I have a passion for sports and also for writing. So, I thought I would surely like "The Sportswriter" penned by the acclaimed author and Pulitzer winner Richard Ford. However, after reading about 25 pages, I came to the realization that I actually disliked this book. But due to my strange inability to give up on a book, I hate-read the remainder of it.

Ford seems to belong to the Richard Russo school of writing. He appears to believe that bombarding the reader with an excessive amount of detail will somehow render the book more real or authentic. I say this because "Empire Falls" by Russo was the first book that made me feel this way. A prime example is that all 375 pages of this novel unfold over just one weekend. I knew I was in for a rough ride when the opening scene, which probably took place over the course of twenty minutes, stretched out to 25 pages. We are bombarded with backstories and multiple-paragraph descriptions of people and places that never resurface again! This leaves me wondering why on earth I'm reading about them. I suspect Ford was aiming for some kind of point regarding the intimacy of suburbia or something similar, but I was simply bored to tears. It makes me all the more appreciative of those writers who only include the essential and trim away the fat that serves merely to flaunt the author's vocabulary.

The second reason I didn't like this book was that the main character, Frank Bascombe, suffers from what I call the Thomas Mcguane/Julian Barnes Lack of Sack issue. More specifically, this issue should be attributed to the narrators of "Driving on the Rim" and "Sense of an Ending" respectively. Bascombe, like those characters, is a complete and utter pushover. He wrote a successful short story collection and then moved to the suburbs to become a sportswriter. That's fine; that's not the problem. The problem is the endless descriptions of how dreamy and content Bascombe is with the suburbs. Goodness, he loves Jersey, Michigan, safety, and wants to kiss and marry everyone, be polite, and go to church sometimes. He wants you to know how okay he is with everything. It seemed that no matter what happened, he would think, "golly gee, I just need a little pick me up and everything will be a-okay." Part of the reason he quit writing fiction was that he felt fictional characters' issues were unrealistic in their intensity and simplicity, and that real life is much more complex and occurs in shades of gray. And I think Ford was attempting to prove that a character, or a fictional world, could also exist in those shades of gray and still be engaging. I agree with this in principle, but not when the said character is so dreamy and vanilla all the time.

It's not a good sign when your narrator keeps describing all the women he's slept with and you think, "Who would sleep with this chump?" The final straw came when, on the same day that he (spoiler alert) gets punched in the face by his girlfriend for repeatedly proposing at inappropriate times and attempts to make love to his ex-wife on the bed of a friend who has just committed suicide, he then seduces a 19-year-old intern at his magazine (bearing in mind he is a 38-year-old divorced father of three). Am I really supposed to root for this guy?

Did you hear the one about the middle-aged white guy who has a mid-life crisis? You did! You sometimes think you’ve heard nothing else! The world is brimming with middle-aged white guys having midlife crises. Of course, it's full of many other things as well, but for so long, it's been dominated by middle-aged white guys having midlife crises. They write books about it, put each others’ books about it on college curricula, and make lists of great novels about white guy midlife crises. Sometimes, you can’t hear anyone else’s story for the multitude of white guys surrounding you and shouting theirs. They’ve created a self-congratulatory circle and convinced themselves that they’ve gained Hard-Won Wisdom, and that you need to hear it. All these books are like trucks strewn in a toddler’s home, with pearls of wisdom waiting for you to step on them and fall over.

The Sportswriter isn’t the gold standard of middle-aged white guy crisis books - that’s Updike, of course - this is a cheaper imitation, a blatant Rabbit ripoff. It adheres to every white guy tic you hate. Describing women tits-first? Yep! Extreme solipsism? Check! And will there be hard-won wisdom? You bet! But the weird thing is how much of it is nonsense. Frank's ratio of “OK good point\\" to “Wait, what?\\" is abysmal.

Frank ambles through the book, dropping his questionable pearls. The death of his son has left him numb, and he’s been on autopilot ever since. He has awkward conversations with other sad middle-aged men, has an affair with a younger woman, and is casually racist. Instead of facing tragedy, he glosses over it. The book is more about sportswriting than expected, and one starts to think the author is not truly describing a man in the grips of tragedy. There’s no fire to this story, just more of the same old sentences. It wasn't even that interesting the first time.

I searched for it for many years and found it in excellent condition about 4 years ago. Since then, it has made the journey from the bedside table to the bookshelf countless times. It seems that I had to take it to the Ford to sign it (something I don't usually tell the truth about) in order to start it immediately afterwards.

Everything one needs to know is on the back cover (I think it's one of the best summaries I've ever come across). The only thing I would add is the obvious question: Is there any chance that Independence Day could be even a little better than this fantastic book?

This book has truly captured my heart and imagination. It's a literary gem that I keep coming back to. The story is engaging, the characters are well-developed, and the writing is simply superb. I can't recommend it highly enough. Whether you're a fan of fiction or non-fiction, this book is sure to please.

So, if you're looking for a great read, look no further than this amazing book. You won't be disappointed.

I read this book 35 years ago.

After reading the latest Frank Bascombe novel, "Be Mine", I made the decision to go back to the very beginning.

Truly, it is one of my all-time favorite books.

Bascombe is like Ford's Rabbit, and the lens through which his life is seen is always something remarkable to behold.

If you were to ask me what "The Sportswriter" is about, my response would be that it is about everything and nothing.

It is about one man's daily attempt to extract the best from a life that he is not entirely at ease with.

This may not sound overly exciting, but in Ford's capable hands, it truly works.

Next on my list is a reread of "Independence Day", the second Bascombe book, which just so happened to win the Pulitzer Prize.

I am eager to revisit this story and see how it holds up after all these years.

I anticipate that it will be just as engaging and thought-provoking as it was the first time I read it.

Ford's writing has a unique charm that draws you in and makes you care about the characters and their lives.

I am looking forward to experiencing that charm once again.