His new book, Party in the Back, collects over 300 photos Tino took while documenting his exploits finding, cleaning, and skateboarding the abandoned, or simply unfilled, pools of Southern California with his friends Rick and Buddy—all while inevitably waiting for the cops to show and break up the party.
For 26 years, I played in the same Sunday afternoon, full-court basketball game with the same guys. Then my Medicare card arrived in the mail and I switched to doubles tennis. Occasionally, at the gym some 20-somethings will see me shooting and ask me to join them. I figure since I have to die one day, might as well be while trying to hit the open man.
On the tables closest to the stage, each club’s scarves are carefully laid out around bouquets of flowers and team signage, where management and representatives from the 10 organizations will conduct their draft. The players hoping to be drafted are not far behind them in the audience. With family, friends, and even some youth club coaches in attendance, the event is open to the public, and I can’t imagine anyone here, regardless of what brought us, has only a casual interest in The Beautiful Game.
All of these women’s names and all of their stories are stuck in dusty old books and magazines that no one ever looks at anymore because they’re in libraries. They’re not on the Internet. So, I decided to create an Instagram account specifically for these stories and get them pushed onto a popular culture media platform.
I was on the floor during Game 7 of the World Series mumbling to myself, tears running down my face pretty much from the 6th inning when David Ross hit that homer and onward until about three in the morning before finally passing out. As a lifelong Cubs fan, that was easily one of the most intense, insane, and ultimately wonderful experiences I’ve ever gone through.
In the winter of 1993, a young man moved to Prague with the idea of finding a pro or semi-pro basketball team and convincing them to let him join. It was a dumb idea, partly because the young man didn’t know if they even had pro or semi-pro basketball teams in Prague, partly because he didn’t speak any Czech and partly because he was, in the grand scheme of things, just okay at basketball.
In July, ESPN premiered a Judd Apatow-directed 30 for 30, “Doc & Darryl.” The documentary pairs Gooden and Strawberry once more and traces the ascent of the ’86 Mets and the drug-fueled downfall of the two players. It is poignant to see the two reunited. Strawberry is enjoying a new life, and things even seem to be looking up for Gooden.
Keeping score takes an extra half-beat in order to allow the brain to translate. A left fielder is avoltigeur de gauche. A pitcher is a lanceur. A shortstop is an arrêt–court . At the end of each half-frame we tally up points, coups surs, erreurs, and runners laisses sur les buts. All 3842 of us await a coup de circuit, though no one manages to clear the ad-plastered wall.
Two days have passed since I spent an evening at Estado Alejandro Serrano Aguilar, the home of Deportiva Cuenca, in southern Ecuador. Since then I’ve searched a dozen local retailers for a kit, tried to change the team I support on FIFA16, and spent at least an hour trying to understand the Ecuadorian league and tournament structure.
It’s the hypotheticals of that moment that haunt me. What if he’d tripped over his legs and blown out his knee, or gone tumbling into the wall and hit his head in a way that triggered bleeding in his brain? At the time, I thought of myself as an activist. Some of my teammates even came to my support—I’d stood up to the coaches. But the self-aggrandizement quickly dissolved into guilt, and six years later it’s more or less remained with me.
The NBA’s Summer League concludes next Monday with the mini-tournament’s championship game, held at the Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas, Nevada. So last weekend, as the Summer League was about to kick off, I did what I like to do and embarked on another road trip into the desert to watch some more meaningless exhibition games.
In the past eight days he has already won two Olympic golds, achieving the elusive distance-running double of winning both the 5,000 and the 10,000m. And now he is minutes away from completing a treble which everyone watching must realize will almost certainly never be achieved again. This is, by the way, the first time he has ever run a marathon.
On Saturday, June 11th, I found myself in Northeast Los Angeles with a few hours to kill and made my way to Santa Anita to catch a simulcast of the Belmont Stakes, the Triple Crown’s third and the longest leg, and hardest to handicap. I put down a $50 exacta box on the 7-horse and the 11-horse. I’ll spare you the drama: we didn’t win.
Tom Thumb had a castle with doors that opened and closed, a ferris wheel that spun, and of course a windmill. A mini-golf course is a kind of fantasy land. The first thing I learned is that rules were probably a good idea to protect people from themselves, or protect them from who they pretended to be.
Minnesota is in the midst of a run that may come to rival any professional team, mens or womens, of this era. Perhaps, with their season-opening winning streak now reaching 13 games and counting, the country will pay even more attention and take that much sought after final step into “crossover story.”
On Wednesday, Ichiro stepped up and rapped a double down the right field line. Ichiro then stood on second base the holder of another record, albeit an unofficial one. In sizing up the sheer scale of the accomplishment, cold numbers fall short; it takes a long view to appreciate it. You have to have seen the stoic perfection play out day after day, year after year.
You are sitting in an oversized leather chair in your bedroom, watching the Rockies come back. Your stomach is cramping and your hands are shaking. As Matt Holliday rounds third base you drop your head in your hands and cry. Even though you are an adult with a child and a mortgage and a job, you cry. And you will never sit in that stupid chair again because it is absolutely the chair’s fault.
League standings are posted online and we study them religiously. It’s not clear why. There are no prizes for winning, not even, frankly, any measure of pride. Each twelve-game season folds seamlessly into the next, making a years-long comedy of lofted misfires, keeping gaffes, and defensive breakdowns. Mostly we win.