I stopped watching the Mets a month ago, when they reverted to 1962 ineptitude. I normally don’t watch the Yankees or network broadcasts, but I probably will check out the post-season.
Meantime, baseball remains the best writing/reading sport of all. Here are four new books I recommend, in season or out: The Pride of the Yankees: Lou Gehrig, Gary Cooper, and the Making of a Classic. Richard Sandomir. Hachette Books. As a young Brooklyn fan and later as a young reporter, I could hear the melancholy echoes of Lou Gehrig’s farewell, echoing under the eaves of the old (the real) Yankee Stadium. Gehrig remains a phenomenon for his 15 steals of home (all on the back end of a delayed steal but, with his thick legs, quite an accomplishment) and his 2,130 consecutive-game streak as well as the terrible way he died, from a disease that would bear his name. The latest talented observer to write about Gehrig is Richard Sandomir, a friend and colleague from the New York Times, in his compelling new book, “The Pride of the Yankees,” which Sandomir calls “the first great sports film.” Sandomir covered sports media for decades and now uses his talents in the prestigious obituary section of the Times. He conveys the man and the movie as a story for the ages, noting that producer Sam Goldwyn wanted to make a love story about a doomed man. “Goldwyn didn’t see the value in a baseball story – a game he thought was played with twelve bases on a field,” Sandomir notes. Goldwyn did not care that Gary Cooper looked like a 1962 Met when he tried to swing or throw or run. I learned in this book that Cooper, from Montana, had never played baseball, not once. But Sandomir quotes the noted director, Howard Hawks, as saying, “The grand thing about Cooper is that you believe everything that he says or does.” Getting people to believe. How courant. Sandomir brilliantly describes how myth-making is enhanced by bending reality. Eleanor Gehrig was not the demure lass depicted by Teresa Wright; she was a daughter of privilege from Chicago who had done a bit of roaring in the Roaring Twenties before she met the shy mother’s-boy from a German section of Manhattan. In real life, Gehrig, after months of stumbling on the field, told the manager in a hotel that it was time for him to stop playing. In the movie, Gehrig is replaced at first base in the middle of a game – because it is more dramatic. Sandomir is the perfect writer to depict the murky border between reality and art. Electric October: Seven World Series Games, Six Lives, Five Minutes of Fame That Lasted Forever. Kevin Cook. Henry Holt and Company. Just as in a Shakespearean play, in a World Series involving Joe DiMaggio and Jackie Robinson, the minor characters are fascinating, too. Cook depicts six characters in epic World Series – managers Bucky Harris and Burt Shotton, Brooklyn’s Cookie Lavagetto who broke up a no-hit attempt and beat Bill Bevens in the ninth; Bevens, who would never be the same; George Stirnweiss of the Yankees, a war-time regular who managed one good World Series when the stars came back; and Al Gionfriddo of the Dodgers, who made a great catch on DiMaggio in left field, the last play Gionfriddo would make in the majors. (I once stood next to Gionfriddo at a reunion in the early 80’s; he was tiny, 5-6 at the most.) Cook’s best work is researching the rest of their lives, after that antic World Series – faith, failures, early death, and a few ripe old ages. The Year of the Pitcher: Bob Gibson, Denny McLain and the End of Baseball’s Golden Age. Sridhar Pappu. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Wait, 1968 was the end of the Golden Age? Didn’t the Mets win the World Series in 1969? Sorry. Pappu ably describes year of the pitcher, which forced baseball to lower the mounds from 15 inches to 10. Gibson was driven; McLain was corrupt; both were sensational. (Mickey Lolich became Detroit’s star in the Series.) Pappu interviewed me at length about Gibson, whom I admire, beyond his testiness (or maybe because of it.) Making My Pitch: A Woman’s Baseball Odyssey. Ila Jane Borders with Jean Hastings Ardell. University of Nebraska Press. Borders managed to play in male leagues into high school, college and an independent league on a team owned by Mike Veeck in the late 90s. She had her moments as a pro and won the respect of most teammates and fans. Borders touchingly describes her personal and family life. I did not know much about her until this book and I have great admiration for her. Enjoy the rest of the season.
bruce
9/19/2017 10:21:33 am
george,
George Vecsey
9/22/2017 07:27:48 am
Bruce: I was covering 5th game in Detroit. Had my feature on Red Schoendienst (winning manager!!!) all typed when Lou Brock tried to slip home on Freehan, and got nailed cold. You could feel the series turn. Two more games in St. Louis and your stoner friend looked like a genius.
bruce
9/22/2017 08:33:19 am
george,
Gene Palumbo
9/22/2017 10:25:16 am
Whenever I see Koufax’s name, the first thing I think of is a quote related to the seventh game of the ’65 series. The quote might have been from (Dodger manager) Walter Alston, but more likely it was from writer, and since I wasn’t yet a N.Y. Times reader, it was probably Dick Young in the Daily News. Anyway, the question was, who would Alston choose as his starter? Don Drysdale had three days rest, Koufax two. The quote went something like this: "When it’s the seventh game of a World Series, and you’ve got Sandy Koufax on your staff, then whether he’s had three days rest, or two, or one, you go with him." All Koufax did was shut out the Twins, allowing three hits and striking out ten.
George Vecsey
9/22/2017 10:40:28 am
Gene, it could have been Drysdale, for that matter. He admired Koufax as much as anybody did. They had even held out together one spring.
bruce
9/22/2017 05:25:32 pm
george,
Gene Palumbo
9/22/2017 12:31:39 pm
Absolutely, George. Just this morning I was reading again about their relationship. Among other things, yes, the holdout was a great moment. And then there was Koufax’s decision, in that same World Series, not to pitch in a game scheduled for a major Jewish holiday:
Gene Palumbo
9/22/2017 12:41:27 pm
The minute I saw the words “Al Gionfriddo,” I recalled one of my all-time favorite pieces of writing. It’s in Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. I’ll paste in an excerpt below; if you want to see it all, it begins in the third paragraph (opening words: “So I ran all right . . .”) of this piece: 9/24/2017 07:42:17 pm
Great books, but you are playing havoc with my reading schedule.
Gene Palumbo
9/26/2017 02:05:37 am
In case others went to look for this book (as I did) and struck out (as I did), here's the explanation: it turns out that it's called Living on the Black, not Playing of the Black. Comments are closed.
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