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Frank Bascombe #1
Der Sportreporter
Frank Bascombe, geschieden, zwei Kinder, hat seine unsichere Existenz als freier Schriftsteller gegen eine Festanstellung als Sportreporter eingetauscht. Alles in seinem Leben scheint unter Kontrolle: Vergangenheit, Zweifel, mögliche Irrtümer. Doch eine Kette dramatischer Ereignisse bringt sein unaufgeregtes Leben in Schieflage. Ford entwirft mit Bascombe einen modernen amerikanischen Helden, der durch sein Leben schlafwandelt und alles tut, um einem bösen Erwachen zu entgehen. Das bestürzende Porträt eines Mannes, der sich in die Durchschnittlichkeit flüchtet, um Schmerz und Risiken zu vermeiden, und der sich um das zu bringen droht, was das Leben ausmacht.
524 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 1986
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About the author
Richard Ford
240 books1,656 followersRichard Ford, born February 16, 1944 in Jackson, Mississippi, is an American novelist and short story writer. His best-known works are the novel The Sportswriter and its sequels, Independence Day, The Lay of the Land and Let Me Be Frank With You, and the short story collection Rock Springs, which contains several widely anthologized stories. Comparisons have been drawn between Ford's work and the writings of John Updike, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and Walker Percy.
His novel Independence Day won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1996, also winning the PEN/Faulkner Award in the same year.
His novel Independence Day won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1996, also winning the PEN/Faulkner Award in the same year.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,563 reviews
October 20, 2023
Photo of the American novelist - Richard Ford
Part of the Vintage Contemporaries Series, Richard Ford’s 1986 novel, The Sportswriter, is about a divorced 38-year old suburban New Jersey writer who lives out the American dream gone sour. In some ways the story reminded me of Camus’s The Stranger. What I found particularly disturbing about the first-person narrator and main character, Frank Bascombe, was the way Frank would always project motives, backgrounds, ideas and futures onto all the people he encountered -- family, friends, strangers. It didn’t matter who you were, if you came within the view of Frank Bascombe, you were in for a layering of categories. Frank even layered his categories onto neighborhoods, towns, cities, regions and countries. It was a kind of poison.
The other disturbing thing about Frank was the way he would always tell you, the reader, that what he said to people was not what he really felt or what he really thought. In other words, Frank was incapable of saying what he meant or meaning what he said. Talk about living in a kind of hell.
At one point in the novel, Frank tells the reader the divorced men’s club, where he is a member, is composed of men who are all Babbitts, himself included. Reading Frank’s admission, I ask the question: Is life so suffocating that people can’t escape their current trap, even when they can see it as a trap? What a commentary on modern life. Frank Bascombe as a modern day Babbitt, incapable of change. To me, this sounds like a life sentence.
May 5, 2019
After spending hours in Frank Bascombe’s head, I am still not sure what to make of him. This book revolves around an Easter weekend in his life, beginning with an annual visit to his son’s grave with his ex-wife (referred to as “X” throughout the novel) early in the morning of Good Friday. Many things happen during that weekend, although the bulk of it centres around Frank’s thoughts.
This is a deeply introspective book. For quite some time I enjoyed the experience of discovering the matches and misses between Frank Bascombe’s thoughts and feelings with my own. I felt an empathy with his character and many of the sad things he had experienced. I felt secure in the knowledge that he had done something of note: he wrote a book of short stories that was picked up by a Producer in Hollywood and gave him and his then-wife a nice start when he was just 24 or 25.
In his ruminations, it is difficult to tell exactly when I began to see some subtle discrepancies in his thought patterns. It is hard to say when this began because for the most part he avoids the first 20 or so years of his life altogether.
When did Frank Bascombe begin to spend most of his life in the passenger seat while life and other people steered and had their foot on the gas pedal? When did he begin to obfuscate many incidents in his life? When did he begin the process of projecting his own thinking and desires onto other people? When did he begin to skip reality and skew it to his own purposes? Now that his 39th birthday is just around the corner, what is it he is seeking and does he have the complete honesty necessary for his contemplations to bear any fruit worth biting into?
Frank Bascombe is a mass of contradictions. He claims to want intimacy, yet he flees from it or sabotages intimate relationships so the other person flees in self-preservation. He wants to be seen as helpful and kind – enraptured by the mysteries of life to the degree that he turns everything into a mystery. Other times, confronted by less ethereal mysteries, the hard and gritty mysteries, he puts his own stamp on them – always slightly off-kilter like a sailboat struggling to right itself on a stormy sea.
At the very end of the novel, Frank Bascombe leaves his New Jersey home to spend time in Florida. He finds family members there from the Bascombe side of his family and that is where we leave him. For now.
While I still don’t know quite what to make of Frank Bascombe, Richard Ford's writing roused my curiosity, and I will read Part Two next month.
This is a deeply introspective book. For quite some time I enjoyed the experience of discovering the matches and misses between Frank Bascombe’s thoughts and feelings with my own. I felt an empathy with his character and many of the sad things he had experienced. I felt secure in the knowledge that he had done something of note: he wrote a book of short stories that was picked up by a Producer in Hollywood and gave him and his then-wife a nice start when he was just 24 or 25.
In his ruminations, it is difficult to tell exactly when I began to see some subtle discrepancies in his thought patterns. It is hard to say when this began because for the most part he avoids the first 20 or so years of his life altogether.
When did Frank Bascombe begin to spend most of his life in the passenger seat while life and other people steered and had their foot on the gas pedal? When did he begin to obfuscate many incidents in his life? When did he begin the process of projecting his own thinking and desires onto other people? When did he begin to skip reality and skew it to his own purposes? Now that his 39th birthday is just around the corner, what is it he is seeking and does he have the complete honesty necessary for his contemplations to bear any fruit worth biting into?
Frank Bascombe is a mass of contradictions. He claims to want intimacy, yet he flees from it or sabotages intimate relationships so the other person flees in self-preservation. He wants to be seen as helpful and kind – enraptured by the mysteries of life to the degree that he turns everything into a mystery. Other times, confronted by less ethereal mysteries, the hard and gritty mysteries, he puts his own stamp on them – always slightly off-kilter like a sailboat struggling to right itself on a stormy sea.
At the very end of the novel, Frank Bascombe leaves his New Jersey home to spend time in Florida. He finds family members there from the Bascombe side of his family and that is where we leave him. For now.
While I still don’t know quite what to make of Frank Bascombe, Richard Ford's writing roused my curiosity, and I will read Part Two next month.
October 14, 2025
POTREBBE ANDARE PEGGIO
Questa è la cartolina segnapagina che ho ritrovato nella mia copia del libro.
Frank Bascombe fa qui la sua prima apparizione. A trentotto anni.
Frank Bascombe è, come dire, quello che Nathan Zuckerman è per Philip Roth, o Antoine Doinel per François Truffaut… o scendendo più in basso, Michele Apicella per Nanni Moretti: un alter ego, il personaggio letterario (o cinematografico) che ritorna, che seguiamo nel corso della sua vita.
Che in qualche modo, diventa specchio e riflessione della nostra di lettori (e spettatori).
Haddam non esiste in New Jersey, dove invece c’è Haddon, ma la si trova in Connecticut.
Qui nasce, nel 1986, trentottenne, scrittore con all’attivo una ben accolta raccolta di racconti, che però, nonostante l’incoraggiamento dei critici, ha abbandonato la scrittura narrativa per dedicarsi a quella sportiva: che è un lavoro retribuito, con meno rischio e più stabilità.
Come giornalista sportivo, Frank Bascombe fa soprattutto quello che da noi fa Emanuela Audisio: più che dedicarsi alla cronaca di eventi sportivi, Frank racconta storie di sport, che sono prima di tutto storie umane.
È andato a vivere a Haddam nel New Jersey, in una casa tudor, a rassicurante distanza da New York: rassicurante per poterla raggiungere col treno in un tempo ragionevole, e rassicurante per non subirne il caos.
Haddam è quel genere di sobborgo dalle dimensioni tali per cui tutte le donne possono essere delle amiche di tua moglie: forse non il posto giusto per avere avventure extramatrimoniali, forse il posto giusto per essere consolato da una separazione.
E quindi, Frank appariva pronto a una tranquilla esistenza matrimoniale borghese piacevolmente pigra e moderatamente stimolante.
La scelta era arrivata col matrimonio, che ha generato tre figli. Ma il più grande, Ralph, è morto a nove anni per una rara malattia. E nell’inevitabile crisi emotiva e sentimentale susseguente, la coppia si è sciolta e separata.
Quanto sopra riassume più o meno tutta la trama del romanzo, temporalmente racchiuso in un weekend pasquale, durante il quale Frank e sua moglie – che rimane sempre senza nome, sempre indicata come X – non è solo il processo di elaborazione del lutto a essere indietro, ma anche quello della separazione ( Il dolore, il vero dolore, è relativamente breve, ma il lutto può essere lungo.) - Frank e sua moglie come di consuetudine s’incontrano davanti alla tomba del primogenito morto. La commemorazione molto intima coincide con il compleanno del figlio.
Stile tudor.
Ford è bravo a dilatare il tempo, espanderlo per decine e centinaia di pagine raccontando, all’apparenza, poco o nulla.
A meno da non volere considerare non dico eventi, ma almeno accadimenti il pranzo a casa dei genitori della fidanzata di turno (questa sì provvista di nome, Vicky), pranzo che non è un trionfo, una gita in barca a pesca con alcuni membri del club dei divorziati, se non proprio amici almeno buoni conoscenti, la vista dell’ex suocero, l’intervista a un ex campione di football che un incidente ha reso paraplegico, la visita di un divorziato che man mano si chiarisce ha mire omosessuali su Frank che però non contraccambia.
Ma se è vero che poco sembra succedere, molto è successo. E anche le chiacchiere e le conversazioni e le telefonate e i rapporti epistolari molto dicono e raccontano, pur senza far nulla succedere.
Frank sembra poco interessato e coinvolto in tutto quello che fa. Anche se non si potrebbe dire lo stesso per il suo atteggiamento verso la vita in generale: è ben conscio che “tutto potrebbe andare molto peggio”. Per esempio, potrebbe piovere:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mC4Vf...
L’unica scintilla d’interesse sia emotivo che sentimentale si direbbe che sia la sua ex, il figlio morto, la famiglia persa, smembrata, per estensione la vita di prima.
L’edizione americana è illustrata con una pallina e una mazza da baseball: sia perché Frank lo pratica al club dei divorziati (anche se per lo più vanno a pescare), sia perché X, l’ex moglie, vuole intraprendere una carriera professionistica.
Il percorso di Frank proseguirà con un nuovo romanzo per decennio, e cioè: nel 1995 con Il giorno dell’indipendenza, nel 2006 con Lo stato delle cose, per concludersi, almeno al momento, nel 2014 con Tutto potrebbe andare molto peggio che non è un romanzo, ma quattro novelle dedicate allo stesso personaggio, di cui una ha il titolo usato nell’edizione italiana, mentre quello in lingua inglese è Let Me Be Frank With You, col gioco di parole tra Franco e franco/onesto.
Il giorno è agli sgoccioli: siamo in quel pozzo profondo di ombre e mezza luce primaverile, quando il tardo pomeriggio si fa prima serata e tutti non desideriamo altro che metterci comodi in una poltrona di cuoio vicino alla finestra aperta, bere qualcosa in compagnia di qualcuno che amiamo o ci è caro, leggere le notizie sportive e magari appisolarci un momento.
Questa è la cartolina segnapagina che ho ritrovato nella mia copia del libro.
Frank Bascombe fa qui la sua prima apparizione. A trentotto anni.
Frank Bascombe è, come dire, quello che Nathan Zuckerman è per Philip Roth, o Antoine Doinel per François Truffaut… o scendendo più in basso, Michele Apicella per Nanni Moretti: un alter ego, il personaggio letterario (o cinematografico) che ritorna, che seguiamo nel corso della sua vita.
Che in qualche modo, diventa specchio e riflessione della nostra di lettori (e spettatori).
Haddam non esiste in New Jersey, dove invece c’è Haddon, ma la si trova in Connecticut.
Qui nasce, nel 1986, trentottenne, scrittore con all’attivo una ben accolta raccolta di racconti, che però, nonostante l’incoraggiamento dei critici, ha abbandonato la scrittura narrativa per dedicarsi a quella sportiva: che è un lavoro retribuito, con meno rischio e più stabilità.
Come giornalista sportivo, Frank Bascombe fa soprattutto quello che da noi fa Emanuela Audisio: più che dedicarsi alla cronaca di eventi sportivi, Frank racconta storie di sport, che sono prima di tutto storie umane.
È andato a vivere a Haddam nel New Jersey, in una casa tudor, a rassicurante distanza da New York: rassicurante per poterla raggiungere col treno in un tempo ragionevole, e rassicurante per non subirne il caos.
Haddam è quel genere di sobborgo dalle dimensioni tali per cui tutte le donne possono essere delle amiche di tua moglie: forse non il posto giusto per avere avventure extramatrimoniali, forse il posto giusto per essere consolato da una separazione.
E quindi, Frank appariva pronto a una tranquilla esistenza matrimoniale borghese piacevolmente pigra e moderatamente stimolante.
La scelta era arrivata col matrimonio, che ha generato tre figli. Ma il più grande, Ralph, è morto a nove anni per una rara malattia. E nell’inevitabile crisi emotiva e sentimentale susseguente, la coppia si è sciolta e separata.
Quanto sopra riassume più o meno tutta la trama del romanzo, temporalmente racchiuso in un weekend pasquale, durante il quale Frank e sua moglie – che rimane sempre senza nome, sempre indicata come X – non è solo il processo di elaborazione del lutto a essere indietro, ma anche quello della separazione ( Il dolore, il vero dolore, è relativamente breve, ma il lutto può essere lungo.) - Frank e sua moglie come di consuetudine s’incontrano davanti alla tomba del primogenito morto. La commemorazione molto intima coincide con il compleanno del figlio.
Stile tudor.
Ford è bravo a dilatare il tempo, espanderlo per decine e centinaia di pagine raccontando, all’apparenza, poco o nulla.
A meno da non volere considerare non dico eventi, ma almeno accadimenti il pranzo a casa dei genitori della fidanzata di turno (questa sì provvista di nome, Vicky), pranzo che non è un trionfo, una gita in barca a pesca con alcuni membri del club dei divorziati, se non proprio amici almeno buoni conoscenti, la vista dell’ex suocero, l’intervista a un ex campione di football che un incidente ha reso paraplegico, la visita di un divorziato che man mano si chiarisce ha mire omosessuali su Frank che però non contraccambia.
