[close] One of the miracles of the National Pastime is the way it can tie us to our home teams with a blood-knot of allegiance; we live with them in good times ... and die with them the rest of the time. Of course, being a Cleveland Indians fan over the course of the last half-century has demanded a good deal more of the dying. And Terry Pluto should know--he's covered the Tribe for years as an award-winning sports columnist for the Akron Beacon Journal. On the surface, his memoir is a solid baseball book, a fascinating tour through a historic franchise and some of the more interesting characters who've worn its colors: Lou Sockalexis (the original Cleveland Indian), Tris Speaker, Bob Feller, Lou Boudreau, Larry Doby (the first black in the American League), Rocky Colavito, owner Bill Veeck, and on to today's Omar Vizquel and Manny Ramirez. But like the best baseball books, it's about more than the game; it's about what the game means to us, how it ties generations together, and, on the most intimate level, how it links a father to his son.

In the case of Pluto and his father, the link is a complex, sometimes tense one of clashing generations often played out in front of the TV set, beside the radio, or in the stands--and it's one that the son bravely analyzes. "For us," he writes, "it was easier to go to a baseball game and pour salt on popcorn rather than old wounds." Ultimately, Pluto figures out that it is within the rhythms of the game that a son, over time, comes to know--and to accept--his father. Which is another one of baseball's miracles. --Jeff Silverman [close]