I've wondered for some time now if a novel with a deeply configured sports theme could possibly come away with a Newbery prize in today's culture of literature for young readers. I'm not talking about books like Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy or Maniac Magee, both Newbery designees that featured sports as incidental to the plot; what I have in mind are books that truly revolve around a sports theme, ones in which the plot is built on the foundation of a sport or sports. Perhaps the closest that anyone has recently come to achieving Newbery recognition with such a novel was Bruce Brooks being awarded Newbery Honor citations for not one but two of his books that intricately wove sporting concepts all through their narratives, The Moves Make the Man and What Hearts. Of course, Bruce Brooks is far from your average writer, and I personally don't discount his potential to accomplish anything with his writing when he's in peak form. Having said that, could a writer in today's market earn admittance to the exclusive Newbery club with a book about sports? I don't know for sure, but over at least the next decade or two, I'd say that Mike Lupica likely will be a perennial candidate to do just that. His excellent balance of realistic family discord, exciting sports action, and emotional sensitivity to the plights of his main characters have set the contemporary standard for youth sports novels, and that standard is an impressively high one. If anyone can eventually break through in the near future and capture a Newbery with a thrilling and evocative sports story, there's a good chance that it may be Mike Lupica.
One of the best things about The Batboy, in my view, is the way that the book tackles issues both specific to baseball fans of its own age, and timeless to anyone who has ever played the game or loved it. Being a serious fan of the major leagues in 2010 and its surrounding years has meant struggling with steroid issues on a deeply philosophical and practical level, trying to figure out how much of the accomplishments of baseball's greatest modern-day legends was authentic, and how much was just the result that logically follows the stars of a professional baseball league becoming hopped up on performance enhancing drugs. It's really hard to argue that the drugs weren't having much of an effect on power hitting when, after mandatory testing in Major League Baseball finally became widespread, athletes all around the league reported to spring training the next year looking smaller and weaker, and the best home run hitters suddenly dropped from knocking well over fifty homers out of the park in a single season, to only hitting about thirty (and that was if they were having a good year). Baseball's record book is arguably more important that that of any other American sport, and the steroid era wrecked it so thoroughly that I honestly doubt it can ever be the same again. Could a non-user of performance enhancing drugs ever actually hit more than seventy-three home runs in a regular season of one hundred sixty-two games? Even if Lou Gehrig were to suddenly come back to life and be twenty-five years old again, I still don't think it could be done. And that's saying a lot, because I don't know if we've ever seen a finer offensive baseball player than the Iron Horse. When the steroids scandal first broke and in the years following directly afterward, fans had to gauge for themselves just how loyal they were willing to be to a league that had seemingly betrayed its fans while simultaneously dimming the luster of the legacies of long-dead greats such as Honus Wagner, Babe Ruth and Jimmie Foxx. Many fans just gave up on the league entirely, and I find it hard to blame them for their choice.
The Batboy, though, is most definitely a book about dreams still coming true in the major leagues, and for Brian Dudley, it's going to happen in a big way. Brian is practically a machine devoted to the collection and analysis of baseball stats, his love of the game so all-inclusive and fervent that he can think about it all the time and never lose that passion. I have some theories about why Brian loves baseball this much, theories that aren't necessarily directly addressed in the pages of The Batboy, but that will come later on here. When Brian, with the help of his mother (who happens to be a television news editor), writes a letter to the clubhouse manager for the Detroit Tigers applying for the job of batboy, his impassioned plea is so winsomely and honestly articulated that the standard league agreement for batboys to be at least sixteen years old is waived, and Brian at age fourteen is granted access to a world of which most boys can only dream. There's so much more hard work and long hours that go into being a batboy than most people ever know, but Brian purely loves baseball, and for him the work is a small price to pay to be so close to the pulsing action of a major league field.
And how that action does pulse. It's very hard to adequately describe it to someone who hasn't seen a professional game in person, but even just watching is like experiencing a more highly energized level of life. When one is on a baseball field or in the stands it's like the volume turns way up on all of one's senses, or like the senses themselves begin to cross over and affect each other. The explosion of a fastball rocketing off the good wood of a skillfully swung bat is almost a sweet scent, and the finely clipped grass of a beautifully manicured field seems to practically taste of summer. One's sensory receptors are maxed out constantly, and that's before the teams even begin to play. Actually getting into the action and being on a team is an experience a hundred times more vivid, and the bigger the stage the more intense the total experience will be. There's nothing in this world like having the hopes of many on your shoulders as you try to rise above your fear of failure and take control for that one crucial moment when everything is depending on how well you're able to execute under pressure. And actually coming through when the stakes are at their highest... Well, that's a feeling you'll never, ever forget.
