Every time I see Devers, or Story, or Big Papi, or Manny hit the ball out of the park, I am reminded that Ted Williams reckoned it was the most difficult skill in sports. (Even Bob Dylan knew it was beyond him. “I wish I could hit a 100mph fastball” he said, “but you have to stick to what you know”.)

I never saw Williams play. I never read his book The Science of Hitting. In fact, I had never heard of him until I read a piece in the New Yorker by John Updike, entitled Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu, and I only read that because it was by John Updike, whose laconic prose style and risqué story-telling was a phase I was going through back in the '60s.

Typically, Updike's essay on the final appearance of Ted Williams, the Kid, was more about his relationship with his current mistress, who had cancelled a tryst that afternoon and Updike had sought solace at Fenway Park, where he was privileged to see Williams sign off with a home run, hit into the Sox bullpen in right centre field.

It was the last of 521 homers that he hit for the Red Sox in a career which, interrupted by World War 11 and the  Korean War, spanned 21 years, of which nearly five were on military service. A new book, by Bill Nowlin, celebrates not all of them but those which were 'winning' HRs. By the criteria applied by Nowlin, there were 110 of them. His final hit, in his final game, was a deep drive to right field on a pitch by Jack Fisher. There were only 10,000 fans in the park, but they gave him a two minute ovation.

Williams being Williams, with a famously ambivalent relationship with what became the Red Sox Nation, he did not emerge from the dugout to tip his cap. As Updike said, “Gods do not answer letters.”

Bill Nowlin is no John Updike. But he has written half a dozen or so books about The Kid and more about the Sox. He was also the co-founder of Rounder Records, specialists in country and bluegrass music and released the first Alison Kraus album as well as re-releases of recordings by the Carter Family, Jelly Roll Morton, Lead Belly and Woody Guthrie.

His thoroughness is awesome. His prose style less so, but that's because he is dealing in facts. Facts - and stats - are what American sports writing are about, unless you are John Updike or Bernard Malamud or Philip Roth or (my favourite) Don DeLillo. And this book* - The Kid Blasts a Winner - is a winner, not least because, by definition, it concerns itself with all Ted's game-winning (or to be accurate, game-deciding) home runs.

Which, by definition, means the Sox won every game he writes about.

For me, that makes it a great read. From beginning to end.

I was lucky. From the moment this Englishman’s obsession with the Sox began,  I only had to wait just a few years for my first World Series championship. Ted Williams played in only one series, in 1946 when, injured, he was ineffectual. But his couple of decades in a Red Sox uniform were a time that I wish I had been part of.

Bill Nowlin was right there, to the extent that he once put a mitt on a Ted home run to the centre field bleachers.

What's more, I wish I had divided my time between Fenway and the recording studio in which Alison Krauss was singing. Bill Nowlin did.

So, maybe, I wish I was Bill Nowlin. But you have to stick to what you know.

* I am grateful to Summer Game Books for my pre-publication opportunity to read this book. I loved it.

Today from the everysmith vaults:​ In the early years of this century, Phil Lesh put together a quintet which took improvisation to new levels. This morning, I am attempting (again) to get to the heart of this extraordinary stuff.

I am writing this on ‘short rest’. A wild card game against the Yankees followed by a fantastic and ultimately successful series against the Rays have conspired to deprive me of sleep and contribute major stress to my extended waking hours. But the Sox are now champions of the ALE and there are two sleeps available before the first of the ALCS against either the White Sox or the Astros. There is a sense in this solitary part of the Red Sox Nation that the Sox are on a roll.

Being a Sox fan in Europe means long nights. Games mostly start after midnight, and even the game 3 afternoon start at Fenway (9pm BST) went to extra innings and continued into the early hours. But during the day and early evening, normal life continues and has its own highlights.

One such took place last Friday, the anniversary of my father’s death. After 18 months or so, the International String Quartet series returned to Leamington, featuring the Sacconi Quartet. I had missed their previous performance at the Pump Rooms, a decade ago, so was keen to be right upfront for their return. In a heavily and professionally Covid-proofed auditorium, I managed to reserve Seat B1.

In fact, the attraction was not solely the Sacconi, nor even the return of live chamber music to my neck of the woods; it was the programme.

The Sacconi were to play (after the obligatory Haydn warm-up) the eighth of Shostakovich’s quartets and to devote the second half of the concert to the String Quartet In C# minor, Opus 131 by Beethoven.

