Cool, the Yanks-Sox rivalry makes it into a fiction serial from the Sunday Times Magazine.
We live on the West Side, with our daughter, Rachel, lucky to have a nice four-bedroom. We bought in ’90, back when the real-estate agents were living on rice and beans. Sometime in the mid-’90s they starting getting fat. Then they exploded. The city goes through these cycles, and if you live here long enough you can sense them coming and going. See how the money heats up the city, makes people crazy.
I arrived home, threw my coat on the table. “Yanks and Boston tonight,” I called.
“Not good enough,” Susan said. “I want to see Joba myself.”
The Yankees were indeed in Boston that night, with Chien-Ming Wang on the mound. The game would be on television. But that wouldn’t cut it for Susan. She wanted to see Joba Chamberlain, the young Yankee fireballer who came on so strong at the end of last season, in person, and preferably from field-level seats.
I promised I’d get tickets to the first home game against Boston the coming week.
Which I hadn’t yet done, perhaps because I was still mourning the loss of Joe Torre as manager, and no amount of happy talk was going to make me feel better anytime soon. You follow a team, you develop these intense relationships. The Yankees brought back Mariano, Pettitte, Posada and A-Rod, fine. But I missed Torre.
Of Harrison’s most recent novel, The Finder, the NYT said: “Colin Harrison’s New York is an-eye-for-an-eye, dog-eat-dog Darwinian world with similar map coordinates to Tom Wolfe’s Manhattan and the Los Angeles of Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy…”
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