On September 19, 1920, this man—often described as the greatest sportswriter of all time—was born in New York City. His mother was a Bryn Mawr graduate who began her career as a New Yorker writer and ended it as editor of the publication. His father was a Harvard College and Harvard Law School graduate who, after serving in WWI, became an influential New York City lawyer, and ultimately, president of the American Civil Liberties Union. 

In 1929, after the divorce of his parents, his mother married E. B. White, an up-and-coming New Yorker writer who would go on to become a legend in literary history (think Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style and, of course, Charlotte’s Web).  He lived with his father after the divorce, but remained close to his mother and ultimately developed a loving admiration for his step-father. After graduating from Harvard and serving in WWII, he worked at Holiday magazine before joining The New Yorker in 1956.

In 1962, after accepting an assignment to cover major league baseball’s Spring Training, he went on to raise American sportswriting to an art form, with articles that were collected into such books as The Summer Game (1972), Late Innings (1982), Season Ticket (1999), and Once More Around the Park (2023). 

Who was this man?  (Answer below)

July 19, 2025

This was an unusually quiet day at Printed Page Bookshop. People indifferently wandered the store. One would ask for a book with larger type; another would ask for a book in a smaller format. One guy bought a $4 book, gave me a $5 bill, and then asked if he had to sign anything -- kind of the credit card version of muscle memory.

A customer from our early days came by and was surprised that I remembered his name and the kind of books he liked. I can remember things about customers, but I can't remember if I had breakfast.

Out on the street, I saw a pale, gangly, young woman wobble out of the tattoo place holding her arm turned outward. Her friend came over to examine her new tattoo. A guy walking the other way glanced at the women before snagging a cigarette butt from the gutter.

While I was ringing up a sale — my customer had stacked up six books by Fydor Dostoyevsky — Chris came in. I'm pretty sure Chris is a street person. I've never seen him in clean clothes, showered, or shaved. Today he had on a tattered sleeveless undershirt and a bandana wrapped around his forehead that reminded me of photos I've seen of Kamikaze pilots. His missing teeth reminded me of a hockey player. He stood quietly to the side holding a short stack of books while I finished up with the Dostoyevsky guy. He is always deferential and polite.

Chris, who today in his Southern accent corrected me to call him Randy, had not had a good day. He lifted up his shirt to show me where 26 — count 'em, 26 — bees had stung him, sending him to the emergency room. Last time in, his leg was swollen and scabbed from a car accident. To add to his woes, the books he wanted to sell were worthless, but I gave him a few bucks anyway. I hope that someday he'll find something great, and he'll think of us.

I've tried with several homeless folks to educate them about what to look for in books, and what to avoid. With a little knowledge and a good eye, I think you could eke out a living bookscouting. But my lessons have never stuck.

Once I wrote him a check when he got lucky finding some books — made out to "Chris" — but the bank gave him a hard time cashing it, so I try to keep some cash on hand should Randy get lucky again.

Seems to me he's overdue.

- Dan Danbom

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