The latter has been one of my favourite pieces of music. I have a dozen or more versions of it at home and one of them will doubtless figure in my list of Desert Island Discs. The Sacconi did it more than justice: they are are a powerful, muscular band and they brought out the grandeur of the fugue, the joy (in the Allegro) and passion throughout, whilst addressing the delicacy and profundity of the Adagio. It is a heavy responsibility to play this masterwork. The Sacconi took it on and triumphed.

But by then, we knew they would. We had already heard the Shostakovich 8th, his 1960 response to a visit to a bombed-out Dresden.

I mentioned that it was the anniversary of my father’s death because he was a bomber pilot in the RAF during the war. And a distinguished one, with a DFC and AFC to prove the point.

I do not know whether he was involved in those controversial raids in mid-February 1945, during which the city was systematically destroyed and more than 30,000 civilians are believed to have died. (Some estimates place it over 200,000.) At this stage of the war, the only ‘civilians’ would have been the elderly and sick, women and children.

It has been described as a war crime, principally by those of my political persuasion. But it is significant that Churchill, in his massive 6 volume history of the war, makes no mention of the Dresden destruction.

As I say, I have no idea if my father was one of those involved. He never spoke of it, but then he never spoke of any of his wartime experiences.

But I know enough of him to know that he would have listened to the Shostakovich quartet and, as did Shostakovich himself when it was played to him by the Borodin, “buried his head in his hands and wept”.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Away from performances and mlb.tv, I am listening to English music. Warlock, Delius, Elgar and - currently - Vaughan Williams. It's A Sea Symphony​ playing right now. 

It’s been a busy week. I know, this is not an opening sentence that you will see often these days but if you extend your definition of the word ‘busy’, you’ll know what I mean. Think of it as a verb rather than an adjective; as in “I have been busying myself with a variety of sedentary activities”.
 
These ‘activities’ – another word I use loosely – are better characterized by the original Old English bisig, meaning careful, anxious, diligent.
 
And it is carefully, anxiously, diligently, that I have been following the news. I have watched and listened, read and wrote, considered, responded and ‘reacted’. I have liked, shared, commented, and re-tweeted far more than my blood pressure can handle. I have busied myself with some thankless and demeaning exchanges on local political forums – “I have photocopied your vile post Mr Smith” – and engaged in a series of WhatsApp conversations without discovering what’s up or down.
 
But then two things happened that transformed my sense of ennui.
 
The first was the appearance on Channel 4 of live test cricket, and those who took the decision to outbid Sky must be very happy. I certainly am, because the test, which finished an hour or so ago with a victory for England, was a superb game from beginning to end.
 
Joe Root batted magnificently and captained well. Given India’s fightback on the last day of their final test against Australia, his decision not to enforce the follow-on was sensible and correct.
 
Of course, Root knew that he could rely on Anderson, and Anderson did what Anderson does. That first over, in which his reverse swing did for Gill and Rahane, was as good as any I have seen. And I saw Michael Holding.

​

​The day the test match began, I received my pre-ordered copy of Empireland by Sathnam Sanghera, and I read the opening chapters between overs. He has done his research on the attitudes and methods of British imperialism, and is not afraid to itemize some of the quite appalling actions carried out in pursuit of power and profit, necessary because, as he points out, this aspect of the Empire is not even mentioned, never mind taught in British schools.
 
But his sub-title is How Imperialism Has Shaped Modern Britain. It’s more specific and personal than this, because the book is actually about how imperialism has shaped Sathnam Sanghera: he is open about his own experience growing up in Wolverhampton (Enoch Powell’s constituency), not knowing English until he attended school, but took a first in English at Cambridge and has forged a career in journalism and writer (not always the same thing).
 
He was working for the FT when I knew him, but is now with The Times and Sunday Times, so I seldom see his columns and features, restricting myself to his books (The Boy With The Top-Knot, Marriage Material and now Empireland) where I find myself in awe of his honesty and his prose.
 
Test cricket and a good book. Reasons to be cheerful, part 1.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Joan Osborne sang with the Dead, or at least the post-Jerry variants of the Dead, and I have long been an admirer. But have only just discovered that she also tackled Bob’s oeuvre. Today, I am playing a show from Charleston, WV in which she shows that she is one of the few who can bring something new to a Bob song. Her version of Spanish Harlem Incident is sublime. Reasons to be cheerful, part 2!

