Because I fell asleep on the couch while watching the Wyoming football team frighten the daylights out of Nebraska, I didn’t get to Cashman Field to meet some friends until the bottom of the first on Saturday night.
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There have been 26 college football seasons since I first rolled across Hoover Dam. There have been three winning ones. It could be argued the Rebels’ run of futility over the past quarter-century is unsurpassed.
For a lot of people, minor league baseball conjures images of long bus trips from one dusty town to the next, of grizzled veterans separating less worldly middle infielders from the Dominican Republic of their per diem money in a poker game before they get to Amarillo. Somebody would be playing a harmonica in the back of the bus. Probably a utility infielder.
Last week, a big kid with a mop of blond hair named Trace Evans hit a home run in 11 consecutive official at-bats to power the Las Vegas Baseball Academy Lightning to the championship of a 104-team tournament at Cooperstown Dreams Park.
Zach Holt is only 14, two years too young to be a pro fisherman on the bass tour. So he had to get a special dispensation from the sanctioning body allowing him to compete in the U.S. Open on Sept. 9-11 on Lake Mead, which is like the Super Bowl of bass fishing for anglers in the Western states who wear caps advertising worm shops.
A few years back, when every shoe company save for Red Wing and Birkenstock was putting on national AAU basketball tournaments in Las Vegas, I wrote about a team from Wahoo, Neb. — which just so happened was one of the “home offices” of the nightly Top 10 list on “Late Show with David Letterman.”
Igor Zaripov, a Las Vegas-based Cirque du Soleil performer and star of the James Cameron-produced “Worlds Away” Cirque du Soleil motion picture in 3D, is a man of many talents. Diverse talents.
Remember the iconic scene in “On the Waterfront,” in which Marlon Brando and Rod Steiger are riding in the back of a taxi, and Charley “The Gent” Malloy, played by Steiger, jabs a pistol into the ribs of Terry Malloy, played by Brando, because his movie brother is thinking about testifying against Johnny Friendly, who controls the docks with an iron fist?
In a couple of weeks it’ll be football season again, and then Friday night at high school games it’ll be the three P’s again: pork, poi, pineapple.
Last year at this time, Robert Jameson was one of the student equipment managers for the UNLV football team. Now, he’s one of their wide receivers. That’s a pretty cool story.
I have a pal named Chip who lives near here and has a nice view. When I told him I was coming up for the World Horseshoe Tournament, he drove out there before I even arrived.
With its neon and its excesses and its fast lanes and its 99-cent shrimp cocktails, Las Vegas doesn’t seem a town for offensive linemen. Las Vegas seems more a town for flashy quarterbacks, or speedy wide receivers. When was the last time you heard of an O-lineman making it rain?
He ate Skittles, he drank beer, he won the Heisman. That’s what Wright Thompson’s in-depth profile says about Johnathan Paul Manziel on ESPN.com. That’s what put him in the fishbowl.
Kris Bryant, from Bonanza High and the University of San Diego, batted five times in his Northwest League debut for the Class A Boise Hawks on July 23. He struck out all five times. But Bryant, 21, didn’t stay in a rut for long.
He used to knock guys on their asses. That’s what Scott Martin told me the other day. He was pushing a glop of pizza fries around his plate at the old fashioned soda fountain at historic Huntridge Drug Store on East Charleston.
NASCAR will run its annual race at hallowed Indianapolis Motor Speedway today. Whereas the Brickyard 400 once was the biggest of deals, it’s not such a big deal anymore.
I have a colleague in the writing business named Tim, who once had mentioned that his mother had gotten remarried — to a famous sports writer. He probably told me it was Ira Berkow of the New York Times (and other literary places), but I must have been on the phone or on deadline. I had sort of forgotten it.
Now that they have run the table again, in a different format with a playoff bracket and everything, it’s almost too easy to compare the NBA Summer League’s Golden State Warriors with author Roger Kahn’s “Boys of Summer.”
It is Friday afternoon and Jimmy Vasser, the former race-car driver, is waiting on a Cobb salad at the Canyon Gate Country Club grill. In the distance are tranquil lagoons, the No. 2 tee box and the house in which Vasser has sort of lived the past 16 years, because race-car people tend to crisscross the globe and so they are not home a lot.
He was standing against the wall of the gymnasium at Doolittle Community Center on Friday morning, waiting to get on the court. It must have been a flashback of sorts for C.J. Watson, who first started doing that when he was in second grade.
The ballplayer stood in the middle of the dusty diamond. He stood tall, taller than the other ballplayers, because the ballplayer in the middle of the diamond was 54, and the other ballplayers were 12-year-olds.
Kid from hardscrabble neighborhood goes to hardscrabble high school. Kid gets taken under wing by hardscrabble guidance counselor, or other authority figure. Kid goes on to become NBA prospect.
It was a little past 1 p.m., not that time really matters here. The sound of poker chips idly being rubbed together was in the air, in the manner the sound of locusts on a deserted stretch of Texas highway is in the air.
When he was a small fry growing up in the Los Angeles suburbs, Greg Hill remembers balancing atop his first racing bike, a candy-apple red Schwinn Apple Krate — the one with shock absorbers and a gear shift — and a mailbox. And then wobbling along, in the lowest of gears, until the next mailbox.
When I heard that Gary Player was going to pose naked for ESPN The Magazine’s annual Body Issue, the first thing that came to mind was those cardboard boxes with pinholes the smart kids made in third grade so they could safely view a solar eclipse.