Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game (Michael Lewis)

Moneyball is the story of how the Oakland Athletics in 2002, under general manager Billy Beane, became one of the most successful major league baseball teams on one of the lowest budgets. But Moneyball isn’t just a feel-good story of an underdog baseball team. It’s also a detailed explanation of the methodology Beane applied, including hard data science and magical wheeling and dealing. The book balances plain information with personal stories to create a surprisingly engaging educational experience. You’ll learn about economics and statistics and data analytics, but also about key players, managers, and trainers ‒ the hot-shots who flamed out in a hurry, the cool-heads who just kept doing their thing, and the longshots who surprised everyone (except sabermetrician Paul DePodesta) with their game-winning performance.

I have a personal history of pronounced indifference to team sports, baseball included. But I’ve always loved money, and I’m totally into tips and tricks for managing it wisely. So it’s the Money, not the Ball, that attracted me to Moneyball. But the book had a different plan for me. The economic strategy ‒ in a nutshell, finding players who are undervalued due to some perceived but largely irrelevant flaw ‒ sucked me in and kept me there.

Chad Bradford with the Baltimore Orioles,
pitcher originally undervalued for his
unorthodox throwing style

Then, as I went along, the personalities and the stories got me interested in the game. Unexpectedly, by the time I was three-fourths through, I found myself yearning to sit in a stadium with my fists full of Cracker Jacks, sweating alongside thousands of other humans, and booing and cheering the action that I was now beginning to understand.

And that, my friends, is the magic of Lewis’s writing. It feels simultaneously journalistic and dramatic. He gives us the facts ‒ lots of them. Sometimes the stats were unduly heavy for my preferences, but he bejewels the numbers with lovely philosophy, smooth wit, and anticipation. He weaves a story like Walt Disney, dangles suspense like Stephen King, and then, like Aesop, brings it back home with the lesson learned.

Michael Lewis
Photo credit: Justin Hoch at
http://www.jhoch.com -
_MG_2932, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/
index.php?curid=16662078

When I finish blogging about a book, people often ask, “Did you watch the movie?” Usually, the answer is no, but on this rare occasion, I can say yes. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the movie couldn’t hope to cover in such lively detail all that Lewis offers in the pages of his book. If I had only seen the movie without reading the book, I would not have been nearly as educated on the brilliant economic strategy, nor would I have been as entertained, nor as delighted by the author’s literary gifts. If you’ve only watched the movie, you’ve bunted. Do yourself a favor. Buy the book and read it. You’ll have a better game at life having done so.

Check it out on Amazon!

The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)

Sherman McCoy is a wealthy Wall Street trader at his peak, with an opulent home, a beautiful wife, an adorable daughter, and a hell-hot mistress. Although Sherman basks in his success, he’s not just an egoistic snob. He’s frustrated by his wife’s limitless extravagances. He’s disdainful of the superficiality he’s surrounded with. He works hard, he respects his superiors, and he cherishes his little girl. But when he and his mistress inadvertently drive his Mercedes off their planned course and into the Bronx, Sherman’s perfectly aligned world is tipped off its axis by a run-in with two young black men, setting off a slow spin that gains frightening momentum page by page. Sherman is flung into a universe that he was previously untouched by ‒ protesters, press hounds, detectives, thugs, corrupt clergy, hardened attorneys, and a walloping media frenzy.

Tom Hanks as Sherman McCoy
(photo from mauiwatch.com)

I don’t remember how The Bonfire of the Vanities found its way onto my bookshelf, but based on the author, I knew I had to read it. (And as usual, no, I haven’t seen the movie.) It’s a pop-culture hit from the 1980s, so it feels a little dated, but if you were awake during that time, you’ll love how accurately Wolfe captures the zeitgeist. He titillates your schadenfreude as Wall Street Whitey topples from his pinnacle, but he nurtures your empathy as Sherman is humanized by his struggles. You’ll likely find yourself rooting for Sherman, especially given the distastefulness of most of his foes, whose ego-driven motives are arguably more shameful than his own.

