I read Felipe Alou's autobiography, My Baseball Journey (2018). It's not a literary masterpiece, but nevertheless a solid book that "does the job." It's particularly valuable for its story of the brutalities faced by a black Dominican pioneer coming to segregated America in the early '50s. A good reminder of a part of our ugly racial history that is so easy to forget or ignore. In an afterword, Bruce Bochy calls Alou the "Jackie Robinson of South America." My Baseball Journey is also a good reminder of the daily hardships faced by the professional athlete. True enough that they're well paid, but also true that they're subject to injuries and decay and insecurity and have to fight for their job every day. There's no such thing as tenure in sports. Alou was smart and resilient and proud and enjoyed a career that can be justly celebrated -- but not all do.
Here's my favorite paragraph: "I missed playing when I retired. Every retired ballplayer goes through the same things, the same thoughts and emotions. I still miss playing. To this day, I have dreams that I'm still playing. Sometimes I have nightmares where I"m late for a game or I've missed a team bus to the ballpark." I understand this sentiment very well; like many of my peers, I still dream that I'm either late for class or am standing in front of a large audience and have absolutely no knowledge of the subject about which I'm required to discourse for an hour.
One weakness of My Baseball Journey: though Alou managed through the steroid years, and knew Barry Bonds and others, he gives the drug problem mighty short shrift. His book turns a blind eye toward that painful period.
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