 The view from press seating at Centre Court During the second week of the recent Wimbledon tournament, I posted a photo similar to this one with the heading: "My favorite place in sports: Wimbledon, Centre Court." In response, someone wrote: "I hope you will write a column to explain why."
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 It is not easy watching yourself on the big movie screen and certainly without the benefit of makeup. So when I saw myself in Lenny Cooke -- the documentary on the one-time New York high school legend who never made it out of the basketball bush leagues -- for the first time last spring, I slid low in my seat and waited anxiously for the next scene.
 Joe Rodriguez practicing with his Match Fit Academy tea,m last year as a high school junior Christopher Gregory/The New York Times A year ago, I wrote a long piece in the New York Times http://nyti.ms/QQJpYP about how elite teenage soccer players were newly involved in a tug-of-war between their high school teams and academies sanctioned by the United States Soccer Federation. U.S. Soccer's strategy is to develop players for national programs and/or potential college scholarships by training them year-round the way the rest of the world does -- in rigorous programs that eschew the high school model of cramming several games a week during a relatively short fall scholastic season.
With tennis' Grand Slam season behind us, and baseball's regular season down to its final days, it has occurred to me that these very different sports do have at least one thing in common. Fans of the most famous rivals can be impassioned and provincial to the point of being impossible.
 If Julius Erving was determined to make one thing clear in the recently premiered NBA-TV documentary titled "The Doctor," it seemed to be the notion that he glances back on his storied career with no regrets -- but mostly looks forward to the remaining days of life.
"Driving Mr. Yogi, Yogi Berra, Ron Guidry and Baseball's Greatest Gift" -- just out in paperback (Houghton-Mifflin Harcourt/Mariner) -- is the story of the deep and abiding friendship between Yogi Berra and Ron Guidry. But a segment of the book also delves into the relationship between Guidry and the great Mariano Rivera. With Rivera announcing his retirement post 2013, here is an excerpt from that segment.
 AN EXCERPT FROM THE POST-SCRIPT CHAPTER OF "DRIVING MR. YOGI, YOGI BERRA, RON GUIDRY AND BASEBALL'S GREATEST GIFT," (Mariner/Houghton-Mifflin Harcourt), A NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLER, ON SALE THIS WEEK.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/054400227X/ref=rdr_ext_tmb Seeing his old pal Stump Merrill, the organization lifer who had never been invited to an old timers’ event, Yogi Berra needled, “What took you so long?” “Yog, what can I say?” Merrill said. “It only took me thirty-six years.” Merrill was delighted to see how much Berra was amused by his self-deprecation. He could also admit that he wished he’d come sooner, considering the sobering sight of Berra – with whom he had shared all those walks along spring training outfield warning tracks – stuck in a wheelchair.  It is no great sacrifice for me to say that those who regularly cover major league baseball should get the heck out of the business of Hall of Fame voting. That's because I work for a newspaper, the New York Times, that doesn't allow its reporters to participate in the business -- and that's exactly what it is -- of electing ballplayers to a club that will not only elevate their historic standing but will enhance their earning power.
Anyone who doesn't think Hall admission isn't a lucrative line on the retirement resume should spend an induction weekend in Cooperstown, where the autograph mart is open, dawn to dusk. It was late Saturday morning that I messaged Kathy Redmond to inform her that the magazine-length New York Times story I had written on her longtime activism against violent athletes -- along with her own fascinating spiritual journey -- would be running in the next day's paper and would soon be up on line.
She got back to me back within minutes, asking if I was following the developments in Kansas City (at that point, I was not), adding: "Resources exist to do psyche evals on players and I think it's a cop out to try to say its about concussions." Within a short time, there was no escaping the shocking news that Jovan Belcher had shot and killed his girlfriend, Kasandra Perkins. Soon after, he turned the gun on himself in front of the Chiefs' coach and general manager outside Arrowhead Stadium.  Damian Lewis After being out Sunday night watching the Giants slaughter the Packers, I managed to catch up on Homeland and Boardwalk Empire yesterday, which seems to have become an exercise in rooting for the survival of people who are duplicitous at best and downright evil at worst.
With the conclusion of Homeland's ninth episode, season two, I wasn't quite sure what Brody (played by the English actor Damian Lewis) was up to, or which side he was being honest with. Perhaps he doesn't quite know yet. At least I have finally figured out who Brody has reminded me of for the entire first season and handful of episodes of the second. Coincidentally, another tough guy with admirable qualities but -- from my vantage point as a young Knicks fan -- one thoroughly embedded with the enemy. That would be Dave Cowens of the hated 1970s Celtics. |