The novel is rife with casual racism and sexism. To me, it seems exaggerated for the era, but I was, admittedly, sheltered, so maybe the attitudes aren’t inaccurate. If you offend easily, you’ll be challenged. Approach it as an education.

Tom Wolfe at the White House Salute to American Authors,

March 2004 (photo credit Susan Sterner)

I’ve been in love with Wolfe since I read The Right Stuff over a decade ago. The Bonfire of the Vanities also delivers in his characteristic sharp, masculine, high-energy style. The setting is old-pop, but the writing prevails. It’s true literature, the kind of stuff that makes Americans proud of our great authors, and Tom Wolfe is one of them.

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The Liar's Club: A Memoir (Mary Karr)

If your family is normal, or even quasi-normal, then The Liar’s Club will showcase a whole new cultural experience for you. Mary Karr’s memoir describes her 1960s childhood with her sister Lecia in hilarious, horrific detail. For our reading entertainment, the profoundly dysfunctional Karr family takes the proverbial stage in "Leechfield," Texas (a pseudonym for the Port Arthur area). Leechfield is a lower-middle class town where the land and the air, and a lot of the people, smell like oil.

Per Mary’s telling, her mother (whom she simply calls Mother) is a tortured artist, full of inner grandeur, and stifled by the bounds of poverty. She’s philosophical, passionate, and brilliant in her own ways, but she’s immobilized by mental illness and alcoholism. Her artistic flamboyance is so out of place in Leechfield, no one knows what to make of her, and the community writes her off as lunatic. But their assessment doesn’t seem unfair. Mother’s wildly destructive behaviors are the primary thrill factor of the book. Only the glowering, disapproving grandmother can subdue her, to the astonishment and disappointment of young Mary.

Mary’s father (Daddy) is the saner parent. He’s an alcoholic too, but since he’s unplagued by mental illness, he isn't ostracized. He holds a job in the oil refinery, feeds his family, and dotes on his little girls. Daddy is famous in Leechfield for his masterful telling of tall tales among friends (inspiring the title The Liars’ Club).

Although Mother and Daddy do love Mary and Lecia, Mother’s illness overshadows every aspect of their lives with insanity. Mary and Lecia have few boundaries. While Lecia assumes the responsibility that her mother shirks, Mary grows sassy and wild.

Motiva Oil Refinery, Port Arthur, Texas
(photo from aramcoservices.com)

When Mother comes into some money, they all move from oil-permeated Leechfield to an idyllic ranch in Colorado, where the girls roam the wild countryside on horseback in mountain-fresh air under wide open skies. But as it has been said, no matter where you go, there you are. Addiction and illness follow them. Mother and Daddy divorce soon thereafter, and the children are abandoned to themselves and tossed around with fantastical carelessness.

To conclude the memoir, Mary skips to her young adulthood. Mother’s new money has been squandered, Mother and Daddy have reconciled, they’ve returned to Leechfield, Daddy is bedridden, and a great family secret is disclosed. Suddenly, the insanity makes sense. But don’t read ahead. You need the blindness to appreciate Mary’s bewildering, focusless upbringing.

Throughout the book, Mary hints that she and Lecia have grown into contributing, productive humans, but as she describes her childhood, you may wonder how that outcome is possible. Maybe this is what saves the girls: Despite all the chaos, a thread of love is evident. The girls are not rejected by either parent, nor by each other. They learn attachment.

Mary Karr

Karr’s narrative is a mashup of childish perspective and grown-up introspection. Her lexicon is deliberate and selective. She crafts each sentence like a poet (which she also is). In her writing, you’ll see glimpses of the good genes she’s inherited. She’s an artist, like her mother, and a taleweaver, like her father. Enjoy The Liar’s Club like wine: Some of it is unsavory. Some of it is exquisite. All of it will alter your outlook.

Check it out on Amazon!