Review: Shoeless Joe – W.P. Kinsella

I have great difficulty in reviewing this book objectively. The movie version of this book, 1989s 'Field of Dreams', formed such a spine to my imagination as I read through 'Shoeless Joe' I admit I will never be able to provide objective review of the book. Therefore I have not sought to be objective, but to weigh off the merits of one of my favourite movies of all time against the book which inspired it.

Blessedly, the book is different enough so as to make differentiation and create points of discussion. Primarily, Where in the film we go on a journey with Ray Kinsella, finding purpose along the way for other characters but not knowing what is the ultimate purpose for Ray is until the very end; in the novel we are presented up front clearly what Ray wants in the end but its the journey teaching him about why he wants it. A change in emphasis making the book deeper and more worthwhile I feel.

Upon instruction from a mysterious voice, Ray builds a baseball field among his corn crop in rural Iowa. Building the field elicits visitations from disgraced yet oft forgiven ex-baseballer 'Shoeless' Joe Jackson, followed by many other former players who look for a chance to play the game they love more than any other. Strangely although the book is named after him, the character of Shoeless Joe has very little part in the story.

The characters of the book are very different to Field of Dreams that may prove challenging for lovers of the movie. Ray Kinsella in the movie is a soul somewhat lost in life, having rejected the great passion that he and his father had for baseball. In the book he remains an obsessive fan of the game and litters his narration with facts from its history. The movie used baseball as a vessel to try and bring a moral story, the book is more deeply entrenched in the history of America's summer pastime describing how it touches each of the characters lives.

Reclusive author J.D. Salinger (based on the genuine reclusive author of the same name) is harder and less emotive than the movies equivalent reclusive author character Terence Mann. The dialogue between him and Ray reads as more terse, giving a feeling that although they need each other to continue to journey together they often pull against each other. Archibald 'Moonlight' Graham is an objective and a driven character, lacking the genteel nature that the movie brought him as.

Ray's wife Annie has little influence on the story. Lovers of the movie will no doubt remember the unquestioning devotion she has for her husband Ray. The relationship for the movie is a highlight, but although Ray states in the book just how much she supports and means to him we do not observe this. Without the movie it may not have ever come to my attention as a flaw, however it has and it to mine is a great shame.

The movie allowed the viewer the freedom to not have much interest in baseball and keep pace with the story. The book does call upon the reader to at least be familiar with its terminology and gameplay. That you are well aware from the start the story is of the journey towards ones dreams rather than the dreams being an end in themselves keeps you reading on and on. The difficulty is how would Kinsella close out this story – he does not, giving it the perfect ending.

My review here is not at all objective, and I make no apologies for this. For mine having watched the movie and now read the book I believe both could be improved by unique elements of each. For a book that I rate Footballs this means it falls short, but still worth reading.

Cover image thanks to bookdepository.co.uk

Review: Killing Rommel, by Steven Pressfield

Steven Pressfield has built an impressive folio of historical fiction works: The Legend of Bagger Vance achieved him notoriety in the movie world, while his novel The Gates of Fire has become almost required reading for the US Marine Corps.  To paraphrase former Doctor Who script editor Terrance Dicks  - "Selling out storyline for a pot of historical reality" is not what Pressfield's about.

His novel Killing Rommel is, much like the war in the desert, gritty, realistic and slightly overglorified.

Of all the Generals of World War Two, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was probably the most respected by both sides.  He was close to the Fuhrer, displayed bravery and leadership beyond that of many other generals and a respect for the rules of war that others in his position failed to emulate.  He was also, alongside Patton, the most awe-inspiring General, manning a staff car alongside the advance ranks of his men rather than being secreted far behind.

He was also a Nazi.

Given Pressfield's willingness to sacrifice some plot aspects for storyline, he pitches the Long Range Desert Group - a group of British and New Zealanders in trucks - in a series of long-range missions aimed at demotivating their German and Italian opponents by assassinating their inspiring leader.  Who, in this universe, isn't a Nazi and displays a code of honour that even Judge Judy couldn't match.

courtesy: tower.com

Occasional historical dalliances aside, the greatest failing of the book is in the mechanism of the narrative.  It is pitched in the time-honoured style of  "a manuscript discovered"; in this case an American who's adapted a memoir bequeathed to to him by a mentor who was an English member of the LRDG.  Pressfield's talent is for describing real-life battles and their consequences, not for understanding "Britishness", resulting in overuse of phrases and hackneyed British stereotypes.