Ma se è vero che poco sembra succedere, molto è successo. E anche le chiacchiere e le conversazioni e le telefonate e i rapporti epistolari molto dicono e raccontano, pur senza far nulla succedere.
Frank sembra poco interessato e coinvolto in tutto quello che fa. Anche se non si potrebbe dire lo stesso per il suo atteggiamento verso la vita in generale: è ben conscio che “tutto potrebbe andare molto peggio”. Per esempio, potrebbe piovere:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mC4Vf...
L’unica scintilla d’interesse sia emotivo che sentimentale si direbbe che sia la sua ex, il figlio morto, la famiglia persa, smembrata, per estensione la vita di prima.
L’edizione americana è illustrata con una pallina e una mazza da baseball: sia perché Frank lo pratica al club dei divorziati (anche se per lo più vanno a pescare), sia perché X, l’ex moglie, vuole intraprendere una carriera professionistica.
Il percorso di Frank proseguirà con un nuovo romanzo per decennio, e cioè: nel 1995 con Il giorno dell’indipendenza, nel 2006 con Lo stato delle cose, per concludersi, almeno al momento, nel 2014 con Tutto potrebbe andare molto peggio che non è un romanzo, ma quattro novelle dedicate allo stesso personaggio, di cui una ha il titolo usato nell’edizione italiana, mentre quello in lingua inglese è Let Me Be Frank With You, col gioco di parole tra Franco e franco/onesto.
Il giorno è agli sgoccioli: siamo in quel pozzo profondo di ombre e mezza luce primaverile, quando il tardo pomeriggio si fa prima serata e tutti non desideriamo altro che metterci comodi in una poltrona di cuoio vicino alla finestra aperta, bere qualcosa in compagnia di qualcuno che amiamo o ci è caro, leggere le notizie sportive e magari appisolarci un momento.
November 19, 2020
Richard Ford - image from The Paris Review
Frank Bascombe published a book once. He just never got around to writing another, veering off into the world of sportswriting. The Sportwriter shows us a week in Frank’s life in which he confronts the choices he has made as parts of his life are pared away and we are shown what has already been cut. He is divorced, with one child having died. His girlfriend is clearly inappropriate for him and that ends as well. A sort-of friend comes out and on to him, ending badly. We see his semester as a teacher and the complications that ensue.
The above really tells nothing about the book. It is one of beautiful language, tone, self-inspection, how one lives one’s life in the world. Much resonated. It is not an action adventure tale, but things do happen, dramatic on an individual scale, if not a global one. It is about expectations of life and of ourselves. Not a quick read, but very good stuff.
P 24
All we really want is to get to the point where the past can explain nothing about us and we can get on with life.
P 24
My own history I think of as a postcard with changing scenes on one side but no particular or memorable messages on the back.
P 27
It may be just the fate of boys whose fathers die young never to be young—officially—ourselves; youth being just a brief dream, a prelude of no particular lasting moment before actual life begins.
P 97
What’s friendships real measure?
I’ll tell you. The amount of precious time you’ll squander on someone else’s calamities and fuck-ups.
P 183
I’ve quit becoming, is what it feels like. Only I stopped at the wrong time.
January 23, 2019
I tried reading Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter years ago, but I wasn’t ready. Now that I’ve lived a lot more life, I get it.
Most of all, I get Ford’s Everyman hero, Frank Bascombe, a 38-year-old, divorced man with two kids (one has died), who works at a sports magazine after he gave up a promising literary career and lives alone (he’s got an African boarder) in a New Jersey suburb.
I get Frank’s vague yearnings, his dreaminess, his little tragedies, his big ones, his successes, his failures, his compromises, his phone calls to people he used to know, his relationship with someone who’s totally inappropriate, his thoughts about his ex-wife (called, literally, X – to protect her identity?), his gestures of civility, his good Southern manners, his excusable prejudices, his inexcusable ones, his impulsive decisions, his crippling indecisions, his outward geniality and actual remoteness… in the end, I get his valiant, noble attempt to try to live with dignity in a sad, unfair yet frequently beautiful world.
You don’t have to know much about sports to appreciate Ford’s gorgeous, melancholy book. Not much happens. It recounts one memorable Easter weekend in Frank’s life.
Will I read Ford’s other Bascombe books? As Frank would say in his grinning, archetypal middle-class American way (with a glint in his eye, knowing you're also a reader of serious fiction), “You bet.”
Most of all, I get Ford’s Everyman hero, Frank Bascombe, a 38-year-old, divorced man with two kids (one has died), who works at a sports magazine after he gave up a promising literary career and lives alone (he’s got an African boarder) in a New Jersey suburb.
I get Frank’s vague yearnings, his dreaminess, his little tragedies, his big ones, his successes, his failures, his compromises, his phone calls to people he used to know, his relationship with someone who’s totally inappropriate, his thoughts about his ex-wife (called, literally, X – to protect her identity?), his gestures of civility, his good Southern manners, his excusable prejudices, his inexcusable ones, his impulsive decisions, his crippling indecisions, his outward geniality and actual remoteness… in the end, I get his valiant, noble attempt to try to live with dignity in a sad, unfair yet frequently beautiful world.
You don’t have to know much about sports to appreciate Ford’s gorgeous, melancholy book. Not much happens. It recounts one memorable Easter weekend in Frank’s life.
Will I read Ford’s other Bascombe books? As Frank would say in his grinning, archetypal middle-class American way (with a glint in his eye, knowing you're also a reader of serious fiction), “You bet.”
October 30, 2021
Most people who read my reviews know I have great admiration for John Updike's work. I don't mind a good "mid-last-century man who misbehaves" story, written by a literary god. In fact, I can't seem to stay away from those for long at all.
So it's natural that I picked up Richard Ford's novel. He, like Updike, won the Pulitzer Prize. He, like Updike, wrote about men who misbehave. He, like Updike, said pretty fucked up things from time to time.
So why the middling rating, you might wonder?
Well, from the onset, I felt the spectre of Updike looming (and he casts a long shadow). Ford's protagonist finds comfort in writing about sports. Rabbit's "good old days" are when he played sports (basketball, in particular). Ford's protagonist is unfaithful to his wife. In the dictionary under unfaithful, there is a picture of Rabbit Angstrom. Ford's protagonist has suffered the loss of a child. Ditto for Rabbit. And, Ford's 1986 protagonist suffers the suburban malaise that has afflicted Rabbit since the 1950s.
So, very, very similar in theme and plot. So much so, I can't help but make further comparisons. Where I was sympathetic with flawed Rabbit (even found him relatable), I actively disliked Frank Bascombe. Rabbit knows he's a mess. Frank Bascombe, on the other hand, seems to have it all figured out, making wise, declarative statements about life that had me rolling my eyes. He's so unlikable! He muses about "hundred dollar whores" more times than I can count. He refers to his former wife as nothing more than "X" - for what possible purpose?
Now, I know that Rabbit says some god-awful things too. I think the reason why I seem to have more tolerance for Rabbit/Updike's rather obnoxious moments is that the writing is so extraordinary, I can't help but turn the next page, pick up the next book. Ford didn't beguile me in the same way. I found his style so deeply introspective I got a neck-ache from all the navel gazing. Little "happens" in this book that spans one Easter weekend. But you sure get to know every thought that crosses Frank Bascombe's mind. Also, the dialogue is surprisingly bad! Characters speak each other's name in almost every single line of dialogue. I found it really distracting.
"Frank, tell me what you think. I need to know what you think."
"Well, Walter, what I think is that I know everything that there is to know."
"But don't you think you'd feel a whole lot better, Frank, if you called a 100-dollar whore?"
"Walter, you read my mind, Walter."
I won't touch the other weird things in this book that haven't aged well, which include comments on race and homosexuality. But describing someone as "a bony African with an austere face, almost certain the kind to have a long, aboriginal penis" just couldn't possibly be okay, even in 1986! (You knew I had to include that quote, didn't you?)
Maybe though, it's not Ford's fault at all. I mean, lots of lovely readers I know and respect see plenty to appreciate in these pages. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that it's Updike's fault. He ruined me for all other misbehaving men.
So it's natural that I picked up Richard Ford's novel. He, like Updike, won the Pulitzer Prize. He, like Updike, wrote about men who misbehave. He, like Updike, said pretty fucked up things from time to time.
So why the middling rating, you might wonder?
Well, from the onset, I felt the spectre of Updike looming (and he casts a long shadow). Ford's protagonist finds comfort in writing about sports. Rabbit's "good old days" are when he played sports (basketball, in particular). Ford's protagonist is unfaithful to his wife. In the dictionary under unfaithful, there is a picture of Rabbit Angstrom. Ford's protagonist has suffered the loss of a child. Ditto for Rabbit. And, Ford's 1986 protagonist suffers the suburban malaise that has afflicted Rabbit since the 1950s.
So, very, very similar in theme and plot. So much so, I can't help but make further comparisons. Where I was sympathetic with flawed Rabbit (even found him relatable), I actively disliked Frank Bascombe. Rabbit knows he's a mess. Frank Bascombe, on the other hand, seems to have it all figured out, making wise, declarative statements about life that had me rolling my eyes. He's so unlikable! He muses about "hundred dollar whores" more times than I can count. He refers to his former wife as nothing more than "X" - for what possible purpose?
Now, I know that Rabbit says some god-awful things too. I think the reason why I seem to have more tolerance for Rabbit/Updike's rather obnoxious moments is that the writing is so extraordinary, I can't help but turn the next page, pick up the next book. Ford didn't beguile me in the same way. I found his style so deeply introspective I got a neck-ache from all the navel gazing. Little "happens" in this book that spans one Easter weekend. But you sure get to know every thought that crosses Frank Bascombe's mind. Also, the dialogue is surprisingly bad! Characters speak each other's name in almost every single line of dialogue. I found it really distracting.
"Frank, tell me what you think. I need to know what you think."
"Well, Walter, what I think is that I know everything that there is to know."
"But don't you think you'd feel a whole lot better, Frank, if you called a 100-dollar whore?"
"Walter, you read my mind, Walter."
I won't touch the other weird things in this book that haven't aged well, which include comments on race and homosexuality. But describing someone as "a bony African with an austere face, almost certain the kind to have a long, aboriginal penis" just couldn't possibly be okay, even in 1986! (You knew I had to include that quote, didn't you?)
Maybe though, it's not Ford's fault at all. I mean, lots of lovely readers I know and respect see plenty to appreciate in these pages. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that it's Updike's fault. He ruined me for all other misbehaving men.
April 11, 2018
Frank Bascombe, he is the sportswriter, and he is the first-person narrator of this novel which takes a slanted and sometimes brutal look at the failings of a 20th century American family, especially of the father and husband, Frank himself. We learn early in the story that Frank is not a happy person, and with good reason most of us would agree. He is divorced, but still living in the family's suburban home in New Jersey. He has three children; one of them, a son, has died. And his dreams of being a novelist have been abandoned and he has turned to writing sports for a national magazine. Honestly, Frank is not a very likable guy. He's not a bad guy, he's just that guy you want to grab and shake and say, snap out of it Frank. But alas, that never happens.
So what makes this a five star book, one that many consider one of the best of the 20th century? It's quite simply the writing. What Richard Ford does here is what John Williams does in Stoner, what Philip Roth does in American Pastoral; he transforms the mundane, the everyday events of life, into a work of art. You may not like Frank Bascombe when you are finished, but you will know him, and you will feel for him, and you may even recognize something of yourself in him.
So what makes this a five star book, one that many consider one of the best of the 20th century? It's quite simply the writing. What Richard Ford does here is what John Williams does in Stoner, what Philip Roth does in American Pastoral; he transforms the mundane, the everyday events of life, into a work of art. You may not like Frank Bascombe when you are finished, but you will know him, and you will feel for him, and you may even recognize something of yourself in him.
March 19, 2013
The Sportswriter started out really strong for me - seemed thoughtful and familiar and American, a bit like Stegner's Crossing to Safety.
But after a while, say about 250 pages, I stopped finding the character thoughtful and subtle and started thinking he was kind of a boorish self-serving windbag. It didn't help that I'd rather have spent more time with his ex wife and children, who seemed charming, funny and smart, than his ditzy and unappealing girlfriend or his sadsack friends. I think I also didn't believe him that the New Jersey suburbs were the real stuff of life, as he thought. I found myself wishing that he'd shut the hell up already.
Maybe all of this was sort of the point, but I felt like, well, I knew all that already.
But after a while, say about 250 pages, I stopped finding the character thoughtful and subtle and started thinking he was kind of a boorish self-serving windbag. It didn't help that I'd rather have spent more time with his ex wife and children, who seemed charming, funny and smart, than his ditzy and unappealing girlfriend or his sadsack friends. I think I also didn't believe him that the New Jersey suburbs were the real stuff of life, as he thought. I found myself wishing that he'd shut the hell up already.
Maybe all of this was sort of the point, but I felt like, well, I knew all that already.
Read
February 7, 202565 pages in. Particularly after reading Updike's Rabbit series. This just doesn't cut it. Rabbit was a character I could see, feel, understand....I even had sympathy for him.
I couldn't attach myself to this Bascombe guy. There was not enough dialogue here also and I didn't really care what happened to anyone.
A DNF for me. (Sorry Javier) 😞
I couldn't attach myself to this Bascombe guy. There was not enough dialogue here also and I didn't really care what happened to anyone.
A DNF for me. (Sorry Javier) 😞
June 11, 2019
Did you hear the one about the middle-aged white guy who has a mid-life crisis? You did! You sometimes think you’ve heard nothing else! The world is brimful of middle-aged white guys having midlife crises. Of course it’s full of many other things as well but it's been run, for so long, by middle-aged white guys having midlife crises, writing books about it, putting each others’ books about it on their college curricula, making lists of great novels about white guy midlife crises, sometimes you can’t hear anyone else’s story for the multitude of white guys surrounding you and shouting theirs. They’ve made a great big circle jerk and convinced themselves that they’ve gained Hard-Won Wisdom, and that you need to hear it. All these books have, strewn like trucks in a toddler’s home, pearls of wisdom waiting for you to step on them and fall over.
