Archive for the 'Contest' Category

PnP Parody Party Contest: Write Like an Angell

Write Like an Angell Contest

There is a long-standing tradition of parody in literature, from Hemingway all the way around the world to Sarah Palin, with reams of Internet teletype in between.

On the heels of Eric’s Roger Angell Appreciation post, we thought we’d do the same thing and invite you to join this new contest, and write parodies of Roger Angell’s sepia-toned, straight ahead New Yorker style. We’re calling it Write Like an Angell.

The gig is that you describe a player or baseball incident of your choice in the Angell way. This might involve comparing a particular style quirk to a mundane daily activity, or describing the hoi polloi and capturing the quaint essence of a long-time fan. You could also do what he did back in the 60s and describe the seating in a certain domed stadium in the metaphorical terms of a summer dessert cocktail.

And it’s a contest, so for the first place winner, I will create a customized digital baseball card, in the manner of those of our poets-in-blogidence (examples here, here, here), for whatever human, animal, or mineral you so desire. The top three winners will be enshrined forever in the Rogue’s Baseball Index, under Roger Angell’s entry (which doesn’t exist yet), with a link of your choice that isn’t porn.

You can email your entries to, or post them in the comments. Eric and I are the final judges, unless Roger Angell calls and wants to be the judge, in which case he will be the judge.

You want an example of a contest entry, you say? Here is my offering:

I haven’t been to the press box in more than a month. The spread of ham sandwiches and Dr. Pepper that I recalled from the chilly contests of early March was all but extinct. Standing at attention in the instead was a stern company of carrot sticks facing down a squadron of celery. The sportwriters were as wary of the raw buffet as Ichiro Suzuki was unfazed by the platter of sinkers regularly delivered by Derek Lowe on the night of my visit. With every pitch, he gazes up into the distance. One might think he were trying to remember where he parked his car. At the mid-point of his swing, Ichiro leans backwards like a kite-surfer coasting in a light gale.