Yesterday was August 30th. It was devoted to celebrations of the birthday of Ted Williams and John Peel. A long lunch, England overcoming Pakistan in the T20 slugfest, followed by the Sox beating the World Series Champions at a deserted Fenway by way of Raphael’s 4 for 4 and a debut home run from young Bobby Dalbec, the first since Daniel Nava’s Grand Slam a decade ago. A good day.
 
But t’was not ever thus. In fact, this shortened season has been no fun at all. No Mookie, no Sale, no Price and now no Mitch. More than half way through the season, we sit bottom of the AL East, with a 12-22 record. We are 11.5 games back
 
How does this member of the Red Sox Nation find consolation at such a time?
 
With a wonderful new(ish) book from Gabriel Schechter entitled Spanking the Yankees: 366 Days of Bronx Bummers.
 
In the UK, we call this a ‘bog book’. I’m not sure whether there is an American equivalent of this expression but you can probably guess that it is a book for opening at random and dipping into on the lavatory.
 
It is a detailed record of cock-ups and disasters which have beset the Evil Empire month by month and day by day.
 
For those who have suffered over the centuries from the smug superiority of the Yankee franchise, and this includes not only obnoxious Boston fans like myself but also the millions out there who have no allegiance to the Sox, this makes for great reading. It has extended my morning ablutions schedule significantly because there is so much material out there, and now it’s all in here.
 
It’s page after page of gaffes on and off the field. Defeat from the jaws of victory. Bad trades (remember DLsbury?) and poor plays. From Opening Day to the off-season.
 
I’ve been starting each morning with these healthy doses of schadenfreude, smiling and chuckling at each entry. And then the book comes with me to the office where the indexes allow me to revisit specific events, particular players and on-this-day embarrassments.
 
I commend this to anyone who loves baseball and hates the Yankees. Even Yankees fans can benefit, because it proves what many of us have known all along.
 
Yankees really do suck.
 
I am pathetically grateful to Fawn Neun of Summer Game Books for sending me a review copy. Thanks Fawn.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: My eldest daughter recently sent me a playlist of the stuff she listens to in her evenings on the veranda in Cary, North Carolina. Amongst the dross (sorry Vix!)was a track from a duo called Mandolin Orange. Serendipitously, a day or so later, a Deadhead friend also emailed me a few links to the same band. And now I have half a dozen albums and several live shows. Check out Wildfire and their cover of Boots of Spanish Leather and then listen to … well, pretty much everything.

In France, it is the Fête Nationale and traditionally we would be enjoying a communal dinner and feux d’artifice in the market square of St Quentin la Poterie. But, as Bob sang in 1967, I’m not there.
 
In fact, in 2019, Bob is playing in the parks – Hyde London and Nowlan Kilkenny – with Neil Young, and traditionally we would have been upfront, relishing what we always fear will be the last time we see him. But I’m not there.
 
Two of the greatest tennis players of all time are at Wimbledon, where they produced one of the greatest tennis matches of all time. But I’m not there.
 
And at Lords, England and New Zealand are playing out if not the best ever one day game, certainly the game with the most dramatic and nail-biting conclusion ever. But I’m not there.
 
Instead, I am glued to the TV which is showing the cricket live on free-to-air for the first time since 2005. And I am there for every ball.
 
I am not alone in regretting the decision to sell out to Sky, which brought money into the game, but diminished its profile and appeal for a generation. But I do applaud the decision of Sky to make their coverage available to the country as a whole. (BT Sport also gave up their exclusive rights to the Liverpool v Tottenham Champions Final: Respect.)
 
Despite these acts of charity, these exceptions that prove the rule, it is surely wrong that the audience for these great sporting occasions should be restricted to those who can afford the subscriptions to Sky and/or BT.
 
It is the exact opposite in the US, where baseball, for example, is notable not for its absence from American screens but for its ubiquity. Personally, I cannot get too much, but I am sorry for those who, unaccountably, have no interest in the game.
 
It is, however, this very ubiquity, the fact of being everywhere all the time, which makes it not merely a popular game but part of the national consciousness; as American as motherhood and apple pie.
 
It has the same place in the American psyche as cricket used to be here when I was a boy.
 
I understand that the BBC has rights to the forthcoming and bizarre form of the game, The Hundred. I am not sure to what extent I will embrace this format. But it’s a start.
 
Meanwhile, my thanks to Sky for their generosity. Thanks to them, I saw something unprecedented, something thrilling, something rewarding.

