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A review by rhganci
Calico Joe by John Grisham
3.0
What we've got here is a decent stab at a major issue of the subtext of the Grande Olde Game--the book is a sort of exegesis of Major League Baseball's "unwritten" rules (stealing signs, beanballs, double play foot placement, etc.). It's been a while since I read a John Grisham book, but for it's hugely anticlimactic and very plain conclusion, it's an okay read, especially now, with players like Starlin Castro, Jayson Heyward and Bryce Harper getting called up to the Show at or before the age of 20, all with the ability to compete with the best of them out there--see Chip Carey's great, and perhaps all-time, call on Opening Day of 2010. Joe Castle has a similar debut experience, at least at first, but it's at that point John Grisham turns CALICO JOE from a spiritual successor of Malamud's THE NATURAL to a fictionalized response to Wada and William's GAME OF SHADOWS, though the dime-axis that Grisham uses is a far older and more journeyed maxim of the game.
It reads like a counter-advocacy thesis against base ball's honor-code of pitchers and veterans protecting the integrity of the game, told from the perspective of a kid who learns to hate the game of base ball. Grisham's plot is a strange, Oedipal struggle over base ball not as a fountain of youth, as most books regard it, but as the means by which a son inherits his father's debts, not only to a few individuals, but to a nation of fans--and, of course, Grisham chooses the longsuffering fan base of Chicago's North Side to help explain away, even in the mythological history of base ball, why the Cubs' futility is so entrenched. The cliche works though, as Joe puts up Roy Hobbs-like numbers through thirty-eight games. It is in this, and only in this, that the book succeeds: Grisham captures the wonder of the game through the eyes of a young man, who seeks not only the good of his home team but also of the great individuals who appear on the rosters of other teams. Grisham is able, in telling the story of Joe Castle through the eyes of a New York kid who has thrown his lot in with the Mets, to communicate this nuance of the game to his reader: I root for my local team, but I appreciate the greatness of the game first. Base ball stands apart in Grisham's estimation, and in his novel, as well.
The plot of the book, however, is populated with characters whose motivations are suspect and whose identities are under-developed. Joe is held at a distance until the novel's final 20 pages, and this makes the climactic events of the book seem alien and the perspective of the book, told in a 3rd person-limited voice, self-annihilates to give the reader a view of a conversation the narrator does not hear. Grisham had backed himself into a corner, trying to symbolically capture the interplay between pitcher and batter while wrapping up the plot of his book. Sadly, his decisions are off-putting and even a bit confusing--I'm still trying to figure out how Warren Casey makes any of his decisions, as they are rarely in line with one another. Too many balls appear up in the air in a book this short: Major League Baseball, the game's written rules, fathers and sons, wasted potential, pettiness and pride, etc., etc. Perhaps this book falls under the category of "Books That Needed to Be Longer"; a smaller category, to be sure, but the aim and the execution of this book remain fairly distant from one another, especially with regard to its vast and near-mythic subject matter.
It reads like a counter-advocacy thesis against base ball's honor-code of pitchers and veterans protecting the integrity of the game, told from the perspective of a kid who learns to hate the game of base ball. Grisham's plot is a strange, Oedipal struggle over base ball not as a fountain of youth, as most books regard it, but as the means by which a son inherits his father's debts, not only to a few individuals, but to a nation of fans--and, of course, Grisham chooses the longsuffering fan base of Chicago's North Side to help explain away, even in the mythological history of base ball, why the Cubs' futility is so entrenched. The cliche works though, as Joe puts up Roy Hobbs-like numbers through thirty-eight games. It is in this, and only in this, that the book succeeds: Grisham captures the wonder of the game through the eyes of a young man, who seeks not only the good of his home team but also of the great individuals who appear on the rosters of other teams. Grisham is able, in telling the story of Joe Castle through the eyes of a New York kid who has thrown his lot in with the Mets, to communicate this nuance of the game to his reader: I root for my local team, but I appreciate the greatness of the game first. Base ball stands apart in Grisham's estimation, and in his novel, as well.
The plot of the book, however, is populated with characters whose motivations are suspect and whose identities are under-developed. Joe is held at a distance until the novel's final 20 pages, and this makes the climactic events of the book seem alien and the perspective of the book, told in a 3rd person-limited voice, self-annihilates to give the reader a view of a conversation the narrator does not hear. Grisham had backed himself into a corner, trying to symbolically capture the interplay between pitcher and batter while wrapping up the plot of his book. Sadly, his decisions are off-putting and even a bit confusing--I'm still trying to figure out how Warren Casey makes any of his decisions, as they are rarely in line with one another. Too many balls appear up in the air in a book this short: Major League Baseball, the game's written rules, fathers and sons, wasted potential, pettiness and pride, etc., etc. Perhaps this book falls under the category of "Books That Needed to Be Longer"; a smaller category, to be sure, but the aim and the execution of this book remain fairly distant from one another, especially with regard to its vast and near-mythic subject matter.