Five Seasons: A Baseball Companion

First, you must understand that Roger Angell has an ear for the language that's unlikely to be surpassed for many years. He was particularly a master of cadence. His virtuosity made even ordinary narrative sing. Second, Angell understands, indeed reveres, the eloquence of ordinary people. Third, he sees in this complex, maddening game a key to the virtues of his countrymen. Home, especially if you know nothing or care less about baseball, this is a marvelous lesson in how to write.

This is a depressing book. Not because its subject is depressing; we're not talking about the Ukranian famine of 1932 here. No, this is a "You are there" book written at the end of baseball as we knew it. We weren't aware of that at the time, though we could see that things were changing. But we thought, and were repeatedly assured, that the changes would work themselves out. However, if you're over 40, you know they didn't, and baseball is a far less fun activity as a fan than it was then. There are innumerable little tidbits that make you see how much things have deteriorated. Tom Seaver pitches 12 innings. 12! A manager today would have the talk radio hordes ready to unman him for that, but it is only one of many. Steve Carlton threw 30 complete games in 1972. Contemplate that. 30. More than most teams, heck, probably more than most divisions today. He won 27 games on a team that won 59 total. Unfathomable. But unlike the managers who fear their million dollar boys will throw out their arms, Carlton came back and achieved that for more than another decade. Sure he was a great. But there are innumerable tales through here of guys who weren't greats, just solid players, performing in ways that would be unheard of, or at the minimum, worth millions of dollars, today, and doing it happily, without whining, griping, complaining, simpering or gloating. Angell chronicles 5 wonderful seasons in the history of baseball, the years of Finley's Athletics and the Big Red Machine, and a new owner for the Yankees named George Steinbrenner, the arrival of Robin Yount and Mark Fidrych and George Brett and oh so many others. But because it is reporting, he also documents the arrival of guys who flashed briefly and then vanished. Baseball is like that. But it is the creeping arrival of ugliness that hurts to read. Reggie's showboating. Young kids who don't respect their manager. And big money. The sports page went from stories about hits and errors to tales of contract negotiations, threats, and free agency. I know money has always been a part of the game, and there were drunks, wife-beaters, and thugs in baseball since the beginning. But the big contracts and big payrolls have made all the teams change their perspective, and though throughout this book the players assure us we won't think differently about them as a result of these changes, we do. Teams are no longer teams as they once were, a reliable group of guys who continued for years together and added the missing piece or replaced the aging veteran incrementally. They are an assemblage of whomever can be gathered up to make a winner. Because we still want a winner, but we no longer care about the guys who do the winning. How sad. And for me and many of my generation, how boring. Baseball just isn't what it was, and it isn't the DH or the long season or frigid World Series games. No, it's money, and the game has been permanently corrupted by it. So read this to see how it once was, how glory and honor

Roger Angell's love for the game flows throughout this fine book. Every bit of his prose is a joy to read, and the tales are enchanting. Covering five seasons, Angell brings to life the ebb and flow of the game and the people who make it great - from the players, the coaches, the management personnel and not the least, the fans.If you want to read a book that captures what baseball means, pick up this one. You won't be disappointed!

Perhaps there is a quibble here.maybe the summer game is the finest baseball book ever written.Roger Angell is a poet[appropriate for e.b. white's stepson],and the finest chronichler of the game. he is a FAN,not a beat reporter,and is a grown up, far more interested in the beauty on the field than the foibles off.From the opening essay on the ball itself,to a wonderful essay on three detroit tiger fans,this is lovely. HOW COULD THE PUBLISHERS LET THIS GO OUT OF PRINT? With the unfettered garbage [george will's pompous assinine writings come to mind] that is baseball publishing,allowing this to languish out of print is sad, if not a crime.