The cover picture of the Buffalo Bills' porcine Sam Adams choogling downfield on opening day (Sept. 15) illustrates the sumofication of the NFL—the National Fatball League—whose credo has become: Life begins at 300. Pity the knees, spines and necks that will surely snap on any given Sunday.
RICK STEWART, Binghamton, N.Y.
Since when does one ordinary play in football—Sam Adams's interception in the first game of the season—deserve top billing over the extraordinary play by Andy Roddick during the two weeks it took to win the U.S. Open (Long Live the King, Sept. 15)? I guess your rough-and-tough football readers outweigh the genteel tennis crowd. Well, at least Sam Adams does.
CHRIS RITTINGER, Bogota, N.J.
Steve Rushin neglected one significant sports anagram (AIR AND SPACE, Sept. 15). In the 1986 World Series, Red Sox pitcher Bruce Hurst was briefly named the Series MVP in the bottom of the 10th inning of Game 6 with Boston leading 5-3. The rest is history. Bruce Hurst was felled by the B Ruth Curse.
BRIAN WUENSCH, Oakland, N.J.
Kobe Bryant (Broke by T 'n A).
ROBERT J. WEAVER, Bloomsburg, Pa.
Rushin's column was hilarious, but he forgot Tie Domi (Me Idiot).
KEN LINDEMANN, Sioux Falls, S.Dak.
Thanks for the great excerpt from Pete Dexter's new novel (Train, Sept. 15). Having served hundreds of totes—we called them loops—in the late '40s and '50s, I can tell you Dexter has an uncommon understanding of caddie thoughts and behavior, or one heck of a research database. After all these years, I thought I was there again. Magnificent writing!
HAL BUCK, Menifee, Calif.
As a longtime caddie, I know that for every member who treats black caddies with respect, like Mr. Packard, there are at least 20 who don't. While the country club can be an institution from which caddies benefit greatly, too often it reinforces racist ideas in the mostly white members.
DYLAN PELLETIER-ROSS, Chicago
I read SI for sports news. If I want fiction, I'll buy Readers Digest.
CATHY MCELENEY, Medford, Mass.
It was nice seeing in print what I have known for many years: Willie Mays is baseball's greatest living player (THE LIFE OF REILLY, Sept. 15). Anyone who doesn't think so probably never saw Mays play in his prime.
LEN MESSINA, Maple Glen, Pa.
I like to say that Mays and I broke into the bigs the same year: I was born in 1951. In my childhood I kept a scrapbook on Willie and dug it out tonight after reading Rick Reilly's column. It will be the first article pasted in since 1965.
MIKE DAVIDSON, Altadena, Calif.