We lost a great writer today. Frank Deford. There is a school of thought that sportswriters should be like umpires, if you notice the writing, they are doing something wrong. The prose should be easily understandable, simple declarative sentences, small words. That was not Frank Deford. He was the type of writer who demanded a long read, because like fine wine, you wanted to roll it around 
for a while to savor its unique character, occasionally re-reading a passage to appreciate the subtleties you may have missed the first time around. A keen observer of what mattered, he wrote novels, lengthy magazine pieces and later in life, short essays for NPR.
He was old school — dashing mustache, lantern jawed, a little rumpled, Brooks Brothers. A swashbuckling image, to be sure. The kind of guy you’d like to enjoy a single malt with, just to lean back and listen to his stories until three in the morning.
A Sinatra song, a good scotch and a long Frank Deford piece that you never want to end. Now that, my friends, is a perfect evening.
Here is the ultimate tribute — praise from his peers. https://www.si.com/si-vault/2017/05/29/si-remembers-frank-deford
