Word: stacks
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...Walsh says. “Without him at the top of our rotation, it’s going to be real tough. We’re looking forward to Max coming back next year.”Despite missing one of its aces, Harvard still enters 2008 stacked with talent, versatility, and some returning veterans refueled for another shot at the Ivy League title.Senior starting pitcher Shawn Haviland—who put up a 3-3 record and a 4.26 ERA last year while struggling with a stress fracture in his ribs—enters 2008 healthy and ready...
...base hits and the doubles that she’s capable of getting. She has to move away from an all-or-nothing mentality—either I hit it over the fence or I strike out.” While it might be more difficult for Murphy to stack up the home runs, that certainly won’t diminish her role on the team. “We’re not going to say ‘You hit 18 home runs last year, so you need to hit 20 this year?...
...Lafayette yesterday in Bradenton, taking a victory in the first game on the strength of a one-run, seven-inning gem by senior pitcher Brad Unger, then was blown out by the Leopards, 13-2, in the nightcap.While offensive outbursts from seniors Matt Vance, the team captain, and Tom Stack-Babich—who combined for three home runs and 11 RBI over the weekend—provided the Crimson with enough firepower to stay competitive in most of its games, Harvard struggled to string runs together at crucial times.“We’re not the kind...
...Museum, sought to remedy her unease by combining productivity and pleasure.Davey’s beloved books are everywhere in her photographs. They appear first in four oversized photographs of books with their spines facing away from the camera. The books–of which we see only stacks of yellowing pages draped in shadows and dust–lack authors, titles, and other distinguishing features. The books’ character is conveyed by their numbers; they are the possessions of a bibliophile who keeps even the books she hasn’t read in decades. Books return...
...Like sardines released from a can, we jumped out of the car. Inside the cemetery’s walls, the silence was so thick that it bounced off the rows of tombs stacked like chests of drawers (a particularly creepy image when you envision folded socks and underwear stuffed in there with the dead people). The wind whispered gently in the background—in Italian of course—and as I read the names chiseled into the tomb’s façades, Pavarotti sung a silent opera in my head. I roamed the aisles wondering what...