​Thanks to them, I was there.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Thrilled by the footage of Bob and Neil playing Will The Circle Be Unbroken in Kilkenny (where I saw a great Bob show back in 2001, with Ronnie Wood), I have delved back into the vaults for the first time Bob and Neil did this song (hymn?) together, at the SNACK Benefit in Kerzan Stadium San Francisco in 1975. A great show – and the Dead were there too!

​For many months, 29-03-2019 (03-29-2019 for my American readers) had been keenly anticipated in this household, though with mixed emotions. That Friday was, of course, the date on which for two years we had been led to believe we would leave the European Union. It was also, by tricks of time zones and scheduling, the opening day of the baseball season as the Sox took on Seattle in the early hours. I had hoped, naïvely perhaps, that the misery of the first would be outweighed by the joy of the second. In fact, both went haywire.
 
The UK is still in the EU, the relationship hanging by a thread as confusion reigns inside and outside Parliament. And on the West Coast, the World Series champions are currently 1-5, after being thrashed by the Mariners and failing to score on successive nights in Oakland.
 
Until the last couple of days, the confusing performances of a team which is essentially unchanged from the 108 game winners last year has been attributed to the rotation, which has been widely touted as the best in baseball. At its best, it surely is. But it would appear that all five are still only half way through spring training right now.
 
The velocity isn’t there. Location isn’t there.  We’ve had one quality start in six, in last night’s single run loss.
 
I watched a great deal of spring training. Afternoon games in the Eastern time zone are a delight for European fans, who can tune in at 6pm and enjoy a glass whilst taking vicarious pleasure in the Florida weather and the ballgame itself. And while winning the Grapefruit League comes quite a ways down on my list of priorities, it is always a pleasure to see a W or two.
 
Last year, there were many. And it showed in the 17-2 start which set the tone for the season and the post-season.
 
This year, not so much. In fact, we sat rock bottom in the Grapefruit League, under .500.
 
How many times have I been told that it doesn’t matter? Hell, how many times have I told people it doesn’t matter?
 
But it does. It is no accident, as Marxists would say, that the excellent results last year translated into excellent results in the season. And it is no accident that the dismal results this year evolved into this dismal start.
 
I understand that the pitchers need to be stretched. I appreciate that the hitters need to regain last year’s fluency of swing. I recognize that the development of fitness and skills is a gradual process.
 
But I am confused as to why Cora thought that, for example, Sale could open the season after just two short appearances in Florida. I am confused as to why he would, after such an outstanding spring training last year, change tack completely and adopt a totally different approach.
 
But what do I know? Only that confusion reigns. In the Red Sox camp and the Commons alike.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults:  A gig which took place on the fateful day of 29-03-2019. I like Garcia Peoples, but I love Chris Forsyth. And the nyctaper recording of the show demonstrates why. A good, energetic set from the band. And then an hour of extraordinary stuff with Chris Forsyth: Techno Top > The Calvary Cross > The Other One. Mesmerizing. Literally.

When I excused myself briefly from a meeting last night, I confess that it was not – as many may have surmised – the old prostate playing up. I was actually checking on the score in the spring training game between the Sox and the Nationals and thus heard in real time the breaking news that Bryce Harper had signed for the Phillies. €330 million and 10 years was quoted by OB, though it turns out to be 13 years. With no opt-outs!
 
Returning to the meeting room, I found it difficult to focus on preparations for the local elections in my part of Leamington, which is in any case pretty much LibDem Central. I spent the rest of the time working out how this affects the Phillies luxury tax threshold and speculating about the future of Sox closer Kimbrel.
 
The deal with Harper is the biggest single guaranteed contract in baseball.
 
And not merely in baseball. It is the biggest deal in American sports history. In technical terms, it is a shedload of dosh. More even than the previous records – cash and duration - held (briefly) by Stanton at the Yankees and Machado at the Padres.
 
Is Harper worth it?
 
Nah. No-one is. Not even a generational talent like Harper.
 
But that won’t matter to Phillies fans if they win the title. It will, however, matter to Phillies fans if Harper doesn’t do the business. There are one or two Sox players who can tell you what happens to you reputation when a huge contract coincides with diminishing stats. (Where are you now, Carl Crawford?)
 
It’s going to be tough. Can one guy make all the difference to a team that was under .500 last year?
 
He’s got 19 games against the club he has grown up with. He’s got the Mets 19 times. And in August, he’s got a couple of games against the Sox. (We get Machado and the Padres immediately after!)
 
