This has been a tough week. I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve lived through most of it too. But let’s recap, just to be sure we’re all singing from the same Union Prayer Book. It began with the shootings at Brown University. Two students were killed and nine injured—on the thirteenth anniversary of the Sandy Hook massacre. Whether that timing was coincidence or intent, we will never know.

A Tale of Two Nephews I have two nephews. They are much alike. Both stand over six feet tall—handsome by any measure—with light complexions, rosy cheeks, dimples as deep as divots, and unruly mops of blond hair. They are athletic: one a former rower and lifelong gym rat, the other a onetime baseball player and current Peloton warrior. Both are intelligent, blessed with prodigious memories, and keenly aware that being smart is not an end in itself.

Both of my nephews have wonderful intentions. Both want a better world than the one they inherited. They’re just approaching it from wildly different starting points. That may be the hallmark of our t...

Today marks the eighty-sixth anniversary of my father’s arrival in the United States. In our family we treated the date like a small holiday. Maybe it didn’t have the sparkle of Hanukkah, Christmas, or the cluster of December birthdays in our house, but it carried its own quiet reverence. It was a day to pause, acknowledge what this country gave to my father, and—importantly for a family with a serious sweet tooth—to eat cake.

My father’s favorite holiday was Thanksgiving. When I was a kid, I assumed this was because the food was excellent and my father enjoyed eating more than anyone I knew. He truly savored savoring. But that wasn’t why he held such a deep affection for the holiday. He believed Thanksgiving was the ultimate American holiday. While celebrations of gratitude exist in almost every culture, our Thanksgiving—with its customs and traditions—was uniquely American.

I went looking for the Old Grey Lady the other day. For as long as I can remember, she has been a part of my life—educating and informing me in a way few others ever did. She was known for being responsible about what she said and how she said it. Her mission was simple: “All the News That’s Fit to Print.” You could rely on her for in-depth reporting about the world around you.

Introducing what may soon be the most popular game in America: Trump: Dementia, Felon, or Huckster.  While listening to the latest dispatch from Trumpverse, players pick which part of the President’s ...

I used to be a news junkie. It was a habit I inherited straight from my parents. My father would practically read the ink off the New York Times every morning—not every article, maybe, but every section. It was how he warmed up for the day and ensured he knew more than most people in the room. He liked that.

He never wanted another living soul to endure the hell he and his family faced that night. I publish his story each year to honor his memory and his wish that we never forget.But we have failed him — ...

For the better part of the last twenty years, on the anniversary of Kristallnacht, I have published my father’s “A Minor Memorandum to My Children on the Fiftieth Anniversary of Kristallnacht: November 9 and 10, 1938.” He wrote it for his children so that we would never forget the horror of that night — and the genocide that followed. His hope was simple: we remember what happens when a society loses its humanity.

There’s a moment in every democracy when the fringe stops being the fringe. It’s not when an extremist gains followers online, or when their rhetoric briefly trends on social media. It happens when institutions that once stood as gatekeepers begin to open the door. That’s why the growing embrace of Nick Fuentes by groups like the Heritage Foundation isn’t just a warning light—it’s a klaxon.

I love walking my dog, Rosie. The first walk usually happens around 8:30 in the morning. By then, I’ve already braved the long commute from my bedroom to the kitchen for coffee—my daily fuel—so I can put in a few hours of work before the day’s demands drag me down any number of unexpected rabbit holes. Our morning walks give me a chance to clear my head and prepare for whatever the day has in store.

Teddy Roosevelt was everything this guy isn’t. He reportedly read one to three books a day, while the current occupant hasn’t read one since *Dick and Jane.* TR authored 38 books and published over 15...

I like walking in Washington, D.C. Not the modern kind of walking, where people are glued to their phones, but the old-fashioned, head-on-a-swivel kind. D.C. is full of history, and if you don’t pay attention, you’ll miss something important — something you’ll probably regret later. I was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th Street NW, just outside the White House, when I saw a crowd pressed against the iron fence that keeps the uninvited from dropping in on the President.

The waiting room outside HR only has two people in it. Sitting opposite each other both are busily avoiding making eye contact with each other by paying far more attention to their cell phones than was required. The one of the Bespeckled with round tortoise shell frames and off the rack suit white shirt and rep tie the one he had the look and the insincere smile of a moderately successful real estate agent who had not sold a house in a while.

Normally when I write this blog, I let emotion drive the words. I write about what I feel—my anger, frustration, or joy—at what’s happening in the world around me. Without getting too bookish or nerdy, it’s my own soliloquy from Hamlet: “To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

I was just rolling over in bed for the first time when my phone rang. I despise when my phone rings early in the morning. Not only does it rob me of that first cup of coffee and those few peaceful moments when the world still seems at ease with itself, but at that hour it’s almost always bad news. You know that saying, “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” Its corollary should be, “There’s no such thing as a positive phone call before 7 a.m.”

I Have a Very Kind and Loving and Much Younger Sister A couple of days ago, I arrived at my much much younger sister’s home unannounced and uninvited. I do this from time to time—especially if, as in this case, I haven’t seen her in over a month. And, lest you think me rude, I came bearing gifts: a box of Brazilian chocolates with little pieces of banana embedded inside (they keep your mouth happy for hours afterward), and a box of Reese’s-flavored Oreos.

We had made it!  By “made it,” I mean we were finally sitting in our seats on American Airlines Flight 1801 from Miami to Newark, NJ. Not the easiest task these days. First, we had to endure the eight-hour, fifty-five-minute flight from Rio to Miami in economy, in front of a very talkative Brazilian family who violated the unwritten “whisper only” rule on overnight flights.

I doomscroll.  There, I admitted it. And honestly, it feels good to get it off my chest. I’m not proud of it—I know it rots my brain faster than RFK Jr.’s brain worm. It keeps me from doing things that are actually productive, like reading a book or even enjoying a quiet moment of reflection. But when my brain is too fried to string two thoughts together, and my energy has dipped to drooling levels, doomscrolling requires the fewest neurons and only exercises one muscle: my index finger. 

That morning, twenty-four years ago, began like so many others for me. I rose early, completed my morning ablutions, walked the dog, and was in a cab heading to my office at The Sporting News before 7 a.m. You could not help but notice it was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The heat and humidity of summer had given way to clear blue skies and crisp, fall-like weather.

Every family has one.

Every family has one. That uncle, aunt, cousin, or distant relation who shows up at family gatherings and immediately creates a scene by expressing an opinion that alienates almost everyone else. You know the type. The person who walks into the kitchen and, if they see a male relative cooking, asks to see his estrogen patch. Or who insists the moon landing was faked, the earth is flat, cranberry sauce is a government tracking device, and pumpkin spice lattes are a communist conspiracy designed to decimate American agriculture.

One of the most amazing discoveries while packing up our mother’s home was a stash of letters I had sent her from Camp Skoglund when I was ten. My favorite find was a letter I wrote on the one day I didn’t receive one from her. In it, I accused her of breaking her promise to write me every day. Reading it now laid me out.