My son’s been walking around the house all week doing the Philly Shell. Must’ve been watching some Mayweather fights on his own.
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A buddy of mine recently tried to set me up with a friend, I’ll call her Melissa, a fellow divorcee with kids and limited time. I agreed because I hadn’t been on a date since before Tinder, before LeBron moved to the Heat, even before the iPhone 3GS. I’d scrolled through enough fake profiles and exchanged my share of messages with bots to realize dating apps are like the 1:30 a.m. urinal conversations I have with myself after too many drinks.
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On the first day of our trip to St. John, I turn on the outdoor shower and present my naked body to the Caribbean Sea. The view is like a souvenir shop postcard: miles of turquoise water, greenery cascading down from the cliff where I’m perched, a sailboat cruising by with passengers’ bronzed bodies splayed across the bow.
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The eponymous host of this show is the winking kind of reporter, perfect for our time. He's always almost saying something. Forever stopping short of making a bold prediction by hinting at some impending trade or signing, effectively channeling his hard-won insider information into juvenile teasing.
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Basketball is vertical unless you’re Chris Paul, who is—I have to note—small. He’s six feet if he stands all the way up. Not particularly long. But set a screen for Chris Paul, and watch all five defenders tense. Getting Chris Paul into a twist with your starting center is a dance you lose every time.
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The 1991 Topps Stadium Club Frank Thomas card perfectly captures the arc of the Big Hurt’s powerful right-handed swing. He is photographed in profile, mid swing; the follow-through of the bat is not yet complete, leaving the tip of the bat extending up and away from the viewer, toward the top right hand corner of the card; because of the way his torso is twisted, you can only see the 5 on the back of his jersey, but you can catch a glimpse of the corresponding 3 peeking out from under his arm on the front of the shirt.
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I swing the bat with a whoosh, meet the ball exactly where it’s meant to be met, timing right, and send it soaring in a long, smooth arc. I pour the Shabbat wine in a blood red arc into the waiting Kiddush cup. The ball lands with a smack in the pocket of the glove. Deep center.
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