The release. That’s what I miss. Putting on my pajama pants and t-shirt, sinking into the couch after an endless brown day, and letting Gary Cohen set the raindrops-on-a-roof mood that is a baseball game in June. Or Doris Burke breaking down a defense with professional cheer or Hubie Brown exhorting us that “there’s plenty of time here now.” I’m a freelance writer and the father of a three-year-old girl. My life is a full court press in front of an audience of none. Sports take me out of my head.
Relentless fandom is a young man’s game. I am in an on-and-off relationship with the Mets. I follow the New York Giants and the Philadelphia 76ers with interest bordering on gusto. Neither wins nor losses linger. I don’t have the stamina. The little things matter most: How Klay Thompson shoots a basketball without a second’s hesitation, like how you or I open a door. LeBron James lowering his shoulder and punishing a helpless defender like a 32-year-old playing his 10-year-old son one-on-one. Jacob DeGrom painting the corners. Patrick Mahomes finding a new way to throw a football.
Thanks to the coronavirus, they are gone. What do we do?
This Year, Mother’s Day matters to your family...
More than ever
Less than ever
About the same