The Review's first poetry editor, Donald Hall, at tryouts for the Pittsburgh Pirates.
In a notice to readers in 2001—just after The Paris Review had officially become a nonprofit organization (as opposed to simply a not-profitable one)—George Plimpton described his warmup for that year's National Magazine Awards. "I had a speech vaguely prepared," he wrote. "I was going to say that we were accepting the award on behalf of all magazines with circulation in the high four figures. Then I was going to point out that if a sizable number of the ballroom audience subscribed we could afford to enter the competition the following year."
As it turned out, he had no need for a speech—The New Yorker swept the competition. However, the opportunity for a rematch emerged a few weeks later in the form of a high-stakes softball game: "David Remnick pitched for the New Yorker squad whose members kept arriving during the course of the game until their bench seemed a mass of humanity," Plimpton wrote. "Some were wearing cleated sneakers. The undersigned pitched for The Paris Review. The New Yorker scored eight runs in the first inning, alas, causing our leader and manager Ben Howe to pace the bench like a caged mink. I invited Remnick to the Paris Review bench where I gave him a warm scotch in the hopes of diluting his effectiveness as a leader. Indeed, the Review's people struggled back until in the final inning, the score was tied 11-11."
We are glad to report that in the intervening years, the Review has continued to give larger teams a run for their money—not just on the softball field. For the last two years, we have taken home the ASME Award for Fiction. And in 2023, we were thrilled to receive the Whiting Foundation's triannual Literary Magazine Prize, which included much-needed funds to help cover our operating expenses.
This year, the Whiting Foundation will match up to $20,000 in donations from individual readers. We are moved by and deeply grateful for the gifts that many of you have already made, and our goal, to meet the match by the end of June—also, auspiciously, the start of softball season—is now within sight.
As a thank you to those who have donated, and to inspire those who might still join the match, we've unlocked some favorite sporting stories from the archive. Your support will help The Paris Review continue to bring the very best prose, interviews, poetry, and art to readers around the world.
Friday evenings after work, the young men go to the baseball games in their suits and ties and sunglasses, having plain American fun. It touches my heart, because they don't have plain American fun where I come from, it is too exotic and remote for that, it is the dark side. They don't have baseball in New Orleans. It's not normal enough to have baseball.
We worked together and we played competitive games like badminton and swimming, but poetry was the most competitive game. We were friendly and fought like hell. Louis was the best swimmer and Robert always won the foolhardiness prize. There was a big town swimming pool in Madison where we went every day, and Robert would climb to the highest diving platform and jump off, making faces and noises and gyrating his body all the way down. I won at badminton.
After boring History afternoon classes, I decided to hang around awhile and watch the football team work out. Strictly lame, let me tell you, I could round up any ten friends of mine from downtown or uptown and whip their asses. Some senior asked me to hold the ball for him while he practiced field goals, thinking I was just another jerk-ass freshman. I did, and this guy kicked the thing like it was a bag of shit or something. I say, "Let me try one," and he says o.k., thinking he's doing this little punk a big favor. I stepped back, took two strides forward, and breezed one over from 32 yds. (this is in loafers, don't forget) and the guy just knelt there with his mouth hung open, I thought his jock would fall off and roll right down the leg of his clean little uniform. Then I tipped off to the subway, secretly loving everything about this crazy place.
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Keep a civil tongue.