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They played the World Series again Saturday afternoon, right there at the bar in a cacophonous Red Robin restaurant in a suburban mall. Cal-Stanford was on the television. The World Series, as always, was better the second time around.
My intention was to watch the first half of Cal-Stanford at the bar while waiting for the birthday party to finish watching "Harry Potter" in the 18-screen Hell-a-Plex next door. I brought the latest issue of the New Yorker magazine as a prop, something to do during commercials.
One problem: Roger Angell, the 85-year-old writer/editor for the New Yorker, made the game secondary. Every year around this time, the New Yorker prints Angell's elegant musings on baseball's postseason. It's always more entertaining than the actual event.
"The World Series, and its prior eliminations, compressed to the consistency of a PowerBar, will not engage us for long."
There were 17 infants screeching over bad nachos and a hundred million cell phones chirping, remarkable when you consider there were probably only 100 people in the restaurant. Cal and Stanford were trading punts and John Mayer's voice was dripping from the ceiling, audible only when everyone stopped to chew.
"Their starter, Contreras, showed more pluck and variety than I'd recalled from his days with the Yankees, and third baseman Crede, as if wishing to get the elderly Cubano in out of the cold, contributed a home run and two top-drawer stops in the field to the 5-3 win."
Nine out of 10 people simply had to be on their cell phones. There was no other choice. Lives were at risk, empires were crumbling. The only thing that could save them was the immediacy of the cell phone. Typical cell-phone conversation in hideous mall setting:
"Yo, whattup?" …
"Nothing, what are you doing?" …
"Just sitting here at Red Robin. What are you doing?" …
"Fries and a Budweiser." …
"Nothing. What are you doing later?" …
"Nothing. Maybe going out. Maybe staying in." …
"Cool. Call me back."
And then Angell:
"By the end, I'd begun to care about the White Sox and tuck away some of their identifying touches: Pierzynski's turned-around catcher's helmet, tipped down to his eyebrows like a street kid's cap; Carl Everett's odd blinks and stares as he faced the pitcher, propping his chin above his shoulder; the sprigs of hair sticking out from under Joe Crede's cap, and his great sweeping stroke on the ball; and Jermaine Dye's new cool and patience."
It took about three paragraphs for Angell to drown out the infernal racket. Chain-mall eatery vs. Angell? It's no contest.
This Week's List
• The most frightening aspect of football's foreign language is how easily we find ourselves understanding it: Listening to Raiders-Redskins on the radio Sunday morning, I was informed by the play-by-play man that the pass he had just witnessed was "a catchable drop."
• Get ready, young man, because nearly every human with a microphone or a notepad will be visiting soon: Drew Olson, UCLA's tremendous quarterback (30 TDs, three INTs) and the only obstacle remaining between USC-Texas.
