No doubt some of you have eagerly waited for my review of Bill Simmons’ (No. 1 bestselling? Really?) The Book of Basketball.
No doubt some of you hoped I’d excoriate his gargantuan tome in a vein similar to Charley Pierce’s spiteful takedown of the affable writer. Part of me wants to, particularly after reading Will Leitch’s gushing portrait of the Simmons influence. (An unconscionable example of written debasement rivaling only Michael Lewis’ The Blind Side.)
I’d like to. But I can’t. It’s not that The Book of Basketball is particularly good, or even rises above forgettable. But it’s simply not bad. Sure, it has its problems. For example:
- Simmons struts right into the typical ESPN trap of anticipating the counterargument before making the original argument. Bill offends often, particularly in his ranking of players (See Scottie Pippen and Julius Erving). He often details each player’s negatives before his lengthy essay in tribute. He also opens with an interminable chapter debunking the conventional wisdom that Wilt Chamberlain is better than Bill Russell, triumphantly proving Russell’s superiority. Which is fine – but that’s not the conventional wisdom, is it? Does anyone believe Wilt was better than Russell? Who are these straw men, Mr. Simmons?
- As I’ve detailed ad nauseum, Simmons continually overrates 2-guards outside of Jordan’s era, while eviscerating Jordan’s peers simply for not being Jordan. I’m fine with an essay about Clyde Drexler languishing in Jordan’s shadow; that is completely fair. But Simmons rates Sam Jones, Pippen and Allen Iverson ahead of Drexler (Absurd), along with George Gervin – whom Simmons eventually admits is one-dimensional and inferior to Clyde during his Gervin essay! (Argh. If selfishly scoring buckets willfully violates The Secret, how the hell do Rick Barry and Gervin rate so high?) This is a minor criticism, an arbitrary ranking of players can’t please everyone.
- Still, Bill often asks if we’d prefer one season of sheer dominance (e.g. Bill Walton) over an extended period of excellence (David Robinson.) He makes this point time and again, yet rates Malone ahead of Barkley for the opposite and Stockton ahead of Kidd for the same. But in that case, I’m taking Hakeem as the Greatest Player of all Time based on 1995 alone over Jordan’s entire body of work. Can’t stop me. You just can’t.
- Simmons’ conversational style lends itself to pithy humor, which (as you might expect) we totally endorse. However, two or three jokes about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Karl Malone is fine. The thousandth time, it’s old. That dead horse is fucking glue. Bill could have cut 50 pages just by not dipping into the cheap-shot well every time Kareem or Malone surfaced.
In the end, however, the book is strangled not just by its length.
Repetitive and redundant, the beginning stalls because of the painful comparison of Wilt and Russell, but also because of circuitous, painful attempts to justify Bill’s qualifications for writing this book. (I already bought it, Bill.) As Bill desperately tries to build a coherent foundation prefacing his basketball essays, he in effect points out the book’s fatal flaw: There is no theme.
Stories of Simmons’ early Garden memories or his poolside discovery of Isiah Thomas’ basketball “Secret” (Lame as hell, by the way) seem wrongfully out of place and completely cheapen the book, let alone Simmons’ vast basketball knowledge and passion.
Instead, you get the sense – as we often do – that no one thinks Bill Simmons is quite as witty and charming as Bill Simmons. (Note: This trait is common among writers. Swear to god, fully 20 percent of my page counts is me revisiting my own lame jokes.) This is fine in lengthy, light online columns – but it kills the book. From the beating of Malone and Kareem dead horses to the incessant footnotes, most of this shit is totally unnecessary. Simmons must have had ultimate creative control, and ultimately decided he couldn’t leave anything out. Too bad.
Still, I’m picking at nits, mostly. By and large, I enjoyed reading it, so spending a thousand words pointing out the book’s flaws is somewhat superfluous and hypocritical. In the end, Simmons describes this book as a periodic bathroom reader, and if that was his hope – he definitely succeeded.
But like it or not, like most bloggers, writers, or hopeful sportswriters, I consider Simmons an influence. I consider him “one of us,” whatever that means. And if he considers a bathroom reader and rehash of former jokes as his magnum opus – well, to those of us who look up to him, of course we’re disappointed.
Since Simmons’ ESPN debut in 2001, I’ve endured or basked in friends’ comparisons. Several times people forwarded me a Simmons piece, wondering how this Boston writer could sound so similar to my half-cocked Cubs emails. Quite honestly, Simmons brimmed with talent then, and he still does now. No comments ever made me more hopeful and proud of my own talent – nor more frustrated and resentful after his breakthrough. No grudge to Bill, but the comparisons always cut both ways.
Turns out his book does too. Completely disappointing, yet ultimately enjoyable. I’m certain Bill could have written ten or fifteen gripping essays exhibiting his passion, expertise, and unique voice. Maybe, with the help of a podcast friend, he could learn how to subtly weave a theme throughout. Even within 350 pages. Maybe next time, I guess.
