57th & 3rd, NYC
I’m already a day late with this piece. Monday is the deadline at Poor Man’s, but it’s Tuesday and I just woke from a nap at a quarter to ten in the morning.
I’m coming to you from 57th & 3rd in New York: eleven floors up, views stretching 180 degrees from the Upper East Side to the Roosevelt Island tram to Midtown. Horns never stop. Construction starts at seven a.m. sharp.
I’ve been on the road since the season started. I’ve written from Austin, Atlanta, DC, Boston, and the Rockies. On planes and trains, in the backs of cabs, in countless hotel beds. And like our Dawgs, I’m worn out.
I don’t know how these guys do it. Week in, week out, gridiron gladiators. All that’s asked of me is late-night dinners and cigars, and a few weeks ago I shaved my mustache because I couldn’t wash the smell of tobacco out of it – my version of the injured reserve list.
When I agreed to write this column with Scates, I wondered what I’d write about. If it isn’t obvious, I’m not a sportswriter. I don’t think I’ve written a single statistic. I can’t even keep up with the players’ names. I just love a break from the daily grind with my Dawgs.
Luckily, our esteemed publisher puts up with my drifter lifestyle.
So here I am in Manhattan, in my pajamas, watching pigeons swoop by while the rest of this city is hard at work. Or maybe not. I can’t be the only guy phoning it in today.
Let’s hope our boys aren’t doing the same in Athens.
