I told my dad I was reading this book because its reputation precedes it as one of the best sports books ever written. His matter-of-fact answer: "well, that's because Halberstam is one of the best writers ever." 362 pages later, I can't help but agree. He may not be a hoity-toity modernist prose stylist like those names more often thrown around as candidates for that prestigious title, but he does possess a unique gift to seamlessly interweave logistics and information (about everything conceivable, such as the delicate structure of Bill Walton's foot) with emotional human stories (such as how a uniquely damage-prone foot affects the day-to-day life of a restless, athletic soul like Bill Waltoin). After I finished it, I gave this book to my dad to read, and soon enough found myself reading over his shoulder on an airplane. It sucks you in and doesn't let go. And to think that Halberstam's sportswriting was his hobby, done for fun years after he had already won his Pulitzer? That's like Dr. J winning an NBA championship as part of a high-flying Philly team in 1983, long after his legendary years on the Nets were a distant memory. Incredible.