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- BOOKS, Page 72The Seventh-Inning Stretch
-
-
- Even those who prefer watching a line drive to reading a line
- about baseball will find these volumes worthwhile
-
- BY WALTER SHAPIRO
-
-
- This is embarrassing to admit, but this review is a
- little late. I was supposed to assess all of this year's
- baseball books, weighty tomes like Mickey Mantle's most recent
- epic, a reminiscence in the manner of Marcel Proust, My Favorite
- Summer 1956. But dazzled as I was by his emotionally evocative
- sentences (``I met up with Billy at the St. Moritz coffee shop
- for a quick cup of coffee"), I confess that I yielded to
- temptation. Instead of scrupulously working my way through a
- pile of new books as oversized as Cecil Fielder's strike zone,
- I frittered away my critical faculties watching real-life
- baseball on TV, even slighting sleep for the red-eye ESPN night
- games from the Coast. Eventually I found -- in extra innings,
- it is true -- seven baseball books that survived the toughest
- test of all: competing with the game itself. Each of these books
- is analogous to an opposite-field hitter; instead of trying to
- drive the ball up the middle, they offer glimpses of the game
- from odd angles and use the sport as a metaphor for something
- larger.
-
- Los Angeles Times foreign correspondent David Lamb, the
- author of Stolen Season (Random House; $20), is a middle-age man
- on the lam from his own life. Rather than acting out his
- mid-life fantasies with the aid of a red sports car, Lamb buys
- an RV and sets out for a magic summer in quest of the heart of
- America, minor-league baseball. Writing in the spirit of
- Steinbeck's Travels with Charley, Lamb forsakes dramatic
- narrative for an endearing travelogue filled with small piquant
- details. His odyssey is oddly humbling. He encounters a boyhood
- hero, Hall of Fame slugger Eddie Matthews, now a sixtyish
- minor-league batting coach nursing a fearsome hangover and
- brooding that his young disciples "don't know who I am, what
- stats I put on the board." Lamb himself, used to sparking
- conversations with tales of his globe-trotting adventures,
- quickly discovers that baseball is a closed universe devoid of
- curiosity about life beyond the base lines. "The players viewed
- me with studied indifference," he writes. "Baseball was the only
- common denominator of discussion, and the older a player was,
- the more uncomfortable he became talking about topics other than
- himself."
-
- The players may be self-absorbed, but fans crave an
- understanding of how it feels to play this child's game for a
- living. Perhaps the best recent glimpse of baseball's inner life
- can be found in The 26th Man by Steve Fireovid (Macmillan;
- $18.95), a poignant journal of the 1990 season by a career
- minor-league pitcher still dreaming of one more cup of coffee
- in the big leagues. The story line is simple and honest:
- Fireovid, then 33, a righthander who gets by more on guile than
- God-given talent, posts the second best earned-run average in
- the American Association while gamely stifling his
- disappointment as many of his younger teammates are called up
- by the Montreal Expos. The Expos are not heartless: they want
- Fireovid to trade his glove for a clipboard as a minor-league
- pitching coach. But Fireovid cannot let go of his dream. As he
- admits in August, "Earlier in the season . . . I was positive
- I'd be retiring from baseball. Now I'm not so sure. I'm
- pitching as well or better than I ever have, and baseball is
- what I do best."
-
- This year Fireovid is still getting them out for the
- Pittsburgh Pirates' top minor-league club. But for sheer
- endurance his story is overshadowed by the resurrection of
- Warren Cromartie, 37, who returned after six years in Japan to
- become a backup first baseman for the Kansas City Royals. In
- Slugging It Out in Japan (Kodansha International; $19.95),
- Cromartie, once a star outfielder with the Montreal Expos,
- vividly recounts his frustrations as a gaijin home-run king with
- the Tokyo Giants. The transformation of baseball to fit Japanese
- cultural norms is familiar terrain for anyone who has read
- Robert Whiting's You Gotta Have Wa. With Whiting as his
- co-author, Cromartie illustrates the insidious ways the Japanese
- both honor and humiliate migrant American ballplayers. "We were
- constantly being watched," Cromartie complains. "We had to
- submit ourselves to incessant badgering and nitpicking, which
- began in camp and continued all year long. That was
- Japanese-style quality control."
