OK, Reno, I’ve gotta admit I dig the cool zephyrs during summertime, falling asleep to the mournful whistles and clickety-clack, clickety-clack of the Union Pacific and the fact I can break out a bowling shirt and an old pair of Wranglers with holes in the knees and back pockets and blend right in on Virginia Street.
New Mexico vs. UNLV. The resistible force against the movable object. The dregs of the earth vs. the bottom of the barrel. Abe Vigoda at quarterback, throwing passes to Betty White.
One of the endearing qualities about sports is that sometimes, Jupiter aligns with Mars. Then either peace guides the planets, or all hell breaks loose. It could go either way.
I saw Yorvit Torrealba naked. It happened a few weeks ago in San Diego. I was in the Padres’ locker room, waiting on Ryan Ludwick, when a blinding flash of bare rear end entered my peripheral vision.
It was September 1944. The Allies, after liberating Paris, had entered Germany. In December, Germany would begin its last-ditch offensive at the Battle of the Bulge. Soon, it would all be over.