The Sportswriter isn’t the gold standard of middle-aged white guy crisis books - that’s Updike, of course - this is store brand Updike, a Gobot to Updike’s Transformer, a blatant Rabbit ripoff, and it slavishly adheres to every white guy tic you hate. Describing women tits-first? Yep! (Oh man, check this one out: he actually does the fruit thing! “A white cotton blouse concealing a pair of considerable grapefruits." Classic!) Extreme solipsism? This book is so solipsistic that the guy never names his ex-wife, a major character; she’s referred to throughout as X, and I understand that Ford’s making a point but the point is that he’s an asshole. And will there be hard-won wisdom? Boy howdy, will there!
The weird thing is how much of his hard-won wisdom is nonsense. Of course hard-won wisdom is often nonsense, but Frank's ratio of “OK good point" to “Wait, what?" is frankly abysmal.
A short list of things Frank is wrong about
- We’re almost always wrong when we are young - reverse that, my friend
- In some of the heart’s business there is really no net gain - no
- Literature’s consolations are always temporary, while life is quick to begin again. - good gosh, you might have to reverse this too
- The world is a more engaging and less dramatic place than writers ever give it credit for being. - speaking of solipsism, lol. Has he even read Shirley Jackson? Almost certainly not
- The truth of most things turned out to be waiting just over the edge of worried thought. - this is actual garbage
This is all Frank Bascombe saying this, but when middle-aged white guys write middle-aged white guys saying things, it’s almost always the author speaking, and there’s no reason to think otherwise here. It’s distracting! You keep coming across sentences like this that make you stop and think wait, that… that doesn’t sound right.
Well, Frank ambles through this book, dropping his questionable pearls. The death of his nine-year-old son has effectively turned him off; he wandered on autopilot through his subsequent divorce and he’s still on autopilot now. “Dreaminess," he calls it. The abdication of agency. He can’t directly face his son’s death, referring to it mostly obliquely, and the book can’t face it either; he’s more comfortable talking about his failure as a writer, which ricocheted him into success as a sportswriter.
The book is, in fact, more about sportswriting than I thought it would be. I thought it would be a metaphor? This is too bad, given my complete lack of interest in sports or sportswriting. Richard Ford himself has been a sportswriter but he has not been the father of a dead child, so one starts to think he’s not so much describing a man who’s numb with tragedy as glossing over something he doesn’t know shit about.
Instead of facing tragedy, Frank has awkward conversations with other sad middle-aged men about their stunted lives. They compulsively use each other’s first names. He is casually racist (see Appendix B, and it was not okay to say "Negro" or "colored" in 1986, let me assure you). He has an affair with a younger woman. (You knew that was coming, didn’t you?) He will not engage with life, and you’re unlikely to want to engage with him. There isn’t any fire to this story, just more of the sorts of sentences you’re used to. He’s wrong about almost everything, but the bigger problem is that you’ve heard this one before. It wasn’t even that interesting the first time.
Appendix A: Some Of The Ways Women Are Introduced
- Rhonda is a tall raw-boned, ash-blond girl in her late thirties with an old-fashioned, chorus-line figure, but with a face like a racehorse and a loud voice I don’t like
- A small fawn-haired woman of the frail but vaguely pretty category, not of this town
- A sweet, saucy little black-hair with a delicate width of cheekbone, a broad Texas accent and a matter-of-factness with her rapture
- She was thirty-two and not at all an appealing woman. She was plump with large, white teeth and a perfectly pie-shaped face.
- Look at even the cover of this book. It's just disembodied legs. What does it even have to do with anything?
Appendix B: Some Of The Ways Black People Are Described
- a bony African with an austere face, almost certain the kind to have a long aboriginal penis.
- Even Negroes look different here - healthy, smiling, prosperous
- I could talk to him about invisibility, though it’s possible a true African would know less than one of our local Negroes
- The colored boy in the Trans-Am slides by...more white girls on his mind.
- And here’s a word from Ford himself, who once spat on Colson Whitehead, about how he doesn’t even see race.
The Sportswriter isn’t the gold standard of middle-aged white guy crisis books - that’s Updike, of course - this is store brand Updike, a Gobot to Updike’s Transformer, a blatant Rabbit ripoff, and it slavishly adheres to every white guy tic you hate. Describing women tits-first? Yep! (Oh man, check this one out: he actually does the fruit thing! “A white cotton blouse concealing a pair of considerable grapefruits." Classic!) Extreme solipsism? This book is so solipsistic that the guy never names his ex-wife, a major character; she’s referred to throughout as X, and I understand that Ford’s making a point but the point is that he’s an asshole. And will there be hard-won wisdom? Boy howdy, will there!
The weird thing is how much of his hard-won wisdom is nonsense. Of course hard-won wisdom is often nonsense, but Frank's ratio of “OK good point" to “Wait, what?" is frankly abysmal.
A short list of things Frank is wrong about
- We’re almost always wrong when we are young - reverse that, my friend
- In some of the heart’s business there is really no net gain - no
- Literature’s consolations are always temporary, while life is quick to begin again. - good gosh, you might have to reverse this too
- The world is a more engaging and less dramatic place than writers ever give it credit for being. - speaking of solipsism, lol. Has he even read Shirley Jackson? Almost certainly not
- The truth of most things turned out to be waiting just over the edge of worried thought. - this is actual garbage
This is all Frank Bascombe saying this, but when middle-aged white guys write middle-aged white guys saying things, it’s almost always the author speaking, and there’s no reason to think otherwise here. It’s distracting! You keep coming across sentences like this that make you stop and think wait, that… that doesn’t sound right.
Well, Frank ambles through this book, dropping his questionable pearls. The death of his nine-year-old son has effectively turned him off; he wandered on autopilot through his subsequent divorce and he’s still on autopilot now. “Dreaminess," he calls it. The abdication of agency. He can’t directly face his son’s death, referring to it mostly obliquely, and the book can’t face it either; he’s more comfortable talking about his failure as a writer, which ricocheted him into success as a sportswriter.
The book is, in fact, more about sportswriting than I thought it would be. I thought it would be a metaphor? This is too bad, given my complete lack of interest in sports or sportswriting. Richard Ford himself has been a sportswriter but he has not been the father of a dead child, so one starts to think he’s not so much describing a man who’s numb with tragedy as glossing over something he doesn’t know shit about.
Instead of facing tragedy, Frank has awkward conversations with other sad middle-aged men about their stunted lives. They compulsively use each other’s first names. He is casually racist (see Appendix B, and it was not okay to say "Negro" or "colored" in 1986, let me assure you). He has an affair with a younger woman. (You knew that was coming, didn’t you?) He will not engage with life, and you’re unlikely to want to engage with him. There isn’t any fire to this story, just more of the sorts of sentences you’re used to. He’s wrong about almost everything, but the bigger problem is that you’ve heard this one before. It wasn’t even that interesting the first time.
Appendix A: Some Of The Ways Women Are Introduced
- Rhonda is a tall raw-boned, ash-blond girl in her late thirties with an old-fashioned, chorus-line figure, but with a face like a racehorse and a loud voice I don’t like
- A small fawn-haired woman of the frail but vaguely pretty category, not of this town
- A sweet, saucy little black-hair with a delicate width of cheekbone, a broad Texas accent and a matter-of-factness with her rapture
- She was thirty-two and not at all an appealing woman. She was plump with large, white teeth and a perfectly pie-shaped face.
- Look at even the cover of this book. It's just disembodied legs. What does it even have to do with anything?
Appendix B: Some Of The Ways Black People Are Described
- a bony African with an austere face, almost certain the kind to have a long aboriginal penis.
- Even Negroes look different here - healthy, smiling, prosperous
- I could talk to him about invisibility, though it’s possible a true African would know less than one of our local Negroes
- The colored boy in the Trans-Am slides by...more white girls on his mind.
- And here’s a word from Ford himself, who once spat on Colson Whitehead, about how he doesn’t even see race.
September 18, 2021
Great writing!!! Slow story.
September 15, 2017
This takes a long way to get where its going; however the last third of the book is quite good.
Inconsistent and with too frequently one dimensional dialogue, however when it is good, it is very good, reminding the reader of Phillip Roth or John Cheever. Actually, and this is a stretch, this could be a modern, more sympathetic retelling of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and there are some hints to indicate this is where Ford was coming from.
Ford's protagonist Frank Bascombe is an existential wreck and deals with life as it comes to him, not having given up, but surviving.
Ford would win the Pulitzer prize for the follow up to this work, 1995's Independence Day, and his talent is evident.
Inconsistent and with too frequently one dimensional dialogue, however when it is good, it is very good, reminding the reader of Phillip Roth or John Cheever. Actually, and this is a stretch, this could be a modern, more sympathetic retelling of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and there are some hints to indicate this is where Ford was coming from.
Ford's protagonist Frank Bascombe is an existential wreck and deals with life as it comes to him, not having given up, but surviving.
Ford would win the Pulitzer prize for the follow up to this work, 1995's Independence Day, and his talent is evident.
July 27, 2025
Life is not a team sport, I've come to realize. It's a boxing ring. If you got gloves, you're in luck. Most often, you're caught out and never see the punch that brings you down.
Ford's sportswriter is floored by two punches. The death of a child and a divorce. So, don't expect a lively voice. This one comes from a guy who is face down on a mat and bleeding.
"How exactly did I get to here, is what I would like to know, since my usual need, when I find myself in unaccustomed environs, is to add things up, consider what forces have led me here, and to wonder if this course is typical of what I would call my life, or if it is only extraordinary and nothing to worry about."
Making sense of loss is part of healing. Meet Frank Bascombe, a sportswriter. He
has been hit hard. Ford handles his subject matter with the skill of a doctor sewing up a cut eye.
Ford's sportswriter is floored by two punches. The death of a child and a divorce. So, don't expect a lively voice. This one comes from a guy who is face down on a mat and bleeding.
"How exactly did I get to here, is what I would like to know, since my usual need, when I find myself in unaccustomed environs, is to add things up, consider what forces have led me here, and to wonder if this course is typical of what I would call my life, or if it is only extraordinary and nothing to worry about."
Making sense of loss is part of healing. Meet Frank Bascombe, a sportswriter. He
has been hit hard. Ford handles his subject matter with the skill of a doctor sewing up a cut eye.
April 14, 2013
The Sportswriter: Richard Ford's Bleak View of the American Dream
The Sportswriter, 1st Edition, Vintage, 1986
So it is that Richard Ford begins to tell us in beautifully written style the story of Frank Bascombe, The Sportswriter. And, although Ford writes beautifully, and paints characters in crystal clarity, Frank Bascombe is not a protagonist that is easy to like, much less love. Critics have described Bascombe as heroic and a decent man. Either I read a different book, or my dictionary has become outdated.
The first hint of Bascombe's revelations to come is calling his former wife "X." One wonders whether he has changed her name in Dragnet fashion to protect the innocent, or that over the period of their marriage he has become so distant from her he can no longer bear to call her by name.
One could trace the disintegration of the Bascombe marriage back to the death of their first born son, Ralph, who died of Reyes syndrome. How many marriages have evaporated following the death of a child? Yet, no blame is cast between the two of them. There is no question as to which parent gave Ralph aspirin while running a fever. It simply occurred. They remained together long enough to create two other children, wonderful, as Frank describes them.
But as Frank tells us, much has happened in between. He had intended to follow up his collection of well received short stories with a novel. The novel remains half written, abandoned, tucked away in Frank's desk drawer.
While the unfinished novel gathers dust, Frank is offered a job by a glossy sports magazine "you all have heard of." Ironically, Frank really doesn't like sports, not most of them. Now, baseball. That's different. However, Frank's angle as a sports writer is his innate ability to read people, to get them talking about themselves. He's a pro at ingratiating himself to those he interviews. He is a mixture of wide smiles, grins, platitudes, and the qualities of a "good guy" people don't mind talking to. That Frank has no real connection with his assignments is never evident to them, nor does it seemingly bother him. And, if a lie is called for, he has no difficulty in telling it.
Richard Ford formerly wrote for Inside Sports Magazine
Frank's job constantly takes him on travel junkets, to sporting events, to athlete interviews. Time with X and his two wonderful children is limited. During one of his out of town assignments the seat on the plane next to him occupied by a woman who has left her husband to write. They engage in pleasant conversation, more on her part than Frank's. It is no surprise they end up in the same hotel and that there's a knock on Frank's door that night. Frank discovers he can read women as well as he can the athletes he interviews. He turns her offer of lovemaking down, but holds her through the night, the courtly gentleman. What follows is a series of letters implying an intimacy that doesn't exist.
Ironically, following a vacation trip, Frank and X return to their Tudor home to find it burglarized. It's the typical burglary where the intruders have left out for inspection those things most of us would rather stay tucked away in the privacy of boxes and drawers. X finds Frank's correspondence which he had kept in his desk drawer. Frank is surprised to find X setting her hope chest containing all the special mementos of their marriage ablaze in the fireplace. The marriage is over.
Surprisingly, the marriage is over for an offense that Frank did not commit. He casually informs the reader that perhaps X had turned a blind eye to the eighteen women he in fact had slept with. The details of the Bascombe divorce are never revealed. Again, a surprise, Frank ends up with the Tudor house while X and the two children establish a new home in "The Presidents," a hot new suburban development. It turns out that X has always been the true athlete of the couple, a golfer, who becomes a pro at a local club, and offers golfing lessons.
Frank's and X's relationship remains relatively amicable. X keeps their two children Peter and Claire readily accessible to him. At times, Frank sleeps over on the couch.
Frank and X also continue to observe Ralph's birthday, meeting at the cemetery each year. Frank's practice is to select a poem each year to read over the grave. This particular year he has chosen A.E. Houseman's "On an Athlete's Dying Young." X laconically tells Frank she never liked Houseman, nor was Ralph ever an athlete.
At their meeting at the cemetery, Frank does not tell X he's taking a female companion along with him on an assignment to Detroit, though she brings up the matter of whether either of them ever think of marrying again. Frank has met Vicki, a nurse in the ER, who has recently fled an abusive marriage in Texas. Vicki's father, a former petroleum engineer in Texas, now a toll taker at one of the New Jersey turnpikes has bought and furnished a house for her.
To Frank, Vicki is a weekend gift from Heaven. The curves are in all the right place. She's indicated her sexual interest, calling herself a real firecracker in that department. Frank paints her as a Southern stereotype, complete with Texas twang, and wide eyed wonder at the prospect of going to Detroit and seeing the Big Tire which she's always wanted to do.
