Book Club: Coach, by Michael Lewis

At 91 double-spaced pages, Michael Lewis’ Coach is not much longer than an issue of Sports Illustrated. This little book overflows such tiny confines, though, as Lewis carefully interweaves a paean to Billy Fitzgerald with larger musings about the lessons we all (should) learn on the road to adulthood.

At its most basic level, Coach is a well-constructed tribute to the man who taught Michael Lewis to be more than just a ball player. Coach Fitz's story is not a unique one, and for that matter neither is Lewis'. And while I wouldn't go so far as to call Coach a vanity project, I'm not entirely convinced it would have been published had Lewis not found mainstream success with the publication of Moneyball in 2003. Nonetheless, Coach is eminently readable, and worthwhile not just for Lewis' nostalgia, but also for his thoughts on the over-protected atmosphere today's kids often grow up in. What struck me, though, was not the minutiae of Lewis’ personal experience, or his sky-is-falling concerns regarding modern youth. Coach, for me, was an unexpected reminder of how I got to be the person I am today.

In my sports-filled life, I have had too many coaches to count. As the years have passed, I find that I can clearly remember very few of them. Time has reduced some to mere names, and others are left with only faces. Many have been completely erased from my synapses. None of them, though, no matter how misremembered, had anywhere near as much impact on who I was then or who I am now as my own father. From watching M.A.S.H. on his knee as a small boy to our ongoing discussions about what is and isn't "important" in life or sports or family or whatever, I don't think any one person can claim a bigger role in the shaping of my personality.

My dad was a carpenter when I first arrived in this world, but a serious knee injury eventually left him without a job or much of a future. Ours wasn't a house for complaining, though, so while my mom waited tables at night to make ends meet, my dad set about reinventing himself. Before my young mind really knew what was happening or what was at stake, the man who never finished college was taking courses and soon found a job as an estimator for a structural steel company. He cooked dinner for my brother and me every night. He commandeered our 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System and beat the holy hell out of the original Legend of Zelda before I even conquered the first boss. His hard work saved our family so completely that I was an adult before it even occurred to me we might have been in jeopardy. To the eight-year-old me, a new house wasn’t anything special. A new routine, some new friends and, hey, my own room, great. But to my father, it must have been…redemption.

Growing up, I never suspected that my parents were anything out of the ordinary. Surely every father got up before dawn on Saturdays to drive his sons to hockey practice along the dark corridors of highway 101 while they slept in the back seat? And what dad didn’t patiently instill the belief that anything was possible, even a cross-country pilgrimage to Woodstock, so long as it was planned and worked for? And didn’t all the neighborhood kids learn about patience, hard work and dedication by reassembling an old truck piece by piece alongside their old man?

I’m a little bit older now, and whether you consider it wisdom or a Michael-Lewis-in-Coach-style cynicism, I’m finally starting to realize that not everyone grew up like I did. And the more I learn about my father’s life, both before and after me, the more about me I realize he deserves credit for. My convictions and my stubbornness. My belief that I can do anything I want, so long as I get around to deciding just what that is. My loyalty to the people most important to me. The rocks glass full of M&Ms next to me as I write this, an eerie parallel of the cup next to my father’s armchair.

So whenever my mother calls to vent about his latest project or tic or obsession, I laugh, I sympathize, and I comfort. And when she finally runs out of steam, she lets out an exasperated sigh and says, “That’s your father.”

And I smile, and I think the myself, “You’re dammed right.”

Zito to the Bullpen

Last week I posted the Barry Zito Salary Calculator, and now the Giants are sending Zito and his 7.53 earned run average to the bullpen. I hope he loses his 0-6 record somewhere along the way.

The Giants didn't really have much of a choice. Not only are they paying Zito fourteen and a half million dollars this year, but a demotion to the minors would probably wreak havoc on the kid's (that's right, he's only 29) psyche. It was either send him to the 'pen or announce that he was "injured" and let him miss a few starts while he got his mind/arm/chakras right.

I can't sit here and pretend SF doesn't need their 156 million dollar man. Even if he was only 3-3 instead of 0-6, the Giants would be sitting at 14-12, in second place in the NL West. Maybe the change of scenery will do him some good.

Then again, if Francisco Liriano comes back from the minors throwing asprin tablets for Minnesota, we'll know the Giants made the wrong decision.

Happy Marshawn Lynch Day!

Marshawn Lynch updated his blog today, for the first time in way too long. I love the kid, I really do. And it's fun to cruise the comments for people who can't handle his Oakland accent.

NL West = Not Good

Here are the current standings in the NL West:

Arizona: 15-6
(Pretty good, right? That's a .714 win percentage!)
Colorado: 9-12
Los Angeles: 9-12
San Diego: 9-13
San Francisco: 9-13

Jesus. What a suck-fest. I don't even have a joke for how...mediocre this all is. So cheer yourself up by playing with the Barry Zito salary calculator. 4,815 orders of garlic fries? Yes, please!

Ummm...

Good lord. What sort of country is this?

Videos from With Leather and The Postmen.

Book Club: Young Avengers: Sidekicks

I wasn't into comic books as a kid. I had nothing against them - I read a substantial portion of the death of Superman storyline, among other things - but they were never really my "thing". As a result, my subsequent forays into the world of graphic novels have always been pleasant, surprising, and short-lived.

It was with delight, then, that I borrowed a copy of Allan Heinberg & Jim Cheung's first installment of the Young Avengers series, Sidekicks. From my admittedly non-expert perspective, the artwork was great, the design tight, and the characters interesting. And, most importantly, I was left wanting to read more. Even though, just like one of the characters said, I hate time travel things. And this incarnation of the Young Avengers is, indeed, a time travel thing.

Reading the book got me wondering about graphic novel's low spot on the literary totem pole. It's an incredibly rich medium with a lot to offer that can't be readily accomplished in books or films, but society tends to view graphic novels with something between disdain and disinterest.

I, for one, don't really like reading graphic novels on subways, where I do a lot of my reading. It's not an issue of embarrassment, though: graphic novels just feel like two-handed affairs to me. I have difficulty slowing down to focus on each page when reading them on subways, the jostling of the people and the train shatter any hope I have of focusing on the details.

I often find myself at a loss when looking for a new graphic novel to read. Whatever system I use to find new books doesn't seem to work in this context. A lack of exposure and opportunity, I guess. The information must be out there, right? There are probably graphic novel (or at least literary) blogs existing side-by-side with the sports, news and politics sites I visit every day.

The general disregard of graphic novels seems to be slowly changing, though, from my still admittedly non-expert opinion. I see more of them in book stores, more being turned into mediocre Hollywood movies. So perhaps the day is not far away when we will suffer from too many graphic novels, where an illustrated equivalent of James Patterson or Nora Roberts will churn out what seems like a new book every week, to be purchased on the cheap at your local Wal-Mart.

God, what a nightmare.

Thanks to this fine gentleman for loaning me the book. Promise I'll give it back soon.

Follow Up: Skeletons in the Closet

After seeing the Max Kellerman rap video I posted recently, my good friend Firefly steered me over to the SI online archives, and a long, wonderful piece about Max's brother Sam, the other half of the music act.

I had been vaguely aware that Sam was dead, but the article was a real eye-opener not just about the circumstances surrounding his death, but about the details of his life. It is absolutely worth reading for anyone that has a brother, and anyone who has ever lost anyone they care about.