My first real memory of the waterworks was watching the Rams lose to the Steelers in the Super Bowl. I can remember exactly where I was sitting and Vince Ferragamo’s interception sent me over the edge.
Feel how different it was from games in any other city, like Pittsburgh or Chicago. This was Los Angeles in 1953. Maybe Los Angeles wasn’t so special to merit Major League Baseball, but the Rams were still the best pro game in town—Hollywood’s team and worthy of a five-star premiere.
FPL used to feel like playing chess while needing to refer to the rulebook after each turn, but now it feels like sitting in a seedy Vegas sportsbook, watching the odds fluctuate for reasons beyond my imagining.
Will it make me seem lazy—or too much like a casual fan—if I admit I can’t remember a single pilgrimage of any memorable length? And since I rarely leave home (I’m a writer, after all; a sanctioned hermit), the game is always on.
With :43 left in the seventh, the unranked Trevor Berbick stopped raining punches on Muhammad Ali as he slumped against the ropes, looked at ref Zach Clayton, and screamed “He’s hurt!” Did they stop the fight? They did not.