This is embarrassing to admit, but this review is a little late. I was supposed to assess all of this year's baseball books, weighty tomes like Mickey Mantle's most recent epic, a reminiscence in the manner of Marcel Proust, My Favorite Summer 1956. But dazzled as I was by his emotionally evocative sentences ("I met up with Billy at the St. Moritz coffee shop for a quick cup of coffee"), I confess that I yielded to temptation. Instead of scrupulously working my way through a pile of new books as oversized as Cecil Fielder's strike zone, I frittered away my critical...
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