However, he more than almost any other historical fiction author, fully allows the reader to grasp the combination of the vital importance of the North African campaign, the gravity of dying comrades and the incredible comradeship found amongst men on the battlefield.  Pressfield attempts to take his readers of a journey of what it meant to be part of a force comprised of individuals but larger than the the sum of those people.  It is unfortunate that he doesn't completely succeed.

While not an exciting, compelling read, Killing Rommel is enjoyable and can be ploughed through quickly.  It also has it's share of poignant moments strewn amongst intimate descriptions of battle.  Tennis balls.

Review: The Appeal – John Grisham

I have long been a fan of the work of John Grisham who has carved out the market of legal thrillers to be his own over the last 20 years, but in this instance he has fallen well short of his own standards. The Appeal lacks much when compared to Grisham's earlier works.

It appears that Grisham's desire to write more widely, including dramatic works such as 'Bleachers' or youth novels in his Theodore Boone series has weakened his ability to write on his original genre. This book lacks the grittiness of 'A Time to Kill', 'The Chamber', 'The Firm' or the 'King of Torts'. Though set up to have the reader ask questions about the decisions of major corporations and there effect on humanity, the story goes nowhere near hitting the mark as it skips along with surface concerns without truly opening up the true issues and character roles.

The plot is so thin has the ability to resolve itself within 200 pages yet Grisham feels the need to over-explain everything about the legal system that the story operates within which becomes tiresome as the book is pushed out to 500 pages for little return. By the time the end comes it is concluded briefly with no thought to wrapping up the questions readers have that it has gone nowhere near answering during the story. This leaves the reader feeling as though the time spent reading through the book have been a waste.

Another fault of the book is its inane desire to provide the political position of the author and explain to great detail that is just annoying. Whether you sympathise with the political position presented or not, the time spent on explaining these peripheral issues to the actual story adds to the confusion and frustration the reader feels that the book goes nowhere. Any frustration and confusion is only heightened by the 'Author's note' at its conclusion where he highlights these political issues as the core of the story.

Confusing, frustrating, and ultimately a fruitless read, this book from Grisham isn't worth investing time and money into. No Balls.

image courtesy of jgrisham.com

Review: Blood, Sweat and Treason – Henry Olonga, My Story

If you were looking to pick up a book that is not the 'bog' standard ghosted autobiography of a sports person, then this is the read for you. That former Zimbabwean cricketer Henry Olonga has been allowed to tell his story in his own words was incredibly refreshing for this addict of cricketing literature. Most sports persons biographical works use clichéd wording and structure to try and breath life into their uninteresting lives. This story has not been manipulated to make good reading; recognition that Olonga's story itself is good reading. 

 

Although maybe more widely known as a cricketer who took a political stand against a tyrannical regime, Olonga speaks of himself throughout the book always as just a man. Cricket is a part of a life where it intertwines with music, art, faith, family and politics. Predominately told in chronological order, events move seamlessly between these topics as life was lived for him.

Take Olonga's Christian faith for an example. Often an individuals faith will either be minimally mentioned in an introduction or 'covered off' in a specific chapter under advisement from publishing house editors worried about sales. But here we find Olonga regularly referring back to his faith and prayer life, it ebbing and flowing as his life ebbs and flows. 

 

He is a deep thinking and sensitive soul, keen to explore in retrospect the events of his life and make apology where he believes he wronged others. His stand along with Andy Flower during the 2003 Cricket World Cup is not told in a heroic manner. Presented with an opportunity to stand up against Robert Mugabe and the wrongs perpetrated, Olonga made the decision that he could not stand passively by any more while his country suffered. 

 

Olonga does not dwell on describing the terrible atrocities committed in Zimbabwe in recent history. Selected examples of events affecting his life up until the point he went into exile serve the purpose enough of educating the reader on his motives. Despite the terrible events, and the struggle that life in Zimbabwe is for most of her citizens there is no bitterness in Olonga and a substantial amount of love for his country still. In an amazing passage of the book Olonga describes his shock at the poverty in Bangladesh. This is not the shock of an upper middle class westerner on their first visit overseas, but of a man well versed in what injustices exist in the world.

