Road Swing

Rushin, Steve. Road Swing: One Fan's Journey into the Soul of America's Sports. New York: Doubleday. 1998. Print.

First Sentences:

"'Working press?'" a Pittsburgh Pirate once said to me with a sneer. "That's sorta like 'jumbo shrimp.'".

"My favorite oxymoron is 'guest host,'" I replied chummily....But he didn't know. And he didn't care. In fact, he thought I was calling him a moron, so he calmly alit from his clubhouse stool and chloroformed me with his game socks.

Description:

Maybe  not everyone is into sports, but great sports writing is something to be included on all reading lists. Humor, passion, history, statistics, and human interest abound in most sports writing and this week's book is no exception.

Steve Rushin, a writer for Sports Illustrated, on the eve of his 30th birthday decides to take a 22,000-mile road trip to visit the famous (in his mind) sports venues in America. His resulting chronicle is Road Swing: One Fan's Journey into the Soul of America's Sports, a wickedly funny, personal look at the oddities that make up the culture of athletic contests in America. 

I had not fixed itinerary, except to travel the nation in two grand loops, like the grand loops of the lowercase l's that punctuate the $995 card-show signature of Bill Russell.

Traveling to Cooperstown, the Field of Dreams, Churchill Downs, Lambeau Field, and the Talladega race track, his meandering tour also stops at Mr. Rushmore, Yellowstone, Graceland, and the Grand Canyon. He visits such luminous stops as the Richard Petty Museum, the Celebrity Softball Blowout at Yale Field, the Louisville Slugger plant, and a National Inline Basketball League game. And he finds a man named "Cleveland Brown" in the phone book and calls him to discuss the Browns sudden move to Baltimore.

I bet you are saying to yourself, "Boy, all that sounds intriguing and is probably very funny," and you would be exactly right. To further entice you, here are some excerpts to give you a feel for his observations and dry wit style:

When India looked to be hopelessly out of the [cricket] match, despondent fans set fire to the stadium. The match was called on account of arson. 

Because of the state's singular lack of diversions for young millionaire athletes, Wisconsin is the home of four NFL training camps.

The [Green Bay] Packers were nicknamed the Packers because their first uniforms were donated by the Acme Meat-Packing Company, the same outfit that still supplies arms to Wile E. Coyote.

Passing through Bluffton, South Carolina, in a horizontal rain, I considered stopping at the Squat 'N' Gobble, but feared its name might be more accurate the other way around.

I fetched a sandwich at Sophie's Deli [in Birmingham, Alabama]: ... I wasn't sure what it was made of -- to judge by the taste, I'd guess the chrome bumpers of American automobiles manufactured between 1949 and 1976 -- but it didn't really matter.

[Florence, Kentucky call to hotel room service]: "I'd like a cheeseburger, please -- medium." And the most pleasant voice on the other end of the line replied with great regret: "I'm very sorry, sir, but we only have one size cheeseburger.

At one time, St. Louis was "The soccer capital of the United States..." Granted, this is a bit like being called "the entertainment capital of Switzerland" or "the fashion capital of North Korea."

I booked a room [in Irving, Texas] at the La Quinta Inn -- La Quinta being Spanish for "next to Denny's."

I-35 [from Lorado, TX to Duluth, MN] has been called "the nation's spinal cord," and given the road's conditions, America has come serious neurological disorders. The road had more rutting than most National Geographic documentaries.

In thirty minutes, the [Grand Canyon sunset] sky exhibited every shade of eye shadow worn by waitresses in the Southwest.

It isn't true that you can blink and miss Idaho while driving across the state's panhandle, though I strongly recommend that you try.

You get the idea. I loved it and hope you will too. His goals were clear and his dogged pursuit of them hilarious. 

I wanted all of my lunches to be racing-striped in ballpark mustard, noisily dispensed from a flatulent squeeze bottle. I wanted to eat all of my dinners from a Styrofoam fast-food clambox that yawned in my lap while I drove seventy miles an hours and steered with my knees. I wanted all of my afternoons to dwindle down in the backward-marching time of a scoreboard -- :10, :09, :08 ... -- that physics-defying device that allows a person lucky enough to mark his or her time by it to grow younger. 

Happy reading. 

Fred

www.firstsentencereader.blogspot.com

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If this book interests you, be sure to check out:

Bouton, Jim. Ball Four

The first and best insider look at baseball, players, and games as told by irreverent pitcher Jim Bouton. Called one of the best sports book written.