One of Nurse Vicki's Wonders of the World
Frank bears a hostility towards Southerners, which he especially exhibits towards his physician Fincher who shows up at the airport, decked out in awful trendy golfing clothes, his clubs thrown over his shoulder. Frank thinks of the Southern college boy decked out in khakis and campaign belt, baggy oxford shirt, with hands tucked confidently in their pockets, displaying a nonchalant insouciance. Only later does Bascombe himself reveal that he, too, is a Southern expatriate, and happy to be one, although he had attempted to use that image to gain entrance at the University of Michigan in his undergrad days.
The Detroit trip is a disaster. A freakish blizzard makes sightseeing a lost cause. Bascombe's assignment is off his meds, crazy as a betsy bug, and won't produce a successful story. While Vicki is a firecracker in bed, Frank makes a crucial error after telling her he loves her. He sneaks through her purse, looking through the photographs in her wallet. Vicki wakes up. The party's over, in spite of Frank's proposal of marriage.
Throw into the mix that Frank's formula for wooing involves a quick declaration of love. His preference is for divorced women. Single mother's are even more preferable for they are more vulnerable to being told they are loved. His ideal relationship consists of making eye contact over a drink, the suggestion dinner, and being entwined in bed within four hours, hopefully while on assignment in a location not to be visited again. Hero? Decent? Or heel?
Frank's relationships with other men are just as tangential, lacking any commitment. Shortly after his divorce from X, Frank was dragged into the Divorced Men's Club, a group of five men, who meet for dinner, drinks, taking in a sports game, an occasional fishing charter. As places become available through death or remarriage, some lucky guy becomes available to fill the empty slot. Frank approaches the club much as he does the athletes he interviews, with smiles, grins, and the occasional joke.
Things grow complicated when a new place opens in the club and it is filled by Walter Luckett. Walter's only luck is bad. His wife ran off to Bimini with her ski instructor. He's a true sad sack. Because of Frank's seeming bonhomie, Walter mistakes him for a friend and confidant.
Following a fishing charter Walter confides in Frank that he met a nice fellow and ended up in a motel room with him. Walter feels that Frank, while he might have an opinion, will listen to him, and not express how he might feel about what happened. Frank in fact does listen. But tells Walter he does have an opinion which he would prefer not to express.
Frank epitomizes contemporary America where neighborhoods are merely groups of homes. These are the streets where people live but are not neighbors, nor know the names of those around whom they live. Frank represents the modern human being who lives committed to a dream belonging only to him without commitment to others. And so it goes.
"The Sportswriter" is the first of three Frank Bascombe novels. Independence Day won both the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the Pen/Faulkner Award for 1996. Ford concluded the Bascombe Trilogy with The Lay of the Land in 2006. It was a National Book Critics Circle Award Nominee in 2006.
The Sportswriter, 1st Edition, Vintage, 1986
"My name is Frank Bascombe. I am a sportswriter.
For the past fourteen years I have lived here at 19 Hoving Road, Haddam, New Jersey, in a large Tudor house bought when a book of short stories I wrote sold to a movie producer for a lot of money, and seemed to set my wife and me and our three children--two of whom were not even born yet--up for a good life.
Just exactly what that good life was--the one I expected--I cannot tell you now exactly, though I wouldn't say it has not come to pass, only that much has come in between. I am no longer married to X, for instance. The child we had when everything was starting has died, though there are two others, as I mentioned, who are alive and wonderful children."
So it is that Richard Ford begins to tell us in beautifully written style the story of Frank Bascombe, The Sportswriter. And, although Ford writes beautifully, and paints characters in crystal clarity, Frank Bascombe is not a protagonist that is easy to like, much less love. Critics have described Bascombe as heroic and a decent man. Either I read a different book, or my dictionary has become outdated.
The first hint of Bascombe's revelations to come is calling his former wife "X." One wonders whether he has changed her name in Dragnet fashion to protect the innocent, or that over the period of their marriage he has become so distant from her he can no longer bear to call her by name.
One could trace the disintegration of the Bascombe marriage back to the death of their first born son, Ralph, who died of Reyes syndrome. How many marriages have evaporated following the death of a child? Yet, no blame is cast between the two of them. There is no question as to which parent gave Ralph aspirin while running a fever. It simply occurred. They remained together long enough to create two other children, wonderful, as Frank describes them.
But as Frank tells us, much has happened in between. He had intended to follow up his collection of well received short stories with a novel. The novel remains half written, abandoned, tucked away in Frank's desk drawer.
While the unfinished novel gathers dust, Frank is offered a job by a glossy sports magazine "you all have heard of." Ironically, Frank really doesn't like sports, not most of them. Now, baseball. That's different. However, Frank's angle as a sports writer is his innate ability to read people, to get them talking about themselves. He's a pro at ingratiating himself to those he interviews. He is a mixture of wide smiles, grins, platitudes, and the qualities of a "good guy" people don't mind talking to. That Frank has no real connection with his assignments is never evident to them, nor does it seemingly bother him. And, if a lie is called for, he has no difficulty in telling it.
Richard Ford formerly wrote for Inside Sports Magazine
Frank's job constantly takes him on travel junkets, to sporting events, to athlete interviews. Time with X and his two wonderful children is limited. During one of his out of town assignments the seat on the plane next to him occupied by a woman who has left her husband to write. They engage in pleasant conversation, more on her part than Frank's. It is no surprise they end up in the same hotel and that there's a knock on Frank's door that night. Frank discovers he can read women as well as he can the athletes he interviews. He turns her offer of lovemaking down, but holds her through the night, the courtly gentleman. What follows is a series of letters implying an intimacy that doesn't exist.
Ironically, following a vacation trip, Frank and X return to their Tudor home to find it burglarized. It's the typical burglary where the intruders have left out for inspection those things most of us would rather stay tucked away in the privacy of boxes and drawers. X finds Frank's correspondence which he had kept in his desk drawer. Frank is surprised to find X setting her hope chest containing all the special mementos of their marriage ablaze in the fireplace. The marriage is over.
Surprisingly, the marriage is over for an offense that Frank did not commit. He casually informs the reader that perhaps X had turned a blind eye to the eighteen women he in fact had slept with. The details of the Bascombe divorce are never revealed. Again, a surprise, Frank ends up with the Tudor house while X and the two children establish a new home in "The Presidents," a hot new suburban development. It turns out that X has always been the true athlete of the couple, a golfer, who becomes a pro at a local club, and offers golfing lessons.
Frank's and X's relationship remains relatively amicable. X keeps their two children Peter and Claire readily accessible to him. At times, Frank sleeps over on the couch.
Frank and X also continue to observe Ralph's birthday, meeting at the cemetery each year. Frank's practice is to select a poem each year to read over the grave. This particular year he has chosen A.E. Houseman's "On an Athlete's Dying Young." X laconically tells Frank she never liked Houseman, nor was Ralph ever an athlete.
At their meeting at the cemetery, Frank does not tell X he's taking a female companion along with him on an assignment to Detroit, though she brings up the matter of whether either of them ever think of marrying again. Frank has met Vicki, a nurse in the ER, who has recently fled an abusive marriage in Texas. Vicki's father, a former petroleum engineer in Texas, now a toll taker at one of the New Jersey turnpikes has bought and furnished a house for her.
To Frank, Vicki is a weekend gift from Heaven. The curves are in all the right place. She's indicated her sexual interest, calling herself a real firecracker in that department. Frank paints her as a Southern stereotype, complete with Texas twang, and wide eyed wonder at the prospect of going to Detroit and seeing the Big Tire which she's always wanted to do.
One of Nurse Vicki's Wonders of the World
Frank bears a hostility towards Southerners, which he especially exhibits towards his physician Fincher who shows up at the airport, decked out in awful trendy golfing clothes, his clubs thrown over his shoulder. Frank thinks of the Southern college boy decked out in khakis and campaign belt, baggy oxford shirt, with hands tucked confidently in their pockets, displaying a nonchalant insouciance. Only later does Bascombe himself reveal that he, too, is a Southern expatriate, and happy to be one, although he had attempted to use that image to gain entrance at the University of Michigan in his undergrad days.
The Detroit trip is a disaster. A freakish blizzard makes sightseeing a lost cause. Bascombe's assignment is off his meds, crazy as a betsy bug, and won't produce a successful story. While Vicki is a firecracker in bed, Frank makes a crucial error after telling her he loves her. He sneaks through her purse, looking through the photographs in her wallet. Vicki wakes up. The party's over, in spite of Frank's proposal of marriage.
Throw into the mix that Frank's formula for wooing involves a quick declaration of love. His preference is for divorced women. Single mother's are even more preferable for they are more vulnerable to being told they are loved. His ideal relationship consists of making eye contact over a drink, the suggestion dinner, and being entwined in bed within four hours, hopefully while on assignment in a location not to be visited again. Hero? Decent? Or heel?
Frank's relationships with other men are just as tangential, lacking any commitment. Shortly after his divorce from X, Frank was dragged into the Divorced Men's Club, a group of five men, who meet for dinner, drinks, taking in a sports game, an occasional fishing charter. As places become available through death or remarriage, some lucky guy becomes available to fill the empty slot. Frank approaches the club much as he does the athletes he interviews, with smiles, grins, and the occasional joke.
Things grow complicated when a new place opens in the club and it is filled by Walter Luckett. Walter's only luck is bad. His wife ran off to Bimini with her ski instructor. He's a true sad sack. Because of Frank's seeming bonhomie, Walter mistakes him for a friend and confidant.
Following a fishing charter Walter confides in Frank that he met a nice fellow and ended up in a motel room with him. Walter feels that Frank, while he might have an opinion, will listen to him, and not express how he might feel about what happened. Frank in fact does listen. But tells Walter he does have an opinion which he would prefer not to express.
Frank epitomizes contemporary America where neighborhoods are merely groups of homes. These are the streets where people live but are not neighbors, nor know the names of those around whom they live. Frank represents the modern human being who lives committed to a dream belonging only to him without commitment to others. And so it goes.
"The Sportswriter" is the first of three Frank Bascombe novels. Independence Day won both the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the Pen/Faulkner Award for 1996. Ford concluded the Bascombe Trilogy with The Lay of the Land in 2006. It was a National Book Critics Circle Award Nominee in 2006.
January 31, 2013
I like sports, I like writing, so I figured I'd like The Sportswriter, written by acclaimed author and Pulitzer winner Richard Ford. After about 25 pages I realized that I disliked this book, and I hate-read the rest of the thing because I have a weird inability to give up on a book.
Ford comes from the Richard Russo school of writing, in that he seems to think that inundating the reader with detail will somehow make the book more real, or authentic (I call it that because Russo's Empire Falls was the first book I read that I felt that way about). Case in point: all 375 pages of the novel take place over the course of one weekend. I knew I was in trouble when the opening scene, taking place over the course of maybe twenty minutes, lasted 25 pages. We get backstories and multiple-paragraph descriptions about people and places that never crop up again! Which makes me wonder why the hell I'm reading about them. I suspect Ford was going for some sort of point about the intimacy of suburbia or something, but I was just bored out of my mind. It makes me appreciate all the more writers that only include the essential and trim the fat that serves only to show off the vocabulary of the author.
The second reason I disliked this book was that the main character, Frank Bascombe, suffers from the Thomas Mcguane/Julian Barnes Lack of Sack issue (more specifically, this issue should be attributed to the narrators of Driving on the Rim and Sense of an Ending, respectively). Bascombe, like those characters, is a complete and utter pushover. He wrote a successful short story collection, then moved to the suburbs and became a sportswriter. Fine, that isn't the issue. The issue is the endless descriptions of how dreamy and content Bascombe is with the suburbs. God he loves Jersey, and Michigan, and safety, and wants to kiss and marry everyone, and be polite, and go to church sometimes, and he wants you to know how okay he is with everything. It seemed like no matter what happened, he'd think, golly gee I just need a little pick me up and everything will be a-okay. Part of the reason he quit writing fiction was that he felt that fictional character's issues were unrealistic in their intensity and simplicity, and that real life is much more complex and occurs in shades of gray. And I think Ford was trying to prove that a character, or a fictional world, could also exist in those shades of gray, and still be compelling. Which I agree with in principle, but not when said character is so dreamy and vanilla all the time.
It's not a good sign when your narrator keeps describing all the women he's bedded and you think, "Who would sleep with this chump?" The final nail in the coffin occurred when, in the same day that he (spoiler alert) gets punched in the face by his girlfriend for repeatedly proposing at awkward times, and attempts to make love to his ex-wife on the bed of a friend who JUST COMMITTED SUICIDE, he then seduces a 19 year old intern at his magazine (bear in mind he is a 38 year old divorced father of three). I'm supposed to root for this guy!?
Ford comes from the Richard Russo school of writing, in that he seems to think that inundating the reader with detail will somehow make the book more real, or authentic (I call it that because Russo's Empire Falls was the first book I read that I felt that way about). Case in point: all 375 pages of the novel take place over the course of one weekend. I knew I was in trouble when the opening scene, taking place over the course of maybe twenty minutes, lasted 25 pages. We get backstories and multiple-paragraph descriptions about people and places that never crop up again! Which makes me wonder why the hell I'm reading about them. I suspect Ford was going for some sort of point about the intimacy of suburbia or something, but I was just bored out of my mind. It makes me appreciate all the more writers that only include the essential and trim the fat that serves only to show off the vocabulary of the author.
The second reason I disliked this book was that the main character, Frank Bascombe, suffers from the Thomas Mcguane/Julian Barnes Lack of Sack issue (more specifically, this issue should be attributed to the narrators of Driving on the Rim and Sense of an Ending, respectively). Bascombe, like those characters, is a complete and utter pushover. He wrote a successful short story collection, then moved to the suburbs and became a sportswriter. Fine, that isn't the issue. The issue is the endless descriptions of how dreamy and content Bascombe is with the suburbs. God he loves Jersey, and Michigan, and safety, and wants to kiss and marry everyone, and be polite, and go to church sometimes, and he wants you to know how okay he is with everything. It seemed like no matter what happened, he'd think, golly gee I just need a little pick me up and everything will be a-okay. Part of the reason he quit writing fiction was that he felt that fictional character's issues were unrealistic in their intensity and simplicity, and that real life is much more complex and occurs in shades of gray. And I think Ford was trying to prove that a character, or a fictional world, could also exist in those shades of gray, and still be compelling. Which I agree with in principle, but not when said character is so dreamy and vanilla all the time.
