It's real, raw and emotional: After 12 seasons, Bibens-Dirkx fulfills MLB dream with Rangers call-up
I've got a whole lot of Baseball on the brain right now, as I'm sure you'll see ... both here and in other ways soon. I think my favorite part of becoming a bigger and better Baseball fan the last few years is being able to see a whole lot more good, even when I absolutely hate The Texas Rangers and their fans. Baseball teaches patience and perseverance and finding good where it would naturally be easy for me to focus on the evil. (Read: Dallas and idiot Dallasites.)
The lede: SEATTLE -- Even in the gloom of a season heading toward disaster -- which is where the Rangers currently find themselves -- there are those rare feel-good moments.
I'm a sucker for New York, a good bar and good story told well.
The lede: Throughout my life around McSorley’s, there was no piece of the bar more sacred than the World War I wishbones. There were about twenty of them, all turkey bones except for one curved duck bone, dangling above the bartop from the frame of a gas lamp that hadn’t been used since electricity brought lightbulbs to McSorley’s in the 1930s. When I was a kid, the bones were sheathed in an inch of dust, as if feathers of ash had grown back around what was left of the birds. In a bar where everything was old, from the scarred tables to the potbelly stove to the nineteenth-century icebox, the wishbones appeared downright ancient. For dust to grow that thick on top of those little bits of skeleton, they had to have been left untouched for almost a hundred years. They looked otherworldly, so much so that when tourists would visit McSorley’s after reading about the wishbones in guidebooks, they would often march right up to the taps, glance at the dusty inverted Vs hanging above them, and then ask, “So where are the wishbones?”