I sat and stewed over this review for a few days. It’s not that I didn’t know what to say about Wrigleyworld: A Season in Baseball’s Best Neighborhood, it’s that I didn’t know how negative I wanted to be. There have been books I have disliked; those reading along know I have read a fair share of bad baseball books. However, it’s very rare that I finish a book and am left thinking, “I hated every single page of that!” Such was the case with Wrigleyworld: A Season in Baseball’s Best Neighborhood, a book that has no redeemable qualities whatsoever.
Within the first few pages, I realized that the author of this trash heap, Kevin Kaduk, fancies himself a low-rent Bill Simmons. I greatly dislike the frat boy approach Simmons takes to sports, and that immediately placed me at odds with the tone of Wrigleyworld: A Season in Baseball’s Best Neighborhood. To Kaduk, baseball matters, at least that’s what he keeps saying in between writing about tits and booze. In reality, the version of baseball that matters to Kaduk isn’t a version that matters to me, and it never has. Even in my younger days, I didn’t view baseball as an opportunity to get blasted or scope out the racks on women. I’m not a purist by any measure, but for me, baseball has always been about baseball. I enjoy, and really the only thing I need, is the simple act of watching baseball. Everything else is window dressing; I can either take it or leave it. As long as there’s baseball taking place and I’m enjoying myself with family, friends, or all by my lonesome, that’s all I need. Kaduk needs the window dressing because his version of baseball is one where what happens on the field is secondary to how many beers he can chug.
What’s hilarious is there’s a passage where Kaduk laments fans leaving a game early to go and get their booze on at the bar. He takes some sort of stand against that sort of fan and how they aren’t real baseball fans. This is followed, in no fewer than four pages, with his very loud retelling of how he and some other drunk guy decided to leave a game early for the comfort of a bar because there was no point in staying. You see, it’s about the baseball, only it’s really about where to best get drunk while barely paying attention to the baseball. This exchange is emblematic of the entirety of Wrigleyworld: A Season in Baseball’s Best Neighborhood, as it’s one dumb story after another that speaks to a certain type of frat boy, and I am certainly not that frat boy.
I could write a lot more. I truly detested this book to the point where I have zero issue labeling it the worst baseball book I’ve ever read. But, you know what, there’s baseball taking place in Cuba right now, specifically my Leñadores de Las Tunas are about to take the field, and I want to enjoy baseball, not spend one more second on this dreck masquerading as a baseball book. Catch you later.
Lead image courtesy of Unknown – Penguin Random House
