As these things often go, my new essay on the surprising number of books about LeBron James sat in PopMatters’ que for a long time. This means my discussion of David Foster Wallace now feels sad, weird, and even a little callous (more on his suicide here). It means I wasn’t able to mention the new documentary about LeBron and his high school team.
That said, it also means my essay arrives just in time for the start of the 2008-2009 NBA Season. Read it here.
Dustin Pedroia, second sacker for the Boston Red Sox, stands only 5’7 and weighs only 180 pounds. According to my calculations, Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps would need to eat at least four Pedroias per day to satisfy his legendary hunger.
[Bookslut]
For my review of Dave Zirin’s new A People’s History of Sports in the United States, head over to Bookslut.
[Gelf]
Chuck Klosterman’s first book, Fargo Rock City, is really, really good. I know a lot of people share this opinion—most famously, David Byrne—and it’s a book I enjoy both musically (having long loved Guns ‘n Roses) and geographically (having recently left Indiana).
Klosterman’s more recent stuff seems to polarize readers, especially when those readers are other writers. In a new essay for Gelf, though, I try to evaluate his turn to sportswriting and fiction in a somewhat sober fashion. If you’re a fan of Chuck, or just curious about his new novel and new direction, check out “The Cure for the Common Cusack.”
Right now, Manu Ginobili is probably not interested in my condolences or congratulations. In a game in which he played only five minutes because of an injury, Manu’s Argentinean teammates lost to their American counterparts and that perpetual adolescent we know as Carmelo Anthony. So I’ll forgive Manu if he doesn’t want to hear my hollow sports pieties.
But that won’t stop me from trying. Like many Americans, I had to watch my Olympic basketball online, through a grainy video screen the size of a postcard. Like most Americans—including, for a while at least, our coach Mike Krzyzewski—I’m not very familiar with the basketball players of the world. This combination of ignorance and streaming video poses a problem when the Americans play, say, Spain or Greece. Not so with Argentina. Thanks to Manu’s distinct bald spot, I could track his cuts, rotations, and flops with clarity and ease.
But I don’t want to thank Manu for improving my viewing experience. I want to thank him for providing a perfect metaphor for the Olympic Spirit. Let’s remember that Manu is no innovator: Networks have experimented with similar visual aides, most famously the FoxTrax, a technology that bathed hockey pucks in a pale blue glow. But Manu is all natural.
I don’t mean simply that he’s Rogaine-free. Tom Brady may rely on hair restoration, but then a bald spot wouldn’t do much good since Brady wears a helmet. Brady’s not being vain, he’s being pragmatic. Nevertheless, in an Olympics that, from its anthems to its fireworks, has been marred by artifice and dishonesty, Manu fights back. His baldness is a call to arms: World-class presentation doesn’t have to mean extravagance or deception. When sport is at its best, says Manu’s bald spot, sport can stand alone.
Craig Fehrman 