The New Yorker VS. New York Review of Books - An Asterisk in Central Park

A huge * next to this week's softball match, thanks to the feller in the golf cart.

Each week, the New Yorker team meets at the softball diamond in Central Park to play against writers, fact-checkers, and cartoonists* who work at other publications like Vanity Fair, Esquire, Rolling Stone, and several others.

This tradition goes back nearly half a century. I am easily the least valuable player on the team, with the knees of a septuagenarian and the pitching arm of a smoked ham. But it’s the only chance New Yorker cartoonists get to see each other these days since they canceled the weekly cartoon meetings.

*I’m kidding. Nobody else has cartoonists anymore.

The 2024 official softball team uniform was designed by the inimitable Roz Chast

05/28:
“An Asterisk in Central Park”

“I need you to leave the park immediately!” The man in sunglasses and park ranger gear yelled from his little buggy.

“Ah?” Daniel responded (we have seventeen Daniels on our team) “Stop playing, leave the park now.”

You see, we’d started late on account of our rivals showing up on Central time, and the previous game between Johhny’s Muffler Warehouse V. Sid’s Carburetor Repairs running overtime by 20 minutes.

As usual, the cartoonists huddled in a batch behind the dugout. While the clock ticked away, a nice woman walking past asked if we knew the late Ed Koren. As it turns out, she was the aforementioned cartooning legend’s daughter. We had a long chat before finally getting our eye in with some warm-ups and batting practice. The other team was yet to arrive.

We had the feeling an Asterisk might linger over this week’s match. It just had that vibe.

When the opposing team finally showed up, they got a few past us. But we were in pretty good nick. Once Johnny DiNapoli got our first home run, we were off— it was shaping up to be a real game.

Johnny DiNapoli has a Maggie Larson growing out of his neck.

There was a batter on the other team with black gloves. He struck out. The gloves did nothing. Illustrator Jenny Kroik said, “If he was in Columbo he’d definitely be a suspect.”

Just then, our remaining team members had returned from their odyssey through the Upper West Side to locate some cheap beer. Alas, all they found were fancy cans of Whiskey Smash and pre-mixed margaritas. We cracked open the readymade cocktails and trotted onto the field for the fifth inning.

After several groggy fumbles, they had a player on every base. Things were starting to turn…

It was the bottom of the sixth and they were up by three. It was time to get serious. One of their players approached the dugout to ask if they could borrow a left-handed glove. After a swig of whiskey smash and a heavy sigh, someone bellowed, “Who’s got a southpaw for the Review?”

They buried us in record time. We were flailing, but our resolve for a comeback was stronger than ever. The team guzzled some more softball juice and bounded onto the pitch as the sun burst through the storm clouds.

Just then, a small man in a large buggy stopped by the dugout to ask who the permit holder was. We pointed to one of the several dozen Daniels in the field and he hit the gas, screeching around right field to stop right behind a Daniel.

“I need you to stop playing and leave the park immediately!” he barked…