressive days battling Walter Johnson and leading Boston to victory in the 1912 World Series.

The tension builds on the field as Angell tries to prod anecdotes from Wood, a man he has only just met. “For [Wood],” he writes, “the last juice and sweetness must have been squeezed out of these ancient games years ago, but he was still expected to respond to our amateur expertise, our insatiable vicariousness.”

Angell speaks for all baseball fans when the Yale-St. John’s matchup hits an inevitable lull. To wit: “All around me in our section I could see the same look of resignation and boredom and pleasure that showed on my own face, I knew – the look of longtime fans who understand that one can never leave a very long close game, no matter how much inconvenience and exasperation it imposes on us. The difficulty of baseball is imperious.”

Matching Angell is asking a lot, but much of the rest of the collection holds up quite well.

A.J. Liebling weighs in on boxing with trademark knowing, while Herbert Warren Wind offers a travel diary of golfing in Ireland with just the right mix of lilt, local color, and bunker shots: “I retired at ten. Trudging for miles through bracken, gorse, and heather makes a man weary.”

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