It's not a good sign when your narrator keeps describing all the women he's bedded and you think, "Who would sleep with this chump?" The final nail in the coffin occurred when, in the same day that he (spoiler alert) gets punched in the face by his girlfriend for repeatedly proposing at awkward times, and attempts to make love to his ex-wife on the bed of a friend who JUST COMMITTED SUICIDE, he then seduces a 19 year old intern at his magazine (bear in mind he is a 38 year old divorced father of three). I'm supposed to root for this guy!?
April 23, 2011
There was hardly any sports in this book at all. What a rip-off....
Frank Bascombe craves a 'normal' suburban existence the way a junkie craves heroin. Once an up-and-coming writer living with his wife in New York, Frank quit fiction writing and fled to the 'burbs in Jersey when offered a sports writing job for a weekly magazine. Frank's efforts to be a plain old suburbanite with zero introspection of his own life haven't exactly worked out, though. His young son died of a wasting disease and his wife left him with his other children when she found evidence that he cheated on her during one of his trips to cover a sporting event.
The book takes place over an Easter weekend that begins with Frank meeting his ex-wife (that he refers to only as X) at their son's grave on the anniversary of his death, and most of the book deals with Frank's inner monologue about the way things should be.
Frank claims to love the solid suburban lifestyle he still clings to even after his divorce and has nothing but thinly veiled contempt for academics and other artsy types, even though he used to be one. He prides himself on being a literalist who deals only with what's in front of him and doesn't waste time on 'dreaminess' like he used too.
Frank is so square that ninety degree angles are jealous of him. His idea of a romantic weekend with his new girlfriend, Vicki, is a few days in Detroit on one of his sports writing assingments, and when a male friend confesses a homosexual encounter, Frank thinks of it as 'monkeyshines'. Frank would probably live inside a Norman Rockwell painting if he could.
However, despite all of his claims of literalism and suburban tranquility, Frank is quietly having a meltdown. He prides himself with dealing with life as it is, but he's disappointed and ill equipped to cope when things go off the rails. For example, he had hoped to write an uplifting story on a former football player paralyzed in an accident about how the player had overcome adversity. When he finds that the man is actually devastated, Frank thinks only of how he can make the guy fit into the story he planned to write, not of how he could honestly tell how the man's life has fallen apart.
Very well-written, but I had a hard time dealing with Frank. Maybe it's because as a male suburbanite looking down the barrel of middle-age myself, I had little patience for Frank's self-deceptions and fairy tales of suburban life being the best place to live to keep one 'normal' and 'happy'. I like my 'burb, but it's just a quiet place to live. As I close in on 40, quiet has become very important to me. Now get off my lawn, you kids!
Frank Bascombe craves a 'normal' suburban existence the way a junkie craves heroin. Once an up-and-coming writer living with his wife in New York, Frank quit fiction writing and fled to the 'burbs in Jersey when offered a sports writing job for a weekly magazine. Frank's efforts to be a plain old suburbanite with zero introspection of his own life haven't exactly worked out, though. His young son died of a wasting disease and his wife left him with his other children when she found evidence that he cheated on her during one of his trips to cover a sporting event.
The book takes place over an Easter weekend that begins with Frank meeting his ex-wife (that he refers to only as X) at their son's grave on the anniversary of his death, and most of the book deals with Frank's inner monologue about the way things should be.
Frank claims to love the solid suburban lifestyle he still clings to even after his divorce and has nothing but thinly veiled contempt for academics and other artsy types, even though he used to be one. He prides himself on being a literalist who deals only with what's in front of him and doesn't waste time on 'dreaminess' like he used too.
Frank is so square that ninety degree angles are jealous of him. His idea of a romantic weekend with his new girlfriend, Vicki, is a few days in Detroit on one of his sports writing assingments, and when a male friend confesses a homosexual encounter, Frank thinks of it as 'monkeyshines'. Frank would probably live inside a Norman Rockwell painting if he could.
However, despite all of his claims of literalism and suburban tranquility, Frank is quietly having a meltdown. He prides himself with dealing with life as it is, but he's disappointed and ill equipped to cope when things go off the rails. For example, he had hoped to write an uplifting story on a former football player paralyzed in an accident about how the player had overcome adversity. When he finds that the man is actually devastated, Frank thinks only of how he can make the guy fit into the story he planned to write, not of how he could honestly tell how the man's life has fallen apart.
Very well-written, but I had a hard time dealing with Frank. Maybe it's because as a male suburbanite looking down the barrel of middle-age myself, I had little patience for Frank's self-deceptions and fairy tales of suburban life being the best place to live to keep one 'normal' and 'happy'. I like my 'burb, but it's just a quiet place to live. As I close in on 40, quiet has become very important to me. Now get off my lawn, you kids!
December 11, 2014
Beautiful writing. This was like reading an Edward Hopper painting. Loneliness, sadness and beauty.
October 9, 2025
Years ago I really enjoyed Richard Ford’s novel ‘Canada’. He showed me then that he wrote in such wonderful lyrical sentences about pretty strange circumstances in which people can unexpectedly find themselves. However, to my regret, ‘The Sportswriter’ turned out to be pretty dull. The sportwriter in question is navel-gazing beyond control and that got to be quite annoying along the way. A shame, I was expecting a good story like ‘Canada’ was.
October 22, 2025
¿Quién te prometió que a los treinta habrías entendido más o menos la vida? ¿Quién te vendió esa mentira elegante de que con la edad vendría la claridad?
Frank Bascombe no se la creyó. O se la creyó… y luego hizo como si no importara. Y ahí lo tienes: caminando por Nueva Jersey, preguntándose más que respondiendo, y narrando como si cada pensamiento le estallara de repente en la cara. El periodista deportivo no va de deportes. Apenas va de periodismo. Va de esa edad en la que uno empieza a sospechar que la vida no va a llegar nunca a aclararse. Que esto es lo que hay. Que no hay una versión más nítida esperando detrás de ningún giro de guion.
Porque Frank Bascombe no es un personaje: es una derrota con gabardina. Richard Ford construye a alguien que flota, que observa, que recuerda sin nostalgia pero con un cansancio seco, elegante; como si la melancolía ya le resultara una emoción demasiado ruidosa. Exescritor de cuentos, cronista deportivo por necesidad, divorciado, padre a medias, con un hijo muerto cuyo nombre ya no se menciona pero nunca se va, y una exmujer que Frank solo llama ‘X’. No hay más nombre para ella, porque en la mente de Frank, y en la novela, ‘X’ no es solo una persona: es una ausencia que duele y a la vez se evita nombrar. Ese gesto de reducirla a una letra es un pequeño golpe de Ford, un modo sutil de mostrar la distancia emocional que Frank mantiene para no hundirse del todo. Frank lleva esa pena como quien se pone un abrigo viejo —ya no abriga, pero no se tira. Todo ocurre durante un fin de semana de Pascua, sí, pero Ford convierte cada conversación anodina, cada desplazamiento por carretera, cada pensamiento mínimo, en una forma de cartografiar ese momento sutil en el que la esperanza empieza a doler más que el fracaso.
Y como no hay forma de avanzar sin esa incomodidad, Ford decide que la narración también se estanque. La novela está narrada en presente, y no es un capricho. Es una trampa. Una manera de mantener a Frank atrapado en un bucle del que no puede salir, congelado entre lo que fue y lo que no llega. Frank es como un espejo retrovisor: te muestra el pasado mientras tú finges mirar hacia adelante. Como si el futuro fuera un campo vacío y el pasado, un terreno minado. La prosa de Ford es contenida, sobria, casi tímida. Pero ahí está su fuerza: escribe como quien trata de escuchar una conversación desde otra habitación. No siempre se entiende todo, pero lo esencial se filtra. La voz de Frank —que también es la de Ford— no ilumina, acompaña. No narra para aclarar, sino para registrar la confusión. No hay dramatismo, pero sí una cadencia melancólica que se te queda en los huesos. Es de esos libros en los que “no pasa nada”, pero en los que, si estás un poco atento, descubres que lo que pasa es justo lo que ocurre cuando nadie está escribiendo el guion: la inercia, las ganas de estar bien, los errores pequeños, los autoengaños necesarios.
Esa manera de mirar el presente con las manos en los bolsillos tiene antecedentes. Frank Bascombe es, en cierto modo, un primo literario de ”Rabbit” (Conejo) Angstrom . Pero donde Conejo pelea, Frank se resigna. Donde Updike aún busca respuestas, Ford ya se sienta a mirar el silencio. Es 1986 y la literatura norteamericana anda obsesionada con el hombre blanco de clase media enfrentado a su propia insignificancia. Aquí Ford clava el bisturí sin teatralidades. Y no retrata un gran desencanto épico, sino el otro: el que se cuela en una cena incómoda, en una cita que no arranca, en una visita a un amigo enfermo. La vida como suma de cosas que no importan… hasta que sí.
Y lo que Ford hace con esa vida es observarla sin subir el volumen. La estructura es lineal, pero Frank digresa, se distrae, recuerda. Piensa en su exmujer, en sus hijos, en el fútbol americano, en cualquier cosa, como para no enfrentarse al hueco que le crece por dentro. Esa es una de las virtudes de Ford: convertir lo anodino en materia literaria. No con alardes ni trucos, sino con una fidelidad feroz a la mente humana cuando nadie la vigila. Hay algo de Cheever en el aire —esa América suburbana húmeda, callada, llena de charcos emocionales—, pero también del Roth antes del exabrupto, cuando todavía se permitía el silencio. Ford escribe con la calma de quien sabe que el dolor no siempre grita. A veces se sienta a tu lado y se queda ahí, respirando flojito.
Quizá por eso Frank dejó de escribir ficción: porque para contar ciertas cosas, a veces hay que dejar de nombrarlas. La novela roza también el tema del fracaso literario. Frank ya no escribe cuentos. El periodismo deportivo lo protege del desgarro emocional de la ficción. Pero esa voz interior no ha muerto: solo se ha disfrazado. Por momentos, uno siente que Frank escribe para no tener que sentir. Y ahí, sin querer, se parece demasiado a muchos de nosotros.
Y como a muchos de nosotros, también le duele lo que no dice. La novela habla del duelo sin nombrar la muerte. Habla del fracaso sin necesidad de épica. Y sobre todo, habla de ese momento brutal en el que te das cuenta de que ya no eres joven, pero que eso tampoco te ha hecho más sabio. Que no estás donde querías estar, pero tampoco sabes adónde ir. Que la vida no es una historia con clímax, sino una corriente lenta en la que uno flota y ya.
Y mientras Frank flota, los demás están ahí: no tanto como compañía, sino como recordatorio. El elenco de personajes secundarios no busca protagonismo: Vicki, Walter, X —su exmujer—, el padre de Vicki… Todos parecen vivir en la misma frecuencia baja. No importan tanto por lo que son, sino por cómo Frank los percibe. Son ecos, reflejos, fragmentos. Y eso no es una debilidad narrativa, es el punto. Porque la novela no se interesa en construir un mundo completo, sino en registrar cómo alguien lo mira cuando todo le queda un poco lejos.
Leer a Ford aquí es como ver una película en cámara lenta donde cada gesto importa: un silencio, una mirada, la pausa antes de responder. Parece que no pasa nada. Pero claro que pasa: se está desmoronando una vida. Solo que sin fuegos artificiales. Y eso es lo jodido: que lo entiendes. Que lo has vivido. Que ese derrumbe lento, sin espectáculo, tal vez se parece demasiado al tuyo. Y no hay consuelo, solo un asiento en primera fila para la función.
Uno podría pensar que pasar cuatrocientas páginas con un personaje que apenas se mueve es un castigo. Pero no. Porque Ford convierte esa pasividad en una forma de lucidez amarga. Y porque, en el fondo, todos hemos sido Frank alguna vez. Todos hemos pasado por esa fase en la que no sabes si quieres cambiar de vida o aprender a vivir con la que tienes. Ese terreno gris, ambiguo, incómodo, sin épica, es el que Ford retrata con una maestría silenciosa y demoledora.
El periodista deportivo es el primer volumen de lo que sería la saga de Frank Bascombe (Día de la Independencia, Acción de gracias, Francamente, Frank y la más reciente Sé mía), y aunque todos tienen sus méritos, este primer libro ofrece algo especial que los otros no tienen: la sensación de estar entrando en una mente que todavía no ha decidido del todo quién quiere ser. Se lee como quien escucha a un amigo que no busca consejo ni redención, solo compañía.
Y eso es lo que logra Ford: que acompañemos a Frank durante unas horas, con la conciencia de que no va a enseñarnos nada definitivo, pero que quizá —y solo quizá— nos ayude a entender un poco más qué significa estar vivos cuando ya no sabemos qué es exactamente lo que queremos. Cuando solo nos queda la certeza de que, a veces, vivir es eso: seguir flotando con la ropa empapada, esperando a que deje de llover sin demasiadas esperanzas de que ocurra. ¿Te parece poco? Vale, puede que no sea algo deslumbrante, pero para mí es un novelón que sabe atrapar con la verdad desnuda. Ford consigue algo muy difícil: atraparte en la quietud y en lo cotidiano, y sin embargo hacer que sientas el peso inmenso de la vida que se deshace. Y eso, amigo, es grandeza literaria… pura y dura.
Frank Bascombe no se la creyó. O se la creyó… y luego hizo como si no importara. Y ahí lo tienes: caminando por Nueva Jersey, preguntándose más que respondiendo, y narrando como si cada pensamiento le estallara de repente en la cara. El periodista deportivo no va de deportes. Apenas va de periodismo. Va de esa edad en la que uno empieza a sospechar que la vida no va a llegar nunca a aclararse. Que esto es lo que hay. Que no hay una versión más nítida esperando detrás de ningún giro de guion.
