Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack... ♫
OK, so it’s not health food. But what we consume doesn’t always have to be good for us. This book was full of empty calories, processed to a point where pretty much every bit of literary goodness was gone. And I ate every bite.
A Jewish kid with an absent father moved with his mother and aunt into a tough part of Brooklyn just prior to Pearl Harbor. He and his Japanese-American friend got pummeled on a regular basis. But this kid had moxie (a word more common at that time, I gather). He started writing to the Giants’ up-and-coming star third baseman. These exchanges evolved from wise-ass banter to a sort of charming surrogate father-son relationship – one where a phrase like “I’ve got your back” had real meaning. Then the bombs began to drop. It’s a promising storyline.
Like I said, though, don’t go into this book expecting anything truly substantial. The kid, 12-year-old Joey, was never really credible – writing and receiving personal letters from FDR, performing in night clubs, formulating war strategies, and so on. And the ballplayer, Charlie, was never completely real despite the author’s attempt to take an inherently big-hearted guy and give him a few rough edges to make him seem plausible. The hero worthy of worship was never far beneath the surface, despite the concocted lunk-headedness. After a while, I decided just to go with it. Snobby as it may sound, I felt that stooping to their uncomplicated level was worth doing, with disbelief duly suspended.
Does this have anything to do with the Cubs having the best record in baseball? You bet your sweet Astroturf-free ballpark 3 miles up the road it does. Aside from the fun baseball lore, there was a strong supporting cast: the Japanese-American kid who (no surprise here) had a difficult war, the singer who was sweet on Charlie and helpful to Joey, the aunt with the wisdom of an old soul, a love interest for Joey (think puppies), and a buddy for Charlie from the Giants, famous briefly for the first unassisted triple play in decades. The plot and all its staging were entertaining enough to hold my interest. And it moved about as fast as Tinker to Evers to Chance. (For those who don’t know baseball history, please imagine I just supplied the perfect metaphor for quick and graceful movement.)
So no, this wasn’t the edifying read many Goodreaders (myself included) might typically seek out. But if you’re in the mood for candy-coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize, this may be just the thing. Much like the Michelin Guide in rating the concession stand at Wrigley, I couldn’t quite justify four stars for the book, though there’s a simple pleasure in both. Finally, in what you may consider the raison d'être of my entire review, let me say this:
Go Cubs, go!