I consume most information online, but I rarely read anything of length. Online reading has a “what-am-I-doing-with-my-day” kind of feel, whereas hunkering down with a book or a magazine feels relaxing and productive. (I don’t own an iPad, so I can only speculate on that sensation).
Anyway, I read an article on the New York times site a few days ago that really anchored me in the moment. This may seem stupid, but I actually read it twice in a span of about 25 minutes, which says something. Usually, I power through a dozen or so different websites in that amount of time.
The article was about baseball, which is right around the corner. The article felt like the onset of spring, kind of. I had just finished a long work week and was drinking a Guinness at an Irish pub, waiting for my server to bring me a couple of happy-hour fish tacos. Now that I’ve set the scene, here’s the article:
It was long before baseball ever enchanted me, and long before I ever knew anything of the Yankees, and long before I learned that a pitch could swerve, yet it came back to me, years later, sitting in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium, a curveball from the past.
It was 1975. I was 10 years old. I stood onboard a ferry in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. I was traveling with my father to England for the weekend. We crossed the Irish Sea, the night blanket-black above us. On deck, men in flat caps worked hard at their coughs.
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