Porque Frank Bascombe no es un personaje: es una derrota con gabardina. Richard Ford construye a alguien que flota, que observa, que recuerda sin nostalgia pero con un cansancio seco, elegante; como si la melancolía ya le resultara una emoción demasiado ruidosa. Exescritor de cuentos, cronista deportivo por necesidad, divorciado, padre a medias, con un hijo muerto cuyo nombre ya no se menciona pero nunca se va, y una exmujer que Frank solo llama ‘X’. No hay más nombre para ella, porque en la mente de Frank, y en la novela, ‘X’ no es solo una persona: es una ausencia que duele y a la vez se evita nombrar. Ese gesto de reducirla a una letra es un pequeño golpe de Ford, un modo sutil de mostrar la distancia emocional que Frank mantiene para no hundirse del todo. Frank lleva esa pena como quien se pone un abrigo viejo —ya no abriga, pero no se tira. Todo ocurre durante un fin de semana de Pascua, sí, pero Ford convierte cada conversación anodina, cada desplazamiento por carretera, cada pensamiento mínimo, en una forma de cartografiar ese momento sutil en el que la esperanza empieza a doler más que el fracaso.
Y como no hay forma de avanzar sin esa incomodidad, Ford decide que la narración también se estanque. La novela está narrada en presente, y no es un capricho. Es una trampa. Una manera de mantener a Frank atrapado en un bucle del que no puede salir, congelado entre lo que fue y lo que no llega. Frank es como un espejo retrovisor: te muestra el pasado mientras tú finges mirar hacia adelante. Como si el futuro fuera un campo vacío y el pasado, un terreno minado. La prosa de Ford es contenida, sobria, casi tímida. Pero ahí está su fuerza: escribe como quien trata de escuchar una conversación desde otra habitación. No siempre se entiende todo, pero lo esencial se filtra. La voz de Frank —que también es la de Ford— no ilumina, acompaña. No narra para aclarar, sino para registrar la confusión. No hay dramatismo, pero sí una cadencia melancólica que se te queda en los huesos. Es de esos libros en los que “no pasa nada”, pero en los que, si estás un poco atento, descubres que lo que pasa es justo lo que ocurre cuando nadie está escribiendo el guion: la inercia, las ganas de estar bien, los errores pequeños, los autoengaños necesarios.
Esa manera de mirar el presente con las manos en los bolsillos tiene antecedentes. Frank Bascombe es, en cierto modo, un primo literario de ”Rabbit” (Conejo) Angstrom . Pero donde Conejo pelea, Frank se resigna. Donde Updike aún busca respuestas, Ford ya se sienta a mirar el silencio. Es 1986 y la literatura norteamericana anda obsesionada con el hombre blanco de clase media enfrentado a su propia insignificancia. Aquí Ford clava el bisturí sin teatralidades. Y no retrata un gran desencanto épico, sino el otro: el que se cuela en una cena incómoda, en una cita que no arranca, en una visita a un amigo enfermo. La vida como suma de cosas que no importan… hasta que sí.
Y lo que Ford hace con esa vida es observarla sin subir el volumen. La estructura es lineal, pero Frank digresa, se distrae, recuerda. Piensa en su exmujer, en sus hijos, en el fútbol americano, en cualquier cosa, como para no enfrentarse al hueco que le crece por dentro. Esa es una de las virtudes de Ford: convertir lo anodino en materia literaria. No con alardes ni trucos, sino con una fidelidad feroz a la mente humana cuando nadie la vigila. Hay algo de Cheever en el aire —esa América suburbana húmeda, callada, llena de charcos emocionales—, pero también del Roth antes del exabrupto, cuando todavía se permitía el silencio. Ford escribe con la calma de quien sabe que el dolor no siempre grita. A veces se sienta a tu lado y se queda ahí, respirando flojito.
Quizá por eso Frank dejó de escribir ficción: porque para contar ciertas cosas, a veces hay que dejar de nombrarlas. La novela roza también el tema del fracaso literario. Frank ya no escribe cuentos. El periodismo deportivo lo protege del desgarro emocional de la ficción. Pero esa voz interior no ha muerto: solo se ha disfrazado. Por momentos, uno siente que Frank escribe para no tener que sentir. Y ahí, sin querer, se parece demasiado a muchos de nosotros.
Y como a muchos de nosotros, también le duele lo que no dice. La novela habla del duelo sin nombrar la muerte. Habla del fracaso sin necesidad de épica. Y sobre todo, habla de ese momento brutal en el que te das cuenta de que ya no eres joven, pero que eso tampoco te ha hecho más sabio. Que no estás donde querías estar, pero tampoco sabes adónde ir. Que la vida no es una historia con clímax, sino una corriente lenta en la que uno flota y ya.
Y mientras Frank flota, los demás están ahí: no tanto como compañía, sino como recordatorio. El elenco de personajes secundarios no busca protagonismo: Vicki, Walter, X —su exmujer—, el padre de Vicki… Todos parecen vivir en la misma frecuencia baja. No importan tanto por lo que son, sino por cómo Frank los percibe. Son ecos, reflejos, fragmentos. Y eso no es una debilidad narrativa, es el punto. Porque la novela no se interesa en construir un mundo completo, sino en registrar cómo alguien lo mira cuando todo le queda un poco lejos.
Leer a Ford aquí es como ver una película en cámara lenta donde cada gesto importa: un silencio, una mirada, la pausa antes de responder. Parece que no pasa nada. Pero claro que pasa: se está desmoronando una vida. Solo que sin fuegos artificiales. Y eso es lo jodido: que lo entiendes. Que lo has vivido. Que ese derrumbe lento, sin espectáculo, tal vez se parece demasiado al tuyo. Y no hay consuelo, solo un asiento en primera fila para la función.
Uno podría pensar que pasar cuatrocientas páginas con un personaje que apenas se mueve es un castigo. Pero no. Porque Ford convierte esa pasividad en una forma de lucidez amarga. Y porque, en el fondo, todos hemos sido Frank alguna vez. Todos hemos pasado por esa fase en la que no sabes si quieres cambiar de vida o aprender a vivir con la que tienes. Ese terreno gris, ambiguo, incómodo, sin épica, es el que Ford retrata con una maestría silenciosa y demoledora.
El periodista deportivo es el primer volumen de lo que sería la saga de Frank Bascombe (Día de la Independencia, Acción de gracias, Francamente, Frank y la más reciente Sé mía), y aunque todos tienen sus méritos, este primer libro ofrece algo especial que los otros no tienen: la sensación de estar entrando en una mente que todavía no ha decidido del todo quién quiere ser. Se lee como quien escucha a un amigo que no busca consejo ni redención, solo compañía.
Y eso es lo que logra Ford: que acompañemos a Frank durante unas horas, con la conciencia de que no va a enseñarnos nada definitivo, pero que quizá —y solo quizá— nos ayude a entender un poco más qué significa estar vivos cuando ya no sabemos qué es exactamente lo que queremos. Cuando solo nos queda la certeza de que, a veces, vivir es eso: seguir flotando con la ropa empapada, esperando a que deje de llover sin demasiadas esperanzas de que ocurra. ¿Te parece poco? Vale, puede que no sea algo deslumbrante, pero para mí es un novelón que sabe atrapar con la verdad desnuda. Ford consigue algo muy difícil: atraparte en la quietud y en lo cotidiano, y sin embargo hacer que sientas el peso inmenso de la vida que se deshace. Y eso, amigo, es grandeza literaria… pura y dura.
December 6, 2019
Richard Ford's The Sportswriter is the first of his series about the character Frank Boscombe, the second of which, Independence Day won the Pulitzer in 1996. The Sportswriter was written in 1985 and introduces us to a self-proclaimed Babbitt (from the classic Sinclair Lewis novel of 1922) from which it borrows a bit of the style, but is entirely written from the perspective of and in the voice of the protagonist, a 39 year old divorcee with two kids who are alive and one, still very present, dead son. It is set in suburban New Jersey, as Frank finds that Gotham is just too big for him and prefers mediocrity to standing out. He is in an informal club, The Divorced Men's Club, which meets regularly for beers and conversations on anything other than their failed marriages. "In a way, I suppose, you could say all of it were and are lost, and know it, and we simply try to settle into our lostness as comfortably and with as much good manners and little curiosity as we can. " (p. 86) When this taboo about "little curiosity" is broken during the book, things go very wrong as things do later in the book. Yet, there is already a sense of disequiblibrium in all the combined dreaminess of the group: "Dreamy people actually have little to offer one another, tend in fact to neutralize each other's dreaminess in bleary nugatude." (-. 88). This is actually a rather fitting description of gatherings of men that I have been a part of on occasion myself.
The America Ford describes is still in the grips of Reaganomics with the fragile advances of the 60s and 70s starting to unroll a bit. Frank speaks, in a tone I recognize from having been a teenager at that time, in the voice of what could have been my father, about the changes in his own life over a period of roughly 72 hours from the anniversary of his son's death to Easter Sunday during which most of the action in the novel takes place. We learn about his dreaminess which is partially to blame for his destroyed marriage. "Dreaminess is, among other things, a state of suspended recognition, and a response to too much useless and complicated factuality. Its symptoms can be a long-term interest in the weather, or a sustained soaring feeling, or a bout of the stares that you sometimes caan not even know about except in retrospect when things are fogged." (p. 48) It is this malaise that we live in during the book where he is incapable to talking about - or, indeed, even being in touch with - his feelings and this distance between what he wants to do and what he actually does which is typically a half-effort.
Frank was a promising writer, but decided to become a sportswriter instead allowing him the freedom to travel. "One thing certain is that I had somehow lost my sense of anticipation at age 25. Anticipation is the sweet pain to know whatever's next - a must for any writer. And I had no more interest in what happened next - the next sentence, the next day - than I cared what a rock weighed on Mars." (p. 49) During this period, his oldest son Ralph contracts Reyes disease, for which we still in 2019 do not know the cause, and dies at only 14 - a devastating loss for the family which Frank deals with by delving deeper into his "dreaminess".
At the beginning of the novel, we are at the cemetery close to Frank's house in which his dead son is buried and we meet his ex-wife named X throughout the book. We realize that Frank actually still harbors feelings for her, but his dreaminess prevents him from expressing it in a way that will reach over the gulf between the two of them. Frank then goes with girlfriend and nurse Vicki to Detroit. Before leaving, however, he has a meeting of the Divorced Men's Club after which one member, Walter, who's wife took off to Bimini with her lover, confesses having had a homosexual encounter a few days before and feels a bit guilty about it. Given that this is 1985 and homosexuality is still socially unaccepted, it is understandable that Walter would be stressed out. Frank, of course, is only capable of murmuring some placitudes as he wants to get going and is uncomfortable with the confession.
"What's friendship's realest measure?
I'll tell you. The amount of precious time you'll squander on someone else's calamites and fuckups." (p. 103).
After this encounter, Frank stakes out his ex-wife's house wondering if he should go in and see his kids or not. His son Paul comes out of the house and releases a pigeon named Vassar and then notices his father and comes over to talk to him.
"When's Ole Vassar reporting back?"
"He isn't. I told him he could live in Cape May."
"Why is that?"
"Because Ralph's dead. I think." (p. 116)
I really enjoyed this image and this small conversation about their grief and how they dance around it. It felt quite real.
Frank and Vicki touch down in Detroit. His description of arrival feels familiar to me:
"And what did I feel exactly at this debarking moment?
At least a hundred things at once, all competing to take the moment and make it their own, reduce dramatic life to a gritty, knowable kernel.
This is, of course, a minor but pernicious lie of literature, that at times like these, after significant or disappointing divulgences, at arrivals or departures of obvious important, when touchdowns are scored, knock-outs recorded, loved one buried, orgasms notches, that at such times we are any of us altogether in an emotion that we are within ourselves and not able to detect other emotions we might also be feeling, or be about to feel, or prefer to feel. (p. 125).
Again, I can definitely relate to this inability to sort through and prioritize my own emotions and take into account their complexity and interactions with the emotions of those around me. I suppose that perhaps both Frank and I lack what is called these days, emotional intelligence, as it was clearly not something I learned at home from a healthy father figure.
In Detroit, Frank is supposed to interview a former NFL player who is paralyzed below the waist due to an accident. This interview goes poorly. As for Vicki and Frank, there is a discomfort between them that starts to grow. Frank insists on saying "I love you", but other than a few tumbles in the sack, "boinking" in Frank's terminology, the distance between them increases. He muses about whether he can say "I love you" to Vicky and tries to touch on his emotional core:
"When you are fully in your emotions, when they are simple and appealing enough to be in, aand the distance is closed between what you feel and what you might also feel, then your instincts can be trusted. It is the difference between a man who quits his job to become a fishing guide on Lake Big Trout, and one who one day as he paddles his canoe into the dock at dusk stops paddling to admire the sunset and realizes how much he wants to be a guide on Lake Big Trout, and another man who has made the same decision stopped paddling at the same time, felt how glad he was, but also thought he could probably also be a guide on Windigo Lake if he decided to, and might also get a better deal on canoes." (p 127). Frank is clearly in the third category there.
There is a falling out between them and he ponders the phrase "What's the matter?":
"...I wonder, in fact, how many times I have said that or something equal to it to a woman passing palely through my life. What're you thinking? What's made you so quiet? You seem suddenly different. What's the matter" Love me is what this means, of course, Or, at least, second best: surrender. Or at the very least, take some time regaling me in why you won't, and maybe by the end you will. (p. 177). Frank clearly cannot truly say "I love you" and feel it sincerely and this precipates the end of this relationship.
They take an earlier flight home to New Jersey, but after Frank drops her off - no kiss - Walter from the Divorced Men's Club is in his living room, having mistaken Frank's African boarder for a butler and had himself let in. He is in a state: "In all likelihood, it is the same suit of casual clothes Walter has worn since his Grinnell days. Only behind his tortoise-shells, his eyes look vanquished, and his slick, bond-salesman's hair could stand a washing. Walter looks, in other words, like private death, though I have a feeling he is here to share some of it with me. (p. 187)
I won't spoil the rest of the story for you. Things accelerate towards the end and there is a curious denouement and epilogue as well.
I enjoyed this book. It is certainly a product of its times, with a vague anti-Semitism and an only half-formed racial conscience as well as an 80s variety of misogyny, but it is a sincere book where the author is probably working through his own emotional quagmire as he describes Frank. I am impatient to read Independence Day to see what happens to Frank Bascomb next. I will also probably delve into a comparison of Frank Boscomb with other middle-American male protagonists such as Philp Roth's Nathan Zuckerman, John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom and Richard Russo's Donald "Sully" Sullivan because each of them comes from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey-New York area and they all are both similar and different and the subject of books that span a few decades of their lives.
