If I am not mistaken, today is the 40th anniversary of the movie Deliverance.
Plinga pling pling pling.
On the same day, at Wimbledon Billie Jean King beat Evonne Goolagong.
In my own life, since that was the summer that Fisher met Spassky, I was highly attuned to the newspaper. For myself, in tournament play, I had at my little age earned a rating. In great anticipation I was set – in between running like a shoeless brown animal or riding horses bare-back without bridle, clinging to their manes and ears – to watch and play through these games with with my grandfather – himself a world level Bridge champion – with great attention. The summer was hot and free. I watched Julia Child and NASA missions. I met Dave McNally, and listened to short wave radio at night and distant trains whistles. I knew every kid and all their houses and yards. I ate snow cones from a cousin’s traveling cart, kicked through the banks of hail from summer storms, and blew up stuff with fireworks. I had a bright green Sting-Ray bike with a white seat. My hair was on fire and I was never going to die.