The prolific pencil Book

Higgins turns away from gritty crime novels to reflect on his childhood, his family, particularly his father and his father's father, and their difficult relationship with the Boston Red Sox. Higgins makes it clear that his fandom is a thing inherited from his father and grandfather much in the same way one might inherit red hair or nearsightedness. It's not necessarily a blessing, but he wears it.

Written some time after the conclusion of the strange 1988 season, where a 89-73 record was just enough to clinch the AL East allowing the Sox the dubious privilege of being swept in the American League Championship Series to the Oakland A's. These aren't the Red Sox who have spoiled younger fans; these are the Red Sox who regularly disappointed large swatches of New England on an annual basis. He's got quite a bit to say about the decision of skipper John McNamara (sacked mid-season) to allow a fading Jim Rice to continue batting clean-up, some unjust (in my mind) criticism of Wade Boggs (chiding him for concentrating on his batting average rather than pulling the ball for extra base hits), and lamentations re the Sox's ongoing pitching struggles.

He has a good deal to say of Ted Williams and the contending Sox teams of the late 40s, the early awful 60s Sox who somehow came together in '67 for the Impossible Dream, the magic of Game Six of the '75 series, and other near great to disappointing Red Sox sides. Higgins also offers thoughtful commentary on the changing nature of the game (a common topic in nearly every baseball book ever written), some interesting observations on sabermetrics, a branch of statistics just beginning to enter the mainstream at the time of the book's writing, and the nature of fathers and sons.

Higgins is a skilled writer. The book is a bit indulgent, but it's interesting to read him in this type of genre.