I've tried my best to describe all of this mostly as a way to help make a complete picture of the sadness in Brian's life in this book. While his letter to the Tigers' clubhouse manager was compelling in and of itself, there's no denying that he had a definite advantage in competing for the batboy job because he's the son of Cole Dudley, former major league pitcher. Brian's father was a lefty specialist who never dominated the game and bounced around to many teams over the course of his career before retiring when Brian was eight years old. As happens to many former pros who have tasted the enhanced sense of reality that is playing Major League Baseball, though, domestic life was too hard an adjustment for Cole Dudley to make. After being right in the thick of one great on-field adventure after another for years and years, "civilian" life was too slow for him. One day he simply left his wife and son and took a job as a pitching coach in Japan, where he could still be close to the action even if he was no longer going to be an active part of it. And just like that, Brian was without a father.
I think that it's easy to condemn Cole Dudley for what he did and feel sad for Brian, but I really feel sad for both of them. When one has been on the big stage and then can't be on it any longer, regular life can feel unbearably insipid. I don't doubt that Brian's father loves him and wishes that he could want to be there for his only son, but such a desire isn't something that's easy to fake. Cole Dudley is as addicted to the adrenaline of professional baseball as a drug user is to his or her narcotic of choice, and such an addiction can lead one to make unfortunate choices. Brian's father is stuck in a place that he'll never get out of, desperately chasing after the fruits of his youth while being too old to ever reclaim them. It's a conundrum that affects every athlete, whether legendary or mediocre, to at least some degree.
I think that the reality of coping with his father's absence may be the most important reason why Brian can be involved constantly in baseball without any sign of burnout. His father left Brian and his mother in order to pursue baseball, and matching that extraordinary desire for the game is the only continual link that Brian has to his father. If Cole Dudley is always thinking about baseball, even to the point of giving it priority over his own son, then Brian can feel some kind of a connection to his father by also thinking fanatically about the game. It's like looking out at the starry night sky and wondering if a particular someone you love is staring up at those same glimmering stars at that very same moment. Brian knows that if he's thinking about baseball then he and his father are most likely occupying the same intellectual airspace at any given time, and that's now the closest he can come to actually being with his father. Memorizing baseball facts, watching the sport be played, and interacting with the professional players via his role as batboy is all just material to try and fill the void that his father left behind, because to Brian his father is baseball, in a sense. Yet it's a void that never closes up, and not all the baseball in the world can fill it when there's only one baseball player who was designed to fill the void.
During the most unforgettable summer of his life as he performs the duties of batboy for his hometown major league team, Brian is astounded to find out that his all-time favorite player, first baseman/designated hitter Hank Bishop, has been signed by the Tigers and will be joining the team. This is where the discussion about steroids really enters the picture, as Hank Bishop (a completely fictional baseball player, as all of his Tigers teammates in this book are) had started out his illustrious career as one of the greatest players in baseball in a Detroit Tigers uniform. The robust glow surrounding his all-star career had faded when he tested positive for steroids twice, and then he had been out of the league entirely for a year and a half. With Hank Bishop back in the mix now, Brian's summer becomes even more interesting than he had ever expected. Yet the man he once idolized turns out to be even more of an enigmatic and disappointing character than Brian's father. There may be more to Hank Bishop than most of his major league peers are willing to take the time to find out, but will Brian be able to accept the glaring faults of his baseball hero, and make the most out of their time as "teammates"?
There's a strong emotional core to this book, a certain sadness underlying even the sweetest opportunities for Brian that arise because of his dream job. The poignancy to this story of a boy trying to live without the father who left him behind will reach all of us who have sorely missed someone we loved and whom we felt decided that there was someone (or something) more worthwhile out there for them than we were. However, there are definitely some magical moments in this story that come close to taking one's breath away, the most special of which has to be the one unlikely night in the batting cage, and how the unexpected positives of that single impromptu practice session work to change everything. After you've read the book, you'll know what I'm talking about. This part of the story is more than just excellent sports writing; it's excellent writing of any kind, worthy of being placed beside the work of some of today's best juvenile novelists.
I can't say that The Batboy quite tops that hill to have been worthy of a 2011 Newbery Medal, but it's the kind of story which proves to me that Mike Lupica is definitely good enough to be a Newbery author. One of these days he may finally grab that Newbery, and while The Batboy turned out not to be the fulcrum for that epic breakthrough, it is a fine novel that will please many different types of readers, even those without any special partiality to our national pastime. Whether one loves sports action or just a good story, The Batboy won't disappoint. I would probably give it two and a half stars, but possibly the full three.