Aaron was an incredible player. He lived a long life. And he got his due, his accolades, his recognition, while he was alive. That is good. So many Black players from the Negro Leagues never did. Those Black barbers from my boyhood knew more than I did.
As commonly portrayed, pro basketball in the 1970s suffered from Black athletes who lacked not only the dignity of 1960s pioneers such as Bill Russell or Elgin Baylor, but also the mass-marketability of 1980s icons such as Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan. The popular memory of pro hoops in this era includes accounts of contract-jumping, on-court fighting, and cocaine-sniffing. Theresa Runstedtler’s Black Ball seeks to dislodge this conventional narrative.
I thought I would take this slow moment to tell a baseball story—at a time when the names of Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, and (the most perishable of these names) Scott Brosius are not yet lost to common memory.
The Paris Olympics tell the human story: ambition, aspiration, discipline, hard work, luck, serendipity, glory, limelight, and then the biggest dream of all, and with a half-inch miss, catastrophe.
Olympic judges, take note: the stylistic elements in breaking are what give a person room to be innovative, and that is where the creativity lives. So does the musicality, at which which St. Louis bboys (and the handful of bgirls) excel.
Hiking feels as sacred as church, carrying me into a pristine wilderness. But it also requires me to do what I am terrible at: pay attention to the physical, sensory, concrete world around me.