September 3, 2015
It’s summer time. Writers and readers naturally turn to lighter fare, intellectual sangria in a red Solo cup to the winter’s Sinskey Claret in Riedel — RIP, Dr. Sinskey. Growing up in New England, whatever beach reading we might have done was bookended by the sports pages in the Boston Globe. Sportswriters taught us all how to write. Each week the great Bob Ryan would pen a Sunday column filled with little snippets of his thoughts about the state of sports and the world in general. No one with literary aspirations dreamed of writing the Great American Novel; we all just wanted to write for the Globe or Sports Illustrated. I’m no Leigh Montville or Tim Layden — heck, I may not even be Mitch Jackson or Uday Devgan — but with a nod to Bill Reynolds of the Providence Journal, here is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.