I grew up in New England and live in New York City, and more than any other sport, we Northeasterners love baseball. And the season has just begun. So I was delighted to see a review essay by Michael Stevens in Books & Culture on two new books on baseball:
Several new biographies and autobiographies have recently been released, so that you can trace the highly successful trajectory of Tony LaRussa’s managing career (but who was designing those incongruous early-’80s White Sox uniforms?), revisit the reckless splendor of the ’50s and ’60s Yankees (and then, speaking of incongruity, into the founding of Fellowship of Christian Athletes) with Bobby Richardson, or follow the truly stirring journey of Jim Abbot and his ascent to stardom as a pitcher who just happened to have only one arm. Good stories, all. But lately the deep history of baseball, with all its outlandishness and obscure, runic meaning, has been my chief entry point, and so also this year.
You can read the essay here. (And go, Sox!)