By Robert Lipsyte
A long-time activities columnist for the 'New York occasions' combines own tales with the occasions he has coated, discussing how 'Jock tradition' has permeated company, politics, and family members existence, and the way its definitions became the normal to degree worth
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Extra info for An accidental sportswriter : a memoir
He was young and happy to be on the beat; he had yet to become a beacon of hard-nosed honesty, the curmudgeonly scourge of entitled jocks. But when a rival tabloid reporter ran an item about the Yankees siccing private detectives on carousing players, Shecter was under pressure to come up with something as good or better. He told his editors what he knew about the Houk-Duren fight. Duren, probably drunk, had gotten rowdy. Houk, while subduing him, had accidentally cut him over the eye with his World Series ring.
I hurled myself at Willie, just launched all that butterfat, double blubber, right into him. I was a rotund rocket of rage. We both went down, and, incredibly, I was on top. Had I known the rules of engagement of the after-school fight, I would have sat on his stomach and slapped him until he cried uncle or he would have thrown me off and beat me up yet again. But how could I, who had never had a fair fight, know the rules? There were no rules in my mind, just survival and payback. All in or don’t bother.
Draws a blank. He’s a prominent epidemiologist and public health activist (Google him yourself, this is my book) but I remember Paul as the fourteen-year-old classmate who taught me to throw like a boy. I had just returned to Rego Park from a summer upstate, cutting lawns, during which I think I lost at least 40 pounds (I always jumped off the scale as the little black dagger headed toward 200), and Paul was the first person who spotted me in the schoolyard. In delight, he cried out, “Hey, fatty,” a name he had never called me when it fit.