The America Ford describes is still in the grips of Reaganomics with the fragile advances of the 60s and 70s starting to unroll a bit. Frank speaks, in a tone I recognize from having been a teenager at that time, in the voice of what could have been my father, about the changes in his own life over a period of roughly 72 hours from the anniversary of his son's death to Easter Sunday during which most of the action in the novel takes place. We learn about his dreaminess which is partially to blame for his destroyed marriage. "Dreaminess is, among other things, a state of suspended recognition, and a response to too much useless and complicated factuality. Its symptoms can be a long-term interest in the weather, or a sustained soaring feeling, or a bout of the stares that you sometimes caan not even know about except in retrospect when things are fogged." (p. 48) It is this malaise that we live in during the book where he is incapable to talking about - or, indeed, even being in touch with - his feelings and this distance between what he wants to do and what he actually does which is typically a half-effort.
Frank was a promising writer, but decided to become a sportswriter instead allowing him the freedom to travel. "One thing certain is that I had somehow lost my sense of anticipation at age 25. Anticipation is the sweet pain to know whatever's next - a must for any writer. And I had no more interest in what happened next - the next sentence, the next day - than I cared what a rock weighed on Mars." (p. 49) During this period, his oldest son Ralph contracts Reyes disease, for which we still in 2019 do not know the cause, and dies at only 14 - a devastating loss for the family which Frank deals with by delving deeper into his "dreaminess".
At the beginning of the novel, we are at the cemetery close to Frank's house in which his dead son is buried and we meet his ex-wife named X throughout the book. We realize that Frank actually still harbors feelings for her, but his dreaminess prevents him from expressing it in a way that will reach over the gulf between the two of them. Frank then goes with girlfriend and nurse Vicki to Detroit. Before leaving, however, he has a meeting of the Divorced Men's Club after which one member, Walter, who's wife took off to Bimini with her lover, confesses having had a homosexual encounter a few days before and feels a bit guilty about it. Given that this is 1985 and homosexuality is still socially unaccepted, it is understandable that Walter would be stressed out. Frank, of course, is only capable of murmuring some placitudes as he wants to get going and is uncomfortable with the confession.
"What's friendship's realest measure?
I'll tell you. The amount of precious time you'll squander on someone else's calamites and fuckups." (p. 103).
After this encounter, Frank stakes out his ex-wife's house wondering if he should go in and see his kids or not. His son Paul comes out of the house and releases a pigeon named Vassar and then notices his father and comes over to talk to him.
"When's Ole Vassar reporting back?"
"He isn't. I told him he could live in Cape May."
"Why is that?"
"Because Ralph's dead. I think." (p. 116)
I really enjoyed this image and this small conversation about their grief and how they dance around it. It felt quite real.
Frank and Vicki touch down in Detroit. His description of arrival feels familiar to me:
"And what did I feel exactly at this debarking moment?
At least a hundred things at once, all competing to take the moment and make it their own, reduce dramatic life to a gritty, knowable kernel.
This is, of course, a minor but pernicious lie of literature, that at times like these, after significant or disappointing divulgences, at arrivals or departures of obvious important, when touchdowns are scored, knock-outs recorded, loved one buried, orgasms notches, that at such times we are any of us altogether in an emotion that we are within ourselves and not able to detect other emotions we might also be feeling, or be about to feel, or prefer to feel. (p. 125).
Again, I can definitely relate to this inability to sort through and prioritize my own emotions and take into account their complexity and interactions with the emotions of those around me. I suppose that perhaps both Frank and I lack what is called these days, emotional intelligence, as it was clearly not something I learned at home from a healthy father figure.
In Detroit, Frank is supposed to interview a former NFL player who is paralyzed below the waist due to an accident. This interview goes poorly. As for Vicki and Frank, there is a discomfort between them that starts to grow. Frank insists on saying "I love you", but other than a few tumbles in the sack, "boinking" in Frank's terminology, the distance between them increases. He muses about whether he can say "I love you" to Vicky and tries to touch on his emotional core:
"When you are fully in your emotions, when they are simple and appealing enough to be in, aand the distance is closed between what you feel and what you might also feel, then your instincts can be trusted. It is the difference between a man who quits his job to become a fishing guide on Lake Big Trout, and one who one day as he paddles his canoe into the dock at dusk stops paddling to admire the sunset and realizes how much he wants to be a guide on Lake Big Trout, and another man who has made the same decision stopped paddling at the same time, felt how glad he was, but also thought he could probably also be a guide on Windigo Lake if he decided to, and might also get a better deal on canoes." (p 127). Frank is clearly in the third category there.
There is a falling out between them and he ponders the phrase "What's the matter?":
"...I wonder, in fact, how many times I have said that or something equal to it to a woman passing palely through my life. What're you thinking? What's made you so quiet? You seem suddenly different. What's the matter" Love me is what this means, of course, Or, at least, second best: surrender. Or at the very least, take some time regaling me in why you won't, and maybe by the end you will. (p. 177). Frank clearly cannot truly say "I love you" and feel it sincerely and this precipates the end of this relationship.
They take an earlier flight home to New Jersey, but after Frank drops her off - no kiss - Walter from the Divorced Men's Club is in his living room, having mistaken Frank's African boarder for a butler and had himself let in. He is in a state: "In all likelihood, it is the same suit of casual clothes Walter has worn since his Grinnell days. Only behind his tortoise-shells, his eyes look vanquished, and his slick, bond-salesman's hair could stand a washing. Walter looks, in other words, like private death, though I have a feeling he is here to share some of it with me. (p. 187)
I won't spoil the rest of the story for you. Things accelerate towards the end and there is a curious denouement and epilogue as well.
I enjoyed this book. It is certainly a product of its times, with a vague anti-Semitism and an only half-formed racial conscience as well as an 80s variety of misogyny, but it is a sincere book where the author is probably working through his own emotional quagmire as he describes Frank. I am impatient to read Independence Day to see what happens to Frank Bascomb next. I will also probably delve into a comparison of Frank Boscomb with other middle-American male protagonists such as Philp Roth's Nathan Zuckerman, John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom and Richard Russo's Donald "Sully" Sullivan because each of them comes from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey-New York area and they all are both similar and different and the subject of books that span a few decades of their lives.
January 5, 2013
It took me almost a month to finish Richard Ford's "The Sportswriter." I couldn't stand reading more than 5-10 pages at a time. Why? Well, I'd say that reading "The Sportswriter" is like being at a cocktail party, stuck listening to a bore whom you ordinarily avoid. But that analogy is generic enough for Ford to appreciate it, so I'll attempt the intensity he appears to loathe: reading "The Sportswriter" is like being stuck in a urologist's waiting room with a logorrheic -- boredom and irritation while anticipating nothing but pain.
It's not surprising that one of this novel's biggest fans is Walker Percy, since in "The Moviegoer" (suspiciously similar title) Percy created the same kind of protagonist who inhabits (but does not live in) the pages of "The Sportswriter" - the impulsive dullard. Frank Bascombe, the eponymous Sportswriter, spends 350 pages doing stupid things like stalking his ex-wife, proposing to a girlfriend whom he doesn't like very much, and jumping random trains to New York, with no forethought or afterthought. This would be tolerable if the stream of consciousness that constitutes the narrative portrayed Bascombe as recognizably disturbed or even human, but it doesn't -- the man seems to think in platitudes and offers some trite lesson on every other page (" . . . is the best that any of us can hope for"). Similarly unhelpful is Ford's predictable prose style. The length and rhythm of his sentences almost never vary, they're mostly two-clause, semi-complex sentences that cluster into mid-length paragraphs of no particular point or direction. Is Ford trying to portray anomie, or is he just a lousy writer? There's reason to believe that he's making a conscious attempt to portray a man who is detached from his own emotions, since Bascombe divorced his wife after the death of their oldest son. There's also reason to believe that Ford is just a very limited writer, since on the night Bascombe's wife discovers his infidelities, she sets fire to her . . . oh, Jesus . . . hope chest. It would be sledgehammer symbolism if Ford could summon enough energy to wield a sledgehammer. There is also Bascombe's curiously dated, borderline racist language. I don't remember much unironic use of the word "negro" in the 1980s, but it's how Bascombe describes every black character. Is Ford depicting an anachronistic way of thinking, or is he just a tin-eared jerk? I'm too willing to believe the latter, since his characters don't speak like normal human beings, they speak like overly self-aware literary cliches ("you're an awful man, Frank! You weren't awful when we were married, but you've gotten much worse").
"The Sportswriter" proves, through negative example, the maxim that novelists should avoid the word "all," since Ford uses it in, well, all the worst ways, including lazy descriptions ("like all hometown suburbs") and obnoxious generalizations ("all writers want this"). Regarding the latter, Bascombe, and by extension Ford, jumps to conclusions about every single person he sees, reducing them to two-dimensional sketches ("she's named either Jan or Kate and reads Roosevelt biographies") with no interiority whatsoever. These presumptions are studded with assumptions about social status and geographic origin that are supposed to be economical storytelling but are just lazy crutches. Plus, I'm predisposed to hate books in which the protagonist is an ex-fratboy who seems familiar every other male character's former Greek status. I mean, who the f--k cares? I sure as hell didn't. Damn, I hated this book.
It's not surprising that one of this novel's biggest fans is Walker Percy, since in "The Moviegoer" (suspiciously similar title) Percy created the same kind of protagonist who inhabits (but does not live in) the pages of "The Sportswriter" - the impulsive dullard. Frank Bascombe, the eponymous Sportswriter, spends 350 pages doing stupid things like stalking his ex-wife, proposing to a girlfriend whom he doesn't like very much, and jumping random trains to New York, with no forethought or afterthought. This would be tolerable if the stream of consciousness that constitutes the narrative portrayed Bascombe as recognizably disturbed or even human, but it doesn't -- the man seems to think in platitudes and offers some trite lesson on every other page (" . . . is the best that any of us can hope for"). Similarly unhelpful is Ford's predictable prose style. The length and rhythm of his sentences almost never vary, they're mostly two-clause, semi-complex sentences that cluster into mid-length paragraphs of no particular point or direction. Is Ford trying to portray anomie, or is he just a lousy writer? There's reason to believe that he's making a conscious attempt to portray a man who is detached from his own emotions, since Bascombe divorced his wife after the death of their oldest son. There's also reason to believe that Ford is just a very limited writer, since on the night Bascombe's wife discovers his infidelities, she sets fire to her . . . oh, Jesus . . . hope chest. It would be sledgehammer symbolism if Ford could summon enough energy to wield a sledgehammer. There is also Bascombe's curiously dated, borderline racist language. I don't remember much unironic use of the word "negro" in the 1980s, but it's how Bascombe describes every black character. Is Ford depicting an anachronistic way of thinking, or is he just a tin-eared jerk? I'm too willing to believe the latter, since his characters don't speak like normal human beings, they speak like overly self-aware literary cliches ("you're an awful man, Frank! You weren't awful when we were married, but you've gotten much worse").
"The Sportswriter" proves, through negative example, the maxim that novelists should avoid the word "all," since Ford uses it in, well, all the worst ways, including lazy descriptions ("like all hometown suburbs") and obnoxious generalizations ("all writers want this"). Regarding the latter, Bascombe, and by extension Ford, jumps to conclusions about every single person he sees, reducing them to two-dimensional sketches ("she's named either Jan or Kate and reads Roosevelt biographies") with no interiority whatsoever. These presumptions are studded with assumptions about social status and geographic origin that are supposed to be economical storytelling but are just lazy crutches. Plus, I'm predisposed to hate books in which the protagonist is an ex-fratboy who seems familiar every other male character's former Greek status. I mean, who the f--k cares? I sure as hell didn't. Damn, I hated this book.
January 17, 2018
Τρεις μέρες (και 450 σελίδες) από την ζωή ενός τύπου που περνάει κρίση μέσης ηλικίας.
Αυτός βέβαια μόλις έχει κλείσει τα 39 (εγώ είμαι 40) και αισθάνομαι μια χαρά.
(Όχι, δεν αισθάνομαι, αλλά θα τα πω όλα στο βιβλίο που θα βγάλω πριν τον θάνατο μου,αλλά δεν φταίει που είμαι 40).
Ποιο ακριβώς είναι το πρόβλημα σου φίλε ;
Ζεις σε ένα ωραίο προάστιο σε ένα ωραίο σπίτι (ρώτα και εμάς), έχεις μια δουλειά που αγαπάς (ρώτα και εμας) και κάνεις και ταξιδάκια (ρώτα και εμάς), έχεις ένα ωραίο γκομενάκι, και μια υπέροχη σχέση με την πρώην γυναίκα σου, δυο υπέροχα παιδιά, όλοι σε αγαπάνε, μέχρι και ο πρώην πεθερός σου που σε προτρέπει να ξαναπαντρευτείς την κόρη του.
Τρεις μέρες, από Μεγάλη Παρασκευή μέχρι την Κυριακή του Πάσχα (και γαμώ τους συμβολισμούς), το παρελθόν σου, το μέλλον σου (σοβαρός άνθρωπος να επισκέπτεσαι εβδομαδιαίως (!) μια χειρομάντισσα). ΟΚ, υπάρχει ένας αποτυχημένος γάμος, ένα νεκρό παιδί, ένας γνωστός σου που σου λέει ότι είναι gay, κάτι παλιές γκόμενες, μια Λιβανέζα, μια Εβραία, ποικιλία. Κάπου μια υποδόρια μελαγχολία, οι σκηνές με την πρώην σύζυγο σου έχουν ζωντάνια και μια ανάμνηση μιας χαμένης ζωής, που ήταν τα όνειρα σου που ήθελες να γίνεις συγγραφέας ;
Κάπου πήγε να με αγγίξει, κάπου όχι, αλλά θα ξαναρωτήσω : ποιο ακριβώς είναι το πρόβλημα σου φίλε ;
Το να τα παρατήσεις όλα και να πας να γυρνάς στις παραλίες, ΟΚ και εγώ θέλω να το κάνω. (Και ας μην είναι παραλίες. Και με βουνό συμβιβάζομαι)
ΥΓ : στην αρχή νόμιζα έφταιγε η μετάφραση της (προσφάτως εκλιπούσας) Καλλιφατίδη, αλλά όχι. Τι σκατά ; Μιλάμε για τα 80s, υπήρχαν πολλοί "νέγροι", Ιταλοί, Πολωνοί. Και ένας ομοφυλόφιλος.
Αυτός βέβαια μόλις έχει κλείσει τα 39 (εγώ είμαι 40) και αισθάνομαι μια χαρά.
