Whipped Cream Difficulties

Roger Angell, baseball writer.

Mr. Angell was sometimes referred to as baseball’s poet laureate, a title he rejected. He called himself a reporter. “The only thing different in my writing,” he said, “is that, almost from the beginning, I’ve been able to write about myself as well.”
He disliked sentimentality about sports. “The stuff about the connection between baseball and American life, the ‘Field of Dreams’ thing, gives me a pain,” he once said. “I hated that movie.”
He was alert, however, to what he called the “substrata of nuance and lesson and accumulated experience” beneath baseball’s surface. And his humor flashed above all this.

This is odd, because I always associated him with that “Field of Dreams” school of baseball thought. (I have another name for it, but in deference to the dead and to the sensibilities of my readers, I won’t put that here.) I would occasionally run across a piece by Mr. Angell about baseball in the New Yorker, and…I don’t think I ever finished one.

“It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitative as a professional sports team,” he wrote in his book “Five Seasons” (1977). “What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring — caring deeply and passionately, really caring — which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives.”

This is a mildly amusing piece by Bill James that involves the late Mr. Angell slightly.

Like his stepfather, E.B. White, Mr. Angell spent a good deal of time in coastal Maine, where he owned a home on Eggemoggin Reach in Brooklin. Also like his stepfather, Mr. Angell was an enthusiastic consumer of martinis. He composed an essay, “Dry Martini,” that some consider the best on the subject. In it, he admitted that he ultimately moved to vodka from gin because vodka was “less argumentative.”

The “Dry Martini” essay. For some reason, archive.is won’t let me archive it.

This seems a little harsher than my usual obit, and I’m sorry for that. Props to Mr. Angell for living to 101. At the same time, his style of writing was not one I have a lot of sympathy for, and I wonder how far he would have gone if it wasn’t for his family connections.

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