I didn’t know Roger Angell, which was verifiably my loss, though an unintentional one. The esteemed baseball writer and editor for The New Yorker died on May 20 at the age of 101. Much deserved praise has been shared in the days since, none more eloquent – none close, really – than the one written my former Newsday and Sports Illustrated colleague, Tom Verducci, himself a magnificent baseball writer and a friend of Angell’s as well as the closest thing to his literary descendent in his ability to create a painting that both explains the present and endures across time, although in different ways. Just give it a read.