But he knows the National League East well and he’s walking into a hitter’s park (though for lefties not so much) - and they are already talking about Trout next year.
 
It’s all talk, of course, with about as much substance as the rumours that he had turned down Philly and was heading for LA. Only the Dodgers fans believed that.
 
And it doesn’t make a huge amount of difference one way or the other to the Red Sox Nation. Philly won’t go for Kimbrel now unless he drops his demands to a year, in which case he might as well stay with us. If we still want him and maybe we don’t.
 
My response to the whole saga is, I’m afraid, dismissive:

​“Hey, it's no big deal!”

                 RIP Nick Cafardo
              and thanks for the lift.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: I was alerted by the excellent Roy Kelly to an article in the New York Times about the Dead and Dark Star, which included a 12 Greatest Dark Stars listing. My need for displacement activity prompted the compilation of my own list, which features (to date) the 20 Greatest. Currently playing is 1970-02-14 at Fillmore East, which eases into St Stephen and The Eleven. So maybe 21 Greatest. 110 to go.

Anyone who has penned a single word about sport will be in awe of Hugh McIlvanney, who died last week. We will miss his insights into and understanding of his subject; but most of all, we will miss his prose. Few writers have managed to articulate so beautifully the cathartic power of, in particular, football and boxing. Fewer still have been able to communicate the exhilaration and despair of those spots of time – memorable moments of triumph or despair which occur in almost every sporting contest.
 
The author Rick Gekoski, no mean sportswriter himself, once wrote that “Sport makes you write, and think, and feel, in exclamation marks”. Which is true for even the most seasoned of us. In 2004, the Boston Globe headlined the Sox World Series victory, their first since 1918, in this way: YES!!! Nothing nuanced: just one word, one syllable, in capitals, with no less than three exclamation marks (or screamers as they are known).
 
I doubt whether McIlvanney would have done this. However tight the deadline, his judgements were as measured as his prose. The emotional sub-text was implicit rather than overt.
 
It is because I lean towards Rick and the Globe in my response to great sporting events that I admired McIlvanney so much. Although he insisted on being known as a ‘reporter’, he was not. One did not turn to his piece to find a blow by blow account of a bout or a goal by goal record of a football match. We valued his writing because it concerned itself with what it meant: to the players, to the coaches, to those who were present as spectators. It is significant that he numbered amongst his closest friends those who were involved totally in the sports about which he wrote. They – Jock Stein, Bill Shankly, Alex Ferguson, Angelo Dundee – knew that he knew and understood as much about their game as they did.
 
In a few weeks, I will be taking part in a round table at the History Department of Warwick University which concerns itself with sportswriting. My fellow panellists – Dave Sternburg, Simon Hart – are stars in the firmament. I am not.
 
Although I am on record with my views about Coventry City Football Club and Warwickshire County Cricket Club, my prime focus is on my beloved Boston Red Sox and the life of a fan based in the baseball desert which is the United Kingdom. (Although judging by the demand for tickets for the Yankees games at the London Stadium this summer, there are more of us in this country than we imagine.)
 
I tend not to engage in a recitation of baseball stats – when I did I was mildly chastised for doing so. Rather, my subject is my very personal and particular experiences of being a fan of a team which plays 3,000 miles away from my home.
 
In many ways, and certainly in the great order of things, it is a trivial pursuit. But almost every night, as I tune in to mlb.tv, I know that I will almost certainly witness something that only sport can provide:
 
In the words of Hugh McIlvanney, “a magnificent triviality”.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: After the fine performance of the Shostakovich String Quartet #2 in A major (actually mostly in A minor) by the Carducci Quartet on Friday evening, I am working my way through their Shostakovich cycle, including an advance copy of their new recordings of #1, #2 and #7. Magnificent and not trivial.

​

“If I get home before daylight / I just might get some sleep tonight.”
 
Every game in the post-season is scheduled to start at 1am UK time, except for tonight in Houston. Which is great news for sleep-deprived Sox fans in the UK, and probably for kids in the States too. (It’s a school night and I know that 8pm ET is prime TV but I wish MLB would give young fans the chance to see whole games.)
 
The best of seven series is tied at one each after an implosion (and some iffy strikes and balls calls at home plate) in Game 1 and a scary end to Game 2. Sale has been in hospital and Price still hasn’t won a post-season game either. But tonight, Nathan Eovaldi takes the mound. And he’s been good.
 
