The 1998 season really was one of the more memorable ones in my life, not only because so many tremendously exciting things happened on the field (the McGwire-Sosa home run race, Yankees' dominance, my Red Sox in the playoffs) but because of the newfound freedom that came with turning sixteen years old. My parents were willing to let me take the train from the New Jersey suburbs into the city and up to Yankee Stadium, for example. The first time my friends and I did this by ourselves was on Sunday, May, 17, 1998: I know this because it turned out to be the date of David Wells' Perfect Game.
Written shortly after the '98 season, Mike Lupica's book captures a time when national love of baseball seemed stronger and more uncomplicated than it ever was in my lifetime. We were a few years removed from the strike of 1994, and we hadn't yet reached the heartbreaking revelations about PEDs that were to come. It really was a wonderful summer for baseball fans, and I enjoyed revisiting it through Lupica's writing.
Baseball, more than any other sport, has always been a game that connects fathers and children (daughters as well as sons, as he deliberately points out). So in Lupica's telling of the season, everything that happens in the game is connected to something that happened earlier. You can't talk about McGwire without talking about Roger Maris. You can't talk about Wells' Perfect Game without talking about Don Larsen's.
It has also been my experience that baseball connects generations. Growing up, I spent so many happy times with my dad, either watching games, or just talking about them. I loved hearing him reminisce about long-forgotten players from the sixties. Now that my son is old enough, I love taking him with me to games, playing catch with him, showing him old baseball cards. So I get what Lupica is doing by jumping around from time to time and place to place. Unfortunately, this technique kind of gives the reader whiplash. An example: he's narrating a pivotal moment in Game 2 of the ALCS between the Yankees and the Indians. But instead of simply telling the story, he abruptly shifts back in time to tell another story about some other game at some point in the past. It gets frustrating.
It also must be said that the writing here is pretty sappy. To an extent, that's ok. Baseball stories have a way of bringing out guys' sentimental sides. Field of Dreams is a little sappy too, and it's one of my favorite movies. Summer of '98 goes even further: there are passages here that approach Hallmark Card territory.
But no matter. When you're reading a book about the summer you turned sixteen, sometimes you just want pure sentimentality.