I really enjoyed writing this essay at The Hardball Times about Roger Angell, even if it reinforces the fact that no writer is ever as good as Roger Angell.
Here’s an example of his brilliance:
“It was raining in New York — a miserable afternoon in mid-March. Perfect. Grabbed my coat and got my hat, left my worries on the doorstep. Flew to Miami, drove to Fort Lauderdale, saw the banks of lights gleaming in the gloaming, found the ballpark, parked, climbed to the press box, said hello, picked up stats and a scorecard, took the last empty seat, filled out my card (Mets vs. Yankees), rose for the anthem, regarded the emerald field below (the spotless base paths, the encircling palms, the waiting multitudes, the heroes capless and at attention), and took a peek at my watch: four hours and forty minutes to springtime, door to door.”
That was how he described his escape one year from the Northeast’s spring awfulness. It makes you feel New York’s cold and Florida’s warmth. Jealousy abounds.