-
- Americans are not exactly innocents at the game of
- exploitation for the greater glory of baseball. In Sugarball
- (Yale University; $19.95), sociologist Alan M. Klein examines
- the underside of baseball in the Dominican Republic, the
- poverty-stricken nation famous for two cash crops: sugarcane and
- big-league shortstops. Klein depicts the Dominican "academies,"
- where teenage prospects are recruited, trained and evaluated by
- major-league clubs, as "the baseball counterpart of the colonial
- outpost, the physical embodiment overseas of the parent
- franchise." Even though Klein's ire is sometimes ill-concealed
- and the book actually contains a section called "Baseball and
- Symbolic Analysis," Sugarball serves as a reminder of the true
- meaning of the baseball term farm system.
-
- Hank Aaron's autobiography, I Had a Hammer (HarperCollins;
- $21.95), written with Lonnie Wheeler, is as much a provocative
- primer on baseball's race relations in the 1950s and '60s as it
- is a superstar's account of his triumphant march to breaking
- Babe Ruth's all-time home-run record. Aaron, who spent much of
- his career overshadowed by mediagenic players -- both white and
- black -- like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays, can claim with some
- justice that he was belittled by stereotypes. "Because I was
- black, and because I never moved faster than I had to, and
- because I didn't speak Ivy League English," Aaron writes, "I
- came into the league with an image of a backward country kid who
- could swing the bat and was lucky he didn't have to think too
- much."
-
- Aaron was still a fearsome, albeit fading, slugger when he
- surpassed Ruth in 1974. In contrast, baseball purists should
- cringe at the way Pete Rose, his skills long vanished, was
- lionized for his Captain Ahab-like quest to break Ty Cobb's
- record for career base hits. Collision at Home Plate by James
- Reston Jr. (HarperCollins; $19.95) is a cautionary tale about
- the dangers of hero worship. This joint biography of Rose and
- baseball commissioner Bart Giamatti -- the former Yale
- University president who banished Rose from baseball in 1989 and
- then died suddenly little more than a week later -- never quite
- works. The irony is too heavyhanded, the juxtapositions too
- stark, the character of Rose too pathetic in his heedless
- self-destruction. Oddly enough, it is Giamatti, the exuberant
- intellectual fleeing Yale for the greener pastures of baseball,
- who dominates the book, as Reston paints a complex portrait of
- a flawed but fascinating administrator a bit too taken with his
- own public image. Still, Reston indulges in too much quotation
- of Giamatti's orotund utterances on the cosmic meaning of
- baseball and provides too little insight into the off-the-field
- politics of the game itself.
-
- The journalistic obsession with anniversaries has reached
- Ruthian (or should I say "Aaronian") proportions this year as
- sports pages are running day-by-day updates on the fabled 1941
- season. Personally, I have already overdosed on Joe DiMaggio's
- 56-game hitting streak and Ted Williams' .406 batting average.
- But if you must read one book on the subject, let it be Baseball
- in '41 by Robert W. Creamer (Viking; $19.95). A veteran
- sportswriter now pushing 70, Creamer artfully weaves his own
- 1941-college-boy-on-the-cusp-of-war persona throughout the
- narrative. There are wonderful asides, ranging from Red Barber's
- early days as the Brooklyn Dodgers radio announcer to the draft
- woes of Detroit Tigers star Hank Greenberg. But hard as Creamer
- tries, I never caught the magic of the 1941 games themselves.
- For how could they compete with the joys of a simpleminded
- slugfest on ESPN?
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