Book Review, Waterworks

First of all, I love the Pistol. Always have, always will. Love any piece of footage I can get my hands on, love his craziness, the solitude, the black/white dynamic, the million hours practicing alone, love the father/son saga i.e. the Faustian bargain the two of them made. Love how worked up my boss in Mississippi would get about seeing him play as a kid. And I've always loved Mark Kriegel. But I can't say I love love love the book like I thought I would. To be fair, one big reason is before I read it, Kriegel went on Mike and the Mad Dog and basically told every story in the book. So as I'm reading, I'm like heard that, heard that, heard that. But the writing is also a bit convoluted; especially in Pete's early years - every few pages you find yourself thinking hold on...what grade are we in? Which school are we at? Jumps back and forth. Plus, there weren't as many great LSU stories as I was hoping for, just generalities. Save of course when he got carried off the court by the fans...AT Georgia. I'll go back and read and reread cause I love the Pistol, but I was a bit disappointed.

So after The Pistol dies I'm at the end, I'm cruising through the stuff about his kids yeah yeah yeah, okay okay, hard following him, here's some touching moments blah blah blah basically just cruising to the end to finish.

I can't remember the last time I had the wind knocked out of me with a book; maybe I gotta go back to "Where the Red Fern Grows." I dunno. End of "Ethan Fromme" I was out of breath, but that was from excitement. I got upset when the kid dies in "The Member of the Wedding", but that was cause the boy on the front cover of my copy looked exactly like my little brother. Nothing like this bit, about Pete's son Jaeson a few years back at a basketball camp helping a little kid. I'm blithely flipping through the pages then all of a sudden open mouthed, catch in the throat gut-punched, choking back tears/eyes watering. I caught myself before I became a mess. Stumbled through the last two pages of the book, went back to it, completely overcome. Embarrassed at myself, but man.

He saw a runty kid with a buzz cut get off the bus crying. The boy was eight years old, and he wanted to go home. The other kids teased him. He couldn't shoot. Then he'd get all nervous, which only made it worse. He'd start throwing up airballs.

So Jaeson took him to the gym every morning at 10:30 when everybody else was at the snack bar. They worked on mechanics and form, and by the end of the week the kid hit three foul shots in a row. He was never going to be a ballplayer. But three in a row was something he'd always remember.

And so would Jaeson.

Without warning, the kid put the ball down and gave him a hug.

It was better than a 40-point game.