Just in the last week of his life, you could have seen him at Walgreens or at the Electric Fetus, where he often shopped for records – an astonishing sight, like the Mona Lisa taking in her own portrait at the Louvre. Prince, paradoxically, was reclusive but always around.
For most of the twentieth century, a Minnesotan abroad could fix his home state in the cosmos by invoking for his hosts the name Charles Lindbergh or Bob Dylan, native sons who were claimed by the world and never really returned to the Gopher State.
In the Gospels, we are reminded, ‘The very hairs of your head are all numbered.’ And your numbered hairs, like your numbered days, recede daily.
I’d happily cover the British Open every year until St. Andrews slides into the sea or Scotland runs out of beer, whichever happens first.
I’m an unabashed sports photo fanboy, the kind of weirdo who seeks out the infinitesimal picture credits.
I’ve been to all seven continents on assignment for ‘SI.’
The real driver of my golf game is family. The family that plays together stays together, at least literally so.
Grafted onto street clothes and removed from the field of play, jerseys don’t even flatter men in their physical prime. Witness any baseball player wearing a uniform top over dress shirt and slacks at a press conference podium.
In our age of over-sharing, we know everything about everyone else, robbing them of mystery and thus of power.
Broadcasters calling a big game are often reminded to let the action breathe. A great moment of a televised game doesn’t need any narration, which is why the announcers – the good ones, anyway – shut up at the celebration and let the pictures do the talking.
Because I’m a bald, dim-witted writer, people think I couldn’t possibly be her husband, so they occasionally confuse me for someone more glamorous. At O’Hare airport, a man asked if he could take Rebecca’s photo. When I reflexively stepped away, he said, ‘No, no, no. I want your picture too, Andre Agassi.’
Every era has its cartoon rich guys, but most of them are actual cartoons – Daddy Warbucks, Scrooge McDuck, C. Montgomery Burns.
I turned 7 in 1973 and remember Bobby Riggs arriving at the Astrodome on a chariot pulled by showgirls before his ‘battle of the sexes’ tennis match against Billie Jean King.
Recording shows for later viewing is what TV types call ‘time-shifting.’ It’s a beguiling idea.
Pages: 1 2