So, too, has the bullpen, especially Matt Barnes and Ryan Brasier. I’m not forgetting Rick Porcello, but I always expect him to do the job. He’s a starter after all and should start in Game 4, which rules him out tonight. The exception of course was Kimbrel, who went through the whole regular season with an ERA of 3.3 something but is currently 10.80 in the post-season.
 
Three appearances. Three runs conceded. Where’s that breaking ball, Craig?
 
We need to win at least one of our three scheduled games in Houston to bring them back to Fenway, and I think tonight could be it. If Eovaldi pitches with anything like the control and variety he showed against the Yankees, and the bullpen continue to be consistent, then we shouldn’t need Kimbrel at all.
 
Assuming the bats continue to swing. They will. I’m looking to Mookie, JD and Rafael Devers to bring the runs home.
 
Mookie is, according to reports, smiling again. JD will want to show Minute Maid Park that he is a better player than they ever saw in an Astros uniform. And you just know that Rafael will relish the chance to make an impact when it matters. He did it in Boston. He can do it in Houston.
 
I think these two teams are the best in baseball right now. I fear that the series will go to the seventh game. I just hope my heart can withstand the tension.
 
But everything is in place. I have told our dinner hosts that I need to be away in good order by 10pm. My Red Sox shirt is laundered and ironed. There is Sam Adams in the fridge. And I confidently expect to be in bed by about 1am with Dirty Water playing in my head.
 
Go Sox!
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: The recent death of Marty Balin has prompted a fest of Airplane shows. Marty’s beautiful voice did not always meld well with the increasingly strident Airplane style towards the end, but he will always be remembered in this household with love and affection for songs such as Coming Back to Me. Listening to a Winterland show (1970-10-04), he shouts out, at the end of Volunteers, “I want a new band!” Sad.
 

I’m not sure how many of us remember the tales of Jennings and Darbishire, written by Anthony Buckeridge in the last century. I read them, or at least the first few, in the ‘50s, enchanted by, and jealous of, the idealized version of my own prep school.
 
A large part of the appeal of the stories was the wordplay and jokes, and I remember one to this day. Jennings has a pet rat, which he keeps in a shoe box as I recall. He is discussing the rat with his amiable housemaster – Mr Carter? – and tells him, “I call it Gloucestershire, sir, because it’s got a long tail.”
 
If you are not smiling, I should explain that, in the cricket county championship of that year, Gloucestershire was noted for its poor batting. Batsmen 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11 were incapable of reaching double figures and this was known, in cricketing parlance, as a “long tail”.
 
Don’t worry if you don’t get it; I haven’t heard the expression in years. But my point is that, back in 1957, I and all my fellow 8 year old chums did get it, just as we also got Buckeridge’s Latin puns! Cricket was part of our lives. We knew the scores each day; we knew who was top of the championship, and who was top of the averages.
 
I don’t know any of these today. The county scoreboards are not easily come by. Most of the time, one is not even aware that games are being played. There is no structure to the season. A four day county game or two is followed by a random assortment of one day games, one night games, and day-night games. And we are told that, next year, we shall have yet another competition of 10 overs of 10 balls. Or something like that anyway.

Even the test series is being subjected to the same cavalier treatment of the schedule. Starting today is the second test. And then, nothing until August – apart from ODIs. It’s madness. 

Matthew Engel, once the editor of Wisden, the cricketing bible, wrote recently about this lack of a season-long narrative, attributing his falling out of love with cricket to this vandalism. He used a religious metaphor: he still believes, but no longer attends church with any regularity or enjoyment. And he contrasts cricket with baseball, referring to his daily check on the box scores from St Louis (unaccountably he is a Cardinals fan) and wondering whether next year’s proposed two game series between the Sox and the Yankees may remind English sports fans of what they have lost, certainly what they are missing.
 
I suspect it will. Like Engel, I have embraced the game of baseball. And although I am currently listening to Test Match Special from Headingley, and although I managed a day the Oval test last year, it is baseball that keeps my summer on the daily straight and narrow.

The prospect of rain at Headingley could well England’s best chance of avoiding defeat in the test match.
 
But whatever happens, I fear that English cricket is already facing an innings defeat.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Been listening to the Dead’s run at the Warfield in October 1980. Not my favourite period by any means, but these are very good shows and the work of the digital engineers has worked wonders with some iffy SBDs and audience recordings. Also, on the 11th, John Cippolina makes a guest appearance.