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Ah, the company softball team. When the warm weather arrives, when the long, sunny evenings beckon you away from your office and into the verdant expanses of Central Park, what better way for a happy workplace family to bond together than over nine innings and, afterward, a few cold ones? The company softball team relaxes things, builds friendships, and provides a good time for all.

Except, apparently, at The New Yorker, according to an emailer:

You would be doing mankind a favor, not to mention the majority of the staff of The New Yorker, if you would try to drive a nail or two into a coffin built for Adam Gopnik. ... His over-the-top presumption du jour is having insinuated his 9-year-old son Luke (a.k.a. "Luca" — because, well, the Gopniks are Eurotrash wannabes) into a role on The New Yorker's softball team. No one invited him to play. Gopnik just showed up and took advantage of the agreeable disposition of the team's coach. (We play in the Publishers Softball League. No one takes any of this seriously, of course, or didn't, until Gopnik came along and, with his relentless narcissism, appropriated it as his own.) The kid's a slightly whiny pain in the ass but it should be said in his defense that he's far more capable on the field than his father, who is inept beyond belief, a parody of the wuss everybody made fun of in the locker room.

Hmm. We sort of assumed everyone at The New Yorker was once the wuss everybody made fun of in the locker room.


The New Yorker