(Όχι, δεν αισθάνομαι, αλλά θα τα πω όλα στο βιβλίο που θα βγάλω πριν τον θάνατο μου,αλλά δεν φταίει που είμαι 40).
Ποιο ακριβώς είναι το πρόβλημα σου φίλε ;
Ζεις σε ένα ωραίο προάστιο σε ένα ωραίο σπίτι (ρώτα και εμάς), έχεις μια δουλειά που αγαπάς (ρώτα και εμας) και κάνεις και ταξιδάκια (ρώτα και εμάς), έχεις ένα ωραίο γκομενάκι, και μια υπέροχη σχέση με την πρώην γυναίκα σου, δυο υπέροχα παιδιά, όλοι σε αγαπάνε, μέχρι και ο πρώην πεθερός σου που σε προτρέπει να ξαναπαντρευτείς την κόρη του.
Τρεις μέρες, από Μεγάλη Παρασκευή μέχρι την Κυριακή του Πάσχα (και γαμώ τους συμβολισμούς), το παρελθόν σου, το μέλλον σου (σοβαρός άνθρωπος να επισκέπτεσαι εβδομαδιαίως (!) μια χειρομάντισσα). ΟΚ, υπάρχει ένας αποτυχημένος γάμος, ένα νεκρό παιδί, ένας γνωστός σου που σου λέει ότι είναι gay, κάτι παλιές γκόμενες, μια Λιβανέζα, μια Εβραία, ποικιλία. Κάπου μια υποδόρια μελαγχολία, οι σκηνές με την πρώην σύζυγο σου έχουν ζωντάνια και μια ανάμνηση μιας χαμένης ζωής, που ήταν τα όνειρα σου που ήθελες να γίνεις συγγραφέας ;
Κάπου πήγε να με αγγίξει, κάπου όχι, αλλά θα ξαναρωτήσω : ποιο ακριβώς είναι το πρόβλημα σου φίλε ;
Το να τα παρατήσεις όλα και να πας να γυρνάς στις παραλίες, ΟΚ και εγώ θέλω να το κάνω. (Και ας μην είναι παραλίες. Και με βουνό συμβιβάζομαι)
ΥΓ : στην αρχή νόμιζα έφταιγε η μετάφραση της (προσφάτως εκλιπούσας) Καλλιφατίδη, αλλά όχι. Τι σκατά ; Μιλάμε για τα 80s, υπήρχαν πολλοί "νέγροι", Ιταλοί, Πολωνοί. Και ένας ομοφυλόφιλος.
June 19, 2017
Το έψαχνα για αρκετά χρόνια, το βρήκα πριν από καμιά 4ετία σε άριστη κατάσταση κ έκτοτε έκανε τη διαδρομή κομοδίνο-ράφι αμέτρητες φορές. Φαίνεται πως έπρεπε να το πάω στον Ford να το υπογράψει (κάτι που δεν συνηθίζω να πω την αλήθεια) για να το ξεκινήσω αμέσως μετά.
Ότι χρειάζεται να ξέρει κανείς υπάρχει στο οπισθόφυλλο (νομίζω ότι είναι μια απ'τις καλύτερες περιλήψεις που έχω συναντήσει ποτέ). Το μοναδικό που θα προσθέσω είναι η προφανής απορία: υπάρχει περίπτωση η Ημέρα Ανεξαρτησίας να είναι έστω κ λίγο καλύτερη από αυτό το φανταστικό βιβλίο;
Ότι χρειάζεται να ξέρει κανείς υπάρχει στο οπισθόφυλλο (νομίζω ότι είναι μια απ'τις καλύτερες περιλήψεις που έχω συναντήσει ποτέ). Το μοναδικό που θα προσθέσω είναι η προφανής απορία: υπάρχει περίπτωση η Ημέρα Ανεξαρτησίας να είναι έστω κ λίγο καλύτερη από αυτό το φανταστικό βιβλίο;
October 11, 2025
I liked the reflective moments that run through this novel, as through Bascombe Ford explores the nature of family, life's ups and down in an honest, if somewhat depressed manner. A slow burn, character driven narrative that had spells of brilliance here and there, but it may have worked better as a novella. Yes, no doubt, there are those that will start to yawn all to quickly, and not even like Bascombe, but I found it engaging and moving enough, but not quite on the same level as Canada.
February 19, 2020
Frank Bascombe, el protagonista de esta novela es un sobreviviente. La narración es el clásico relato del hombre exitoso pero con problemas familiares.
Nada nuevo bajo el sol. Eso sí, bien escrito pese a la mala traducción.
Cabe destacar una frase que resume ésta y muchas historias que hemos leído por aquí y por allá: “ En la vida no hay temas trascendentales. Las cosas suceden y luego se acaban, y eso es todo”. Una gran verdad.
Nada nuevo bajo el sol. Eso sí, bien escrito pese a la mala traducción.
Cabe destacar una frase que resume ésta y muchas historias que hemos leído por aquí y por allá: “ En la vida no hay temas trascendentales. Las cosas suceden y luego se acaban, y eso es todo”. Una gran verdad.
October 15, 2014
Hi, I’m Frank Bascombe entering middle age in a dreamy self-absorbed lethargic marking of the time between birth and death. My wife divorced me after she became disillusioned with me and I turned to other women to reaffirm my value. This change in our relationship and resulting divorce was precipitated by the death of our nine year old son, but I have always avoided any challenge and sought mediocrity. Many years ago I started out to be a novelist but it required a lot of thought so I settled for being a sportswriter. Writing about sports was easy for me as I can spin words on simple subjects with little effort. This talent also helps me with the ladies, which I hit on continually with fair success as an escape from my lack of genuine connection to anybody, thing or place. New Jersey is the perfect place for me in my perception of its ultimate blandness which corresponds to my personality. However with women I am not so choosy. I can come on to my classy talented ex-wife (although she never gives in) and some trashy Texas transplant and propose marriage to both on the same day without really caring about either. And when that doesn’t work, it doesn’t matter, I just move on to whoever shows up next. Some who have read my story say that I am everyman, but other readers with a little more concern for humankind certainly hope that is not the case.
April 10, 2022
Σχεδόν ένα μήνα μου πήρε για να τελειώσω αυτό το αβάσταχτα βαρετό ανοσοιούργημα: ένα τριήμερο ενός αδιάφορου αθλητικογράφου γίνεται ένα αδιάκοπος χείμαρος σκέψεων με κοινή ρίζα την κρίση μέσης ηλικίας. Κάθε διάλογος, κάθε γεγονός οδηγεί σε 5+ σελίδες μίζερου παραληρήματος, χωρίς ουσία και χωρίς ενδιαφέρον από κάποιο σημείο και μετά. Δεν έχουμε κάν τις "τρελές περιπέτειες του τσαχπίνη μπαρμπα-Φράνκ" μπας και διαβάσουμε κάτι καλό αντίθετα υπάρχει μια συνεχής μονοτονία και μια ατέρμονη υποτονικότητα που εντείνεται από την νυσταλέα γραφή. Μοναδική αναλαμπή το φλέρτ με την επιστημονική φαντασία, στο σημείο που η σύζυγος ενός συναδέλφου, τον οποίο ο Φράνκ δεν πολυπάει, του τσιτσιδώνεται και του λέει "τέρμα τα δίφραγκα θέλω μόνο να γ******ι" και ο Φράνκ αντί να προσθέσει δύο αστεράκια στην τελική βαθμολογία το παίζει υπεράνω. Διαβάζω δε ότι είναι το πρώτο μέρος μιας τετραλογίας όπου τα υπόλοιπα είναι 600+ σελίδες, δεν μπορώ όμως να φανταστώ τι θα γράφει εκεί. Δύο αστεράκια από εμένα, χαριστικά και ελπίζω να μην βρω άλλα βιβλίο του κυρίου στον δρόμο μου.
June 27, 2013
This is the second time I have read this book, having first read it five or six years ago when a book about a divorced sportswriter had a certain currency to me. I have read Ford's recent short story collection, “A Multitude of Sins,” and a number of his other short stories published in The New Yorker.
The Sportswriter, which takes place over an Easter Weekend, represents something of a turning point in writer Frank Bascomb’s life. The story begins with his early morning meeting with his ex-wife at the grave of their young son. The quiet, reflective, somber tone that Ford sets during this meeting follows Frank on a trip to Detroit to interview a former athlete, Easter dinner with his girlfriend’s family, a visit to the residence of a not-quite friend who has committed suicide, and a late-night train to New York.
During and between the first-person descriptions of these various set pieces, Frank weaves back and forth through his life. He talks of meeting his ex-wife, his early success with a short story collection, his failed attempts at a novel and his marital dalliances. In his late 30s, Frank is a morally challenged lech that manages to come off sympathetic anyway. And I’m not exactly sure why. He seems to be adrift – with a sluggish pursuit of meaning he never quite seems to find. There are hints, though, at the end that he may be on the right track.
It is lyrical and poignant and other flowery things, but I think what Ford succeeds with more than anything else is the authenticity of one man’s experiences told from deep within his own head. The journey was largely depressing – though probably more as a snapshot than a reflection of his life on the whole – but that’s life. No bed of roses but occasionally, remarkably, clear.
The Sportswriter, which takes place over an Easter Weekend, represents something of a turning point in writer Frank Bascomb’s life. The story begins with his early morning meeting with his ex-wife at the grave of their young son. The quiet, reflective, somber tone that Ford sets during this meeting follows Frank on a trip to Detroit to interview a former athlete, Easter dinner with his girlfriend’s family, a visit to the residence of a not-quite friend who has committed suicide, and a late-night train to New York.
During and between the first-person descriptions of these various set pieces, Frank weaves back and forth through his life. He talks of meeting his ex-wife, his early success with a short story collection, his failed attempts at a novel and his marital dalliances. In his late 30s, Frank is a morally challenged lech that manages to come off sympathetic anyway. And I’m not exactly sure why. He seems to be adrift – with a sluggish pursuit of meaning he never quite seems to find. There are hints, though, at the end that he may be on the right track.
I realize I have told all this because unbeknownst to me, on that Thursday those months ago, I awoke with a feeling, a stirring, that any number of things were going to change and be settled and come to an end soon, and I might have something to tell that would be important and even interesting. And now I am at the point of not knowing the outcome of things once again, a frame of mind that pleases me. I sense that I have faced up to a great empty moment in life but without suffering the usual terrible regret – which is, after all, the way I began to describe this.
It is lyrical and poignant and other flowery things, but I think what Ford succeeds with more than anything else is the authenticity of one man’s experiences told from deep within his own head. The journey was largely depressing – though probably more as a snapshot than a reflection of his life on the whole – but that’s life. No bed of roses but occasionally, remarkably, clear.
May 15, 2020
На ових око 400 страница пратимо живот током ускршњег викенда једног (бившег) писца и спортског новинара Френка Баскомба. Он је разведен, ближи се четрдесетима, живи у Њу Џерзију у једном типичном америчком предграђу, има иза себе и једну породичну трагедију (смрт сина), али има жељу да настави живи пуним плућима (мада је, рекао бих, прилично инертан).
Иако се током описаног викенда много тога збива, велики део књиге представљају и сама размишљања главног јунака, његова интроспекција, што је, заправо, најбољи део књиге.
Што се стила тиче, нема ту неких стилских бравура, језик је врло једноставан, неоптерећен сувишним украсима.
Занимљиво је да је превод радио наш књижевник Вуле Журић. А, кад смо већ код превода, морам рећи да су ми пар пута засметале ситнице попут речи „друшкане“ и сличних. Знам да је некад тешко пронаћи еквивалент неког дијалекатског или жаргонског израза, али ми је ово звучало прилично архаично.
Такође, још једна ситница – много су ми сметала поједина поређења. ОК, разумем да понекад жели нешто да се истакне, али на свакој страни има по 2-3 поређења, која су често врло чудна или недоступна нама који нисмо баш детаљно упознати са регионалним особинама становника САД. Као да Американци не могу без тих пооређења.
У сваком случају, током читања сам се ломио око тога како доживљавам ову књигу, али на крају сам ипак ухватио себе да ми се прилично допала. Френк Баскомб се доима као један прилично реалан, животан лик.
Надам се да ће Дерета да објави и друга два дела „Баскомбове трилогије“.
Иако се током описаног викенда много тога збива, велики део књиге представљају и сама размишљања главног јунака, његова интроспекција, што је, заправо, најбољи део књиге.
Што се стила тиче, нема ту неких стилских бравура, језик је врло једноставан, неоптерећен сувишним украсима.
Занимљиво је да је превод радио наш књижевник Вуле Журић. А, кад смо већ код превода, морам рећи да су ми пар пута засметале ситнице попут речи „друшкане“ и сличних. Знам да је некад тешко пронаћи еквивалент неког дијалекатског или жаргонског израза, али ми је ово звучало прилично архаично.
Такође, још једна ситница – много су ми сметала поједина поређења. ОК, разумем да понекад жели нешто да се истакне, али на свакој страни има по 2-3 поређења, која су често врло чудна или недоступна нама који нисмо баш детаљно упознати са регионалним особинама становника САД. Као да Американци не могу без тих пооређења.
У сваком случају, током читања сам се ломио око тога како доживљавам ову књигу, али на крају сам ипак ухватио себе да ми се прилично допала. Френк Баскомб се доима као један прилично реалан, животан лик.
Надам се да ће Дерета да објави и друга два дела „Баскомбове трилогије“.
April 11, 2012
Awful! Self-absorbed baby boomer muses unitelligibly about life/sports. I didn't understand what the main character was talking about most of the time, the dialoge was terrible and practically incoherent. And EVERY time the main character noticed someone whose ethnicity was other than waspy, he pointed it out: The Polack football player, the Negro cabdriver (Negro? In 1986?) the Irish cop. This was anacronistic and irritating. Maybe you have to be a self-obsessed baby boomer to appreciate this book, not the child of one. Or maybe it was just so male? The ex-wife has no name - dude just refers to her as "X" throughout! And the kids, even the dead kid, are afterthoughts and barely mentioned. There was all this mention of feelings, but no real introspection or thought to justify the author's contstantly telling me dude was "dreamy," whatever that means. I hope the narcissistic baby boomer genre is over, like chick lit. Because if you are going to write about that generation and make is interesting and sympathetic, it needs to be done ironically, like Frantzen's "The Corrections."
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