For so many in publishing, Central Park was where writers and editors, ringers and the occasional singer all fought across decades for softball supremacy. This is the story of how the Press League—and with it, a huge chunk of the press itself—withered and died.

“Standing on the mound, about to throw the game’s first pitch, I’d take a moment. I’d look up at the blue sky, at the trees all around me, at the skyscrapers looming behind them. Central Park. New York. And I’d remind myself: Look at this. Look where you are.”
—Fred Lief

Don’t those guys have jobs?

It happened every spring. Blacktop refugees feeling the sylvan pull of Central Park. They’d wander in—suits and sailors, daytrippers and druggies, stroller moms and straphangers, tourists and triathletes—all hoping to escape the cacophony and chaos of midtown Manhattan. To sunbathe or smoke a joint. Ride a carousel or a Cannondale. Read a