McDermott can write well, there’s no doubt about that. What all of his pretty sentences add up to, though, isn’t clear; it’s a rather hollow book on balance.
He writes about his childhood, his baseball roots, and pitching. I am starting to wonder if there is something in the nature of baseball that confounds prose, and that is reiterated here, as an otherwise fine writer can’t convey much clear substance about the mysteries of pitching; indeed, the book could have benefited from diagrams, lots of them. Much of his sourcing is second hand. The better parts weren’t about pitching but himself.
So maybe this isn’t so much a book about pitching mechanics, then. Somewhere in this there may be a theme about the pretensions of baseball, America, and dishonesty. Life is complex, and so are human beings. If it takes another cheating scandal to remind us of that, then books like this tell us to look at the game more closely. Baseball is fraught with error, bad judgments, and with every pitch, a fundamental act of athletic trickery.
Accordingly, we best strip away our self-delusions about the game, our country, and ourselves. Page after page, McDermott does just that, and if he can do that, so can we. Baseball is flawed, but human, and we should do well to keep loving it, but doing so with eyes wide open, as well as our hearts.