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When I arrived at the clubhouse at noon, I was prepared for the sort of stuffy and overlong awards ceremony that dulls the spirits of parents everywhere. I was also afraid we’d miss the opening of the U.S.-England match. Happily, my natural pessimism was misplaced. Pleasant smells of charred cowflesh met me as I made my way through a chaos of bouncing balls and darting children; the barbecue was in full swing, and a soccer game was stirring up tremendous clouds of dust from the courtyard. I quickly made my way into the cool and musty shadows of the main hall, with its impressive display of 99 years’ worth of trophies and plaques. My eye drifted along the endless glass cases, and though I could discern no obvious scheme of organization, it appeared that the 1930s, 1950s and 1960s had been especially prolific. At the other end of the hall, I was startled by the immensely smug televised countenance of ESPN’s Alexi Lalas, projected on a screen, when through a doorway I glimpsed the object of my quest. –“Saturday Afternoon Fever,” Roger D. Hodge, The New York Observer
There was no way Bates could maintain an NBA career while slipping into full-blown alcoholism. So what did he do? Get clean, pull himself together, and take another shot at the big leagues? Nope. By the looks of things, he found a place where he could keep playing without giving up the bottle. That place was the Philippines. In the PBA, Bates’s talent was so overwhelming that he probably could have played in a drunken stupor and averaged 30 points per game. By most accounts, he always dried out before tip-off. His career average of 46 points per game is the highest of any PBA player, import or local, and Bates will probably always be remembered as the best import in league history. Throughout the ’80s, he was a superstar in the Philippines, one of the nation’s most famous and infamous ballers, whose legacy lives on today. –“The Legend of Black Superman: Billy Ray Bates, Flying High in the Philippines,” Rafe Bartholomew, Deadspin
Anthologizing is a dusty sport, half antique hunting and half literary gossipfest, and I love it. I went home and prowled my shelves and realized how many of the Victorian-era stories I had already read. Why, here’s that pasty-faced bastard Lord Ruthven, by Byron’s doctor and hanger-on, John Polidori, and so obviously based upon Byron himself. Here is Théophile Gautier’s crazy priest, in love with a vampire courtesan and wrestling with his naughty soul. And there were many stories I hadn’t read before—gay vampires, child vampires, even an invisible vampire. –“All the Dead are Vampires,” Michael Sims, The Chronicle of Higher Education
More from Rafe Bartholomew:
Freddie Gray’s relatives arrived for the trial in the afternoon, after the prep-school kids had left. By their dress, they seemed to have just gotten off work in the medical and clerical fields. The family did not appear at ease in the courtroom. They winced and dropped their heads as William Porter and his fellow officer Zachary Novak testified to opening the doors of their police van last April and finding Freddie paralyzed, unresponsive, with mucus pooling at his mouth and nose. Four women and one man mournfully listened as the officers described needing to get gloves before they could touch him.
The first of six Baltimore police officers to be brought before the court for their treatment of Freddie Gray, a black twenty-five-year-old whose death in their custody was the immediate cause of the city’s uprising last spring, William Porter is young, black, and on trial. Here in this courtroom, in this city, in this nation, race and the future seem so intertwined as to be the same thing.
Minimum number of cats fitted with high-tech listening equipment in a 1967 CIA project:
Zoologists suggested that apes and humans share an ancestor who laughed.
A former prison in Philadelphia that has served as a horror-movie set was being prepared as a detention center for protesters arrested at the upcoming Democratic National Convention, and presumptive Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump fired his campaign manager.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”