Olonga's life needed and received much blessing post his 2003 stand, but it has not been easy nor necessarily freeing for him. Nevertheless he chose to tell his story that reaches far beyond the 'faux' battle that is the professional sports field. Basketballs.

Review: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns - Harry Harrison

When you're a doyen of science fiction and created one of the genre's all-time heroes, eighty-six years old and splitting time between the US, Ireland and England you can afford to be a little cynical. It is so with Harry Harrison and the latest installment of the Stainless Steel Rat series, The Stainless Steel Rat Returns.

Slippery Jim DiGriz has retired and is living on a pleasure planet when the novel opens only to have his dream life shattered by the arrival of relatives who need financial help. DiGriz watches as his hard-stolen nestegg percolates into an abyss - or an enormous spaceship. It's not bad premise - but far from Harry Harrison's strongest - and has the strong ring of autobiographical content. The DiGriz family's adventures are then used to take aim at some of the US & Britain's exclusionist immigration policies.

Harrison's reputation as writing the Rat as the thinking man's space hero is well founded. As, apparently, are his liberal principles which, while laudable in their attempts often become a little obtrusive throughout the text. That this is his first novel in nearly a decade means the satire for which he earned his reputation isn't so much an undertone but coats thickly nearly every scenario. In several other of the series' books subtle sociopolitical commentary is identifiable and makes the reader smile but with this perhaps final chapter in the life of the Rat (whose age is indeterminate here) all that comes to mind is "Again, Harry"?

It's hardly the place of a younger man such as I to question vigorously a legend of the field. With his deserved reputation for being one of the pre-eminent satirists in the field for over fifty years, he deserves the benefit of any doubt - perhaps he feels the picture needs to be painted in such green-and-white terms (read the book and you'll get the green/white rather than black/white reference).

In many places Harrison appears to be writing on an subconscious autopilot system evolving over sixty-plus years. This is a shame considering his remarkable talent to quickly and easily describe fanciful plot points and makes the text sluggish. His ability created eminently readable, enjoyable and, though dealing often with darker topics, lightweight tales. It's not the case in this book and it's the only SSR novel I've had to push myself to finish. Maybe this is a result of the author's changing perspective as he (and the Rat) mature to an age with which I struggle to identify. Considering how much I respect his body of work and loved the prior Rat novels, I want this to be a failing of mine rather than of the author. As a pioneer of SF, I don't even want to consider it's a marker that Harrison's skill with the word has eroded.

The Stainless Steel Rat Returns could well be the coda to Harrison's work with his most famous creation. Like other science-fiction series (cf. the Star Wars saga, Tennant-era Who, The Next Generation movies), it could prove a marginally satisfying - if slightly disappointing - conclusion. Tennis balls.

Cover Image courtesy: thenonreview.com; of Harry Harrison courtesy: en.wikipedia.org

Review: First Tests, Great Australian Cricketers & The Backyards that Made Them

As I sat on a winters Saturday afternoon with the football call in the background I delved into a work that for a long time I had been desiring to read. First Tests by Steve Cannane recalled in me dreams of hot summers and backyard cricket; of the innocent yet ferocious contests played out in country and city alike every Australian summer.

Premised upon the search for the reasons why our champions of today and yesteryear played the way they do/did the link between the backyard conditions and future technique can be tenuous at times, but in other instances you would have very little doubt as to its effect on the young champions. That Neil Harvey grew up dicing with the sideways movement of a cobblestone pitch, and the Chappells playing shots between many backyard items serving as fielders would be two examples of correlation to later skills.

The real story though in each of the chapters is the love of the game from a young age that our champions showed, and the unrelenting desire to play cricket at all available times. In a world where we are force fed information from different directions constantly it is refreshing to read of children simply pursuing dreams, dawn to dusk, for pleasure.

If you have read reasonably extensively on Australian cricketers and their lives you may find that the stories used by Cannane are repetitive and contain few new insights. We all know how Sir Donald Bradman hit a golf ball with a stump against a water tank. Also, the overriding rhetoric that it was better in the old days than today's sterile academy based environment could detract from the beauty that is reading of Australian sporting culture.

