Monday, April 23, 2007
May book: The Sports Writer by Richard Ford
As a sportswriter, Frank Bascombe makes his living studying people--men, mostly--who live entirely within themselves. This is a condition that Frank himself aspires to. But at thirty-eight, he suffers from incurable dreaminess, occasional pounding of the heart, and the not-too-distant losses of a career, a son, and a marriage. In the course of the Easter week in which Ford's moving novel transpires, Bascombe will end up losing the remnants of his familiar life, though with his spirits soaring.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments
(
Atom
)
2 comments :
I was walking over by Childs Park the other night, but on the other side, away from Stan's. I thought about stopping into the Y to catch a little basketball or maybe some gymnastics, but watching children cavort in shorts and smiles in a place with a coughed-into-one's-hand reputation for guy-on-guy stuff (look at me, I'm the let-me-use-another-hyphen guy, but not that kind of guy) made me feel blank in the places I didn't want to feel blank in. I ran for a while, scared a couple high schoolers thinking of necking near the frog pond, but was out of breath long before I could get within sippin'-with-a-long-straw distance of Packard's, so I took a seat on one of those fake Adirondaks that prevail this time of year. When the police came, I was asleep, so it wasn't so bad, and the guy knew me from rehab several years back in Chicopee. Good guy. Weird facial hair thing going on, but I didn't tell him. Drove me home, told me to "take it easy." "I'll take it," I said. "But I won't take it easy."
The monthly book group was last night, and due to either the English gin or a trace of malathion wandering off point, it was a bit raucous. The years have been kind to the men in this forum, lots of sheltered foreheads and bouncy footsteps in spite of a general lack of high level thinking, which was hilariously illustrated by one of our non-doctor types who got some alleged plumbing stuck in his upper ducts and lived to laugh about it. The book of the month (forget the hyphens today, fellas, I'm bleeding gin from both eyes and am doing my best to type this) didn't conjure any somber confessions of mano a mano trysts at the Clarion, nor did anyone spill the refrieds about any clandestine trips to the Heartland with an espresso artiste from Haymarket. I was there but not, having lost at Little League, both on the field and off, where a 10 year old asked me, "Why don't you ever pitch me, dick?" My reply, heartfelt and flaccid as a sunflower in West Texas, was a blank stare and a pat on the head, which caused his mother to shuffle him off to Subway and a soft serve with nary a nod in my direction. And then all the guys, the men, with their hairy chested toasts and bare breathed bonhomie, allowing me into their cluster, their sanctuary of shared brotherhood and parking places, me on the inside looking insider, missing a beat and chewing the eggplant spread more than necessary. At least I didn't offend anyone that I can think of.
Post a Comment