When I first arrived in New York City, I read every word of the New Yorker and absorbed it as the absolute God’s truth. Everyone in this city must do the same thing, I thought. This is how you become a real New Yorker. On the subway, there was always someone reading the latest issue, someone with cool clothes and an overall intelligent-yet-hip look. These were probably the people populating the readings at indie bookstores and occasionally splurging on a ticket to some fabulous off-Broadway play. They could have a casual conversation about the latest exhibition at the Whitney and switch effortlessly into a discussion about the financial situation of oil companies in Africa. Judge me as you will, but I wanted to be one of those people.
Times have changed, and so has my cynicism. Our issue of the New Yorker arrived today, and as I thumbed through it, my eye fell on an article about the World Series. Being from Colorado, this is a slightly sensitive topic. It seemed like a good idea to find out what the New Yorker had to say about the whole tragic affair. Forgive me for being incensed by the reference to Elizabeth Bishop in the second sentence of an article about baseball. I am sure the writer thought he was being quite clever and New Yorker-ish by incorporating poetry into sports writing, but really!
To writers and readers of the New Yorker: it is ok if your sports writing does not contain references to literature or other obscure minutiae.