There is almost no baseball here, but Roger Angell is easily America’s best living baseball writer. Maybe best living or dead baseball writer. His receiving the Spink Award this year is icing on the cake, but the guy has been amazing forever. We will provide latitude to link to his non-baseball stuff when warranted. This is warranted.
Angell is 93 now. And this piece at The New Yorker is him contemplating age and mortality. And it’s a beautiful contemplation. Neither morose nor maudlin nor dismissive. He faces and considers aging and death in a matter-of-fact way that I hope I am able to when I am 20 or 30 years younger than he is now. Hell, I know 40-year-olds like me who don’t have any kind of a grasp on it. To see a 93-year-old wrestle with it as well as Angell does is just astounding and wonderful.
