The column first appeared in Sunday editions of The Times and The News-Star Sunday, October 14, 2018.

For decades Dan Jenkins has been copying Babe Zaharias on the tee box, just loosening up his girdle and letting ’er rip, “typing through the laughter” when he’s not feeding his fascinations for family, ribs, college football, and musicals you can actually understand.

Anyone who knows me even a tiny bit knows how much I appreciate that since Mr. Jenkins is my favorite writer, with possible exceptions given to Merle Haggard and Larry Gatlin and Willie Nelson, the guy who wrote the Hardy Boys books, and the Apostle Paul, (not counting the parts on circumcision). Seriously, Mr. Jenkins is at least one and maybe two of the heads on my Mount Rushmore of Writers.

Typing “Jenkins,” by the way, is lighter but doesn’t seem right. Think I’ll go with “Mr.” since he’s has been called “the Ben Hogan of sportswriting” by Phil Mickelson, “the greatest sportswriter of them all” by Mike Lupica, and a guy who, approaching 90, “still has his fastball” according to (“Mr.” again!) President George H. W. Bush.

He’s in the World Golf Hall of Fame. Last year, the University of Texas created the Dan Jenkins Medal for Excellence in Sportswriting, and its Center for Sports Communication & Media houses his papers. The press box at TCU, his beloved alma mater in his hometown, is named after him. He’s been lauded left and right, and few love a good lauding more than yours truly, and few if any deserve it more than Mr. Jenkins.

So I bring you good tidings of great joy that shall be to you and all peoples who enjoy reading and laughing and trying to make sense out of the head-scratching human condition. Mr. Jenkins has a new book out. It’s called Sports Makes You Type Faster, it’s published by TCU Press and is available at your fingertips; next time you order underwear and replacement Christmas light bulbs online, just pop this into your cart and three days later you’ll be sending me “thank you” chocolates.

You’re welcome in advance.

Mr. Jenkins writes that this most recent effort “concerns itself with the games people play and watch, but it also has its way with those fans who often mistake their favorite sport for a religion.” (We’re looking at you, Message Board Posters.)

Often he makes his points through mythical people in “real” circumstances. For instance, a Russian with cyber-smarts hacked his way into the Dallas Cowboys’ scouting department and released the names of some guys on the Dallas “watch list,” including Alabama running back Tyree “Spiral Ham” Conway, Richie “Trapper” James from Oregon Agricultural & Sharing Institute, and Brazos Technical High School quarterback stud Bobby “Bombshell” Grubbs, who will probably skip college and go straight to the pros since he’s so good and so bright: “we’re talking about a young man who made straight As in Fender, Headlight and Dashboard.”

If I’d have stopped right there on page 15, it’d have still been worth the price of admission.

I started reading Mr. Jenkins when he began working for Sports Illustrated in the 1960s when, it seemed, he spent most of his time in Austin with Darrell Royal and the Texas Longhorns. This worked out great since I spent the first part of the 1960s learning how to read and the second part learning about Royal and Austin and the wishbone. By 1970, I knew the Longhorns and most every bigtime college coach better than I knew some of my uncles.

So he started with the newspaper and then the magazine and moved naturally to novels. This is Mr. Jenkins’ 23rd-ish book, and I’ve read them all, several a few times. Never been disappointed. Always felt as if he were trying to promote and encourage a vitality of existence, a hopeful view of life, and a tender attitude about love—and disguise it all in a story involving some sort of ball.

But here’s the weird part:

Why I anticipated the books, this newest one included, wasn’t because of the story or stories I’d read; I knew those would be good. My anticipation was always for the first-page dedications, because I knew those would be great. And real.

A handful have been dedicated to friends or groups or colleagues. The first book of his I read, Saturday’s America in 1970, is dedicated to “three little benchwarmers named Sally, Marty and Danny—in the hope that they learn to relish each autumn Saturday as I have.”

Those benchwarmers are grown now, and it’s their mom, the fetching June Burrage Jenkins and her husband’s secret weapon, who’s at the heart of his other book dedications, including Semi-Tough, the 1972 novel that started it all: “Once more for June and the dumplings, who surrender their time.”

From Dead Solid Perfect, 1974: “For the house on Travis Avenue and all the love inside of it.”

From Baja Oklahoma, 1981: “This book is totally dedicated to the former June Burrage, homecoming queen, lifelong love interest, exemplary mother of children and grownups, nurse, bookkeeper, handyperson—and not a bad little chef.”

From Rude Behavior, 1998: “Again for June Burrage Jenkins, with your basic boundless love.”

(I know. I’ll stop in a second…)

From Slim and None, 2005: “For my four treasures: June, Sally, Marty, Danny: Thanks for making my tip on this planet a pure joy, and for keeping in mind that everything that happens to you in life is not necessarily funny, but most of it sort of is.”

From The Franchise Babe, 2008: “Always for June. Heart of my heart.”

From His Ownself: A Semi-Memoir, 2014: “Always for June Jenkins, my dynamite lady, without whom none of this would have mattered much.”

I know, right?! And on it goes. Still. “Sports Makes You Type Faster” might include Mr. Jenkins’ finest dedication hour: “Always for June, who stepped out of my dreams and brought love to my life. It had to be you.”

Not to write a song or anything…

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