Ernest Hemingway makes an appearance at the beginning of Philip Roth's THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL, as the force driving an embittered sportswriter to write his magnum opus instead of succumbing to the siren song of old age and whining. Smitty's got a compelling story: His career was ruined when baseball's 'third' league, the Patriot League, was buried amid rumors of Communist infiltration during World War II. Decades later, his vote for Patriot League star Luke Gofannon for the Baseball Hall of Fame goes uncounted, and Smitty's acres of prose have similarly been forgotten. Isn't it shameful what happened to the Patriot League and the scrappy bottom-of-the-division Ruppert Mundys of Port Ruppert, New Jersey? who nearly made a miraculous comeback during their all-away-games season of 1943?
Beyond just the zaniest Philip Roth novel I've never read, this may be the most bonkers book I will have read all year. From introducing characters named Base Baal (who, it is noted, was not named after the sport, but rather for his bad behavior) and Gil Gamesh to a subplot involving the Mundys' good-natured manager acting as a baseball missionary in Africa, there is no silliness left unturned here, with Smitty's bombastic opinions (including the stance that alliteration is what makes writing great) woven through. The descriptions of the lineup alone had me giggling softly to myself on many a subway ride -- apparently some of them are based on real players, though I couldn't find a definite concordance.
I'm not shocked that it's not canon Roth, but why had I never heard of this book before coming across it by chance while searching for a copy of THE GHOST WRITER last summer? I would recommend this book over the overrated THE NATURAL six days out of seven. I found a USA Today article describing it as one of Roth's "least known works," which is what happens when you have a career as long and varied as he has had. Still, it was jarring to see some of the same themes in his late great THE PLOT AGAINST AMERICA, here treated for humor -- jarring in the opposite way I would have expected: I found the later work a little less profound for the capers to which it is applied here. When did Philip Roth become... so serious? I'm sure I am the last person to notice, but as someone who didn't really find any humor in PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT, I conveniently forget or elided that phase. It's a shame! And if you feel like this, you should definitely read this book in haste.
Tomorrow: John Sayles' 1988 adaptation of "Eight Men Out," starring pretty much every character actor who could be spared to put on a uniform. Also, John Cusack!
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