Every book on the history of television has a chapter (or more) on sports. Mine doesn’t. The reason is simple: I can’t watch a sports event without smelling my father’s cigar.
I don’t mean remembering; I mean smelling. Acrid, soggy chewed end in a large glass ashtray, my father’s cigars live in the DNA of my senses, ready to assault me with nausea at the mere sound of cheering fans at a…