A bonus however is you get more from this work than just a cricketing technique or history lesson, you read Australia growing as a nation through the window of probably the national sport of the country. You begin to understand the depths of despair and disease that the great depression brought. Yet through all this children still played, all day and all night if they could. This was more than the individuals too, remember our champions all needed someone to bowl to or bat against at one time or another.

Pick this one up and let it inspire you to reminisce about your own childhood and cricketing dreams. Let it encourage you to enjoy the most out of everyday. Once you have finished reading I can guarantee you will run straight outside and start playing like you used to. I did, but unlike Clarrie Grimmatt's fox terrier mine won't return the balls! Footballs.

image thanks to angusandrobertson.com.au

Review: Bradman's Invincibles - Roland Perry

A number of cricket teams will live long in history, having books written about them and having their relative merits forever debated. The most recent of those, the Australians who dominated cricket for fifteen years to 2008 developed a storied reputation perhaps tarnished by a lack of quality lasting opposition. The West Indian team preceding them did the same for nearly twenty years.

Perhaps the most revered cricket team of all was the 1948 Invincibles, who completed an arduous six month tour of England without a loss. The tour was a perfect fusion of circumstance: Bradman's final First Class matches, a cricket-starved world following the Second World War needing non-combatant heroes and finally, a collation of talent probably unrivalled to that time.

In his work Bradman's Invincibles Roland Perry has created a perfunctory and informative book swayed obviously by his allegiance to Sir Donald Bradman. Perry, a writer with several books whose title include the words "Bradman" to his name, spent a number of years in conversation with Sir Donald Bradman and collaborated with him on several works, appears to think that Bradman's word on matters of cricket is absolute and completely true. He has taken every word he could trawl from his time spent with The Don and has turned it into a misguided four-hundred page tome where the point is almost indecipherable. What should have been a celebration has been turned into a trudging day-by-day commentary..

Bradman was undoubtedly the greatest cricketer of all time and even during the 1948 Invincibles tour where he turned forty, was Australia's best batsman. He has also suffered somewhat from revisionism, where posthumous revelations as to his character have begun to unfairly detract from his cricketing legacy. These "revelations" should only add to that legacy - of a genius batsman and excellent captain who wanted - and mostly got - his own way, often at others' expense. Any of his negative character traits are nonexistent on paper.

Relying on one source for the vast majority of one's sources is a mistake, both for one's credibility and entertainment purposes. The author has taken The Don's word as gospel in book which would be infinitely richer and more enjoyable for an Old Testament, Letters and Apocrypha. Perry has little affinity for beautiful prose, writing economically, repetitively and with no flair for either detail or accuracy. His style expects the reader to be in constant wonderment at the achievements of that squad rather than providing the full picture demanded by such an seminal tour.

Neither has Roland Perry skill of analogy, often comparing players across generations in a hackneyed and awkward style - even to the point of using the same comparison twice in three pages. There are several glaring factual errors and those who bridled against Sir Don Bradman's absolute rule are portrayed in an unflattering light. Though the book stretches to 430 pages, the last one-hundred and seventy of those are needlessly given over to potted biographies of the tourists and their vanquished opponents, which, while providing some interesting details is more an annoyance than enjoyable. This follows a passage where the author says it would be pointless to compare "Greatest Ever" teams and then proceeds to do so.

That's not to say that the book is devoid of redeeming features. Bradman's Invincibles provides an interesting peek into some aspects of cricket in the late 1940s, where towels were shoved under shirts and trousers became makeshift thigh and chest guards and breakfast in ration-enforced England consisted of half a piece of toast and a mushroom. The lack of net sessions was mildly surprising, but understandable given the amount of cricket played. Most surprising of all, perhaps, was that both Bill Johnston and Keith Miller often resorted to spin depending on the circumstances of the game; though this in itself is questionable given Perry's unfortunate failure to grasp the difference between leg- and off-cutters.

Bradman's Invincibles is hardly a revolutionary work. It holds interest - perhaps because it's the first cricket book I've read in months (years?) - but is disappointingly perfunctory and poorly rounded.

Golf balls (hit repeatedly against a tank stand with a cricket stump).

Image courtesy: borders.com.au (may they Rest In Peace).