From Publishers Weekly
The premise of this book-a group of men have a weekly basketball game that anchors their lives-is so wholesome and therapeutic, it's easy to go into it with a jaded eye. But that won't last for long, since Eisenstock's account is surprisingly unsentimental. A veteran TV writer (Sanford and Son; What's Happening!; etc.), Eisenstock, like many other Los Angelenos of means, moved his family out of the city and up to Santa Monica soon after the Rodney King riots. At his palatial new spread, he realizes a long-festering dream: to have a basketball hoop like he had at his childhood home back East. As it's a crime to let a hoop go unused, Eisenstock assembles an informal pickup game of 10 guys every Sunday that quickly evolves into something much greater. The game becomes the place where these men-almost exclusively white, affluent and professional-can come and, in short, monosyllabic style, of course, talk about their lives with someone besides their spouses or therapists. Months turn into years, and the game becomes an almost-sacrosanct institution that these men plan their weeks around. Befitting his background in TV writing, Eisenstock has an ear for fast, punchy dialogue and quickly capturing a mood. There's little sermonizing about what this guys' coffee klatch ultimately means, but when the game finally comes to a close, there's no doubt the players will miss their weekly ritual.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
When riots in 1992 encroached on his home near South Central L.A., Eisenstock, a writer for TV's Sanford and Son and The Nanny, moved his family to a Santa Monica farmhouse with a driveway large enough to put up a basketball hoop. He promptly did, fulfilling the dream of many boys and several "coexecutive producer[s] of a hot new sitcom" to have a hoop of their own. Before long, Eisenstock and his mates had a regular Sunday morning game. Why not? Eisenstock's wife had her book group. Boys will be boys, middle-aged professionals not excepted, as Eisenstock's re-creation of the male milieu of weekend warriors--the sweating, the swearing, the bonding--attests. While all hell broke loose around them--earthquakes, O.J., divorces, blown-out knees--the game was the constant they could count on. When Eisenstock was diagnosed with adhesive capsulitis, the game continued, with the host recuperating on the sidelines. Men, writes Eisenstock, "can achieve closeness without intimacy, while women can achieve intimacy without closeness." His breezy memoir effectively captures that closeness. Benjamin Segedin
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
The premise of this book-a group of men have a weekly basketball game that anchors their lives-is so wholesome and therapeutic, it's easy to go into it with a jaded eye. But that won't last for long, since Eisenstock's account is surprisingly unsentimental. A veteran TV writer (Sanford and Son; What's Happening!; etc.), Eisenstock, like many other Los Angelenos of means, moved his family out of the city and up to Santa Monica soon after the Rodney King riots. At his palatial new spread, he realizes a long-festering dream: to have a basketball hoop like he had at his childhood home back East. As it's a crime to let a hoop go unused, Eisenstock assembles an informal pickup game of 10 guys every Sunday that quickly evolves into something much greater. The game becomes the place where these men-almost exclusively white, affluent and professional-can come and, in short, monosyllabic style, of course, talk about their lives with someone besides their spouses or therapists. Months turn into years, and the game becomes an almost-sacrosanct institution that these men plan their weeks around. Befitting his background in TV writing, Eisenstock has an ear for fast, punchy dialogue and quickly capturing a mood. There's little sermonizing about what this guys' coffee klatch ultimately means, but when the game finally comes to a close, there's no doubt the players will miss their weekly ritual.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
When riots in 1992 encroached on his home near South Central L.A., Eisenstock, a writer for TV's Sanford and Son and The Nanny, moved his family to a Santa Monica farmhouse with a driveway large enough to put up a basketball hoop. He promptly did, fulfilling the dream of many boys and several "coexecutive producer[s] of a hot new sitcom" to have a hoop of their own. Before long, Eisenstock and his mates had a regular Sunday morning game. Why not? Eisenstock's wife had her book group. Boys will be boys, middle-aged professionals not excepted, as Eisenstock's re-creation of the male milieu of weekend warriors--the sweating, the swearing, the bonding--attests. While all hell broke loose around them--earthquakes, O.J., divorces, blown-out knees--the game was the constant they could count on. When Eisenstock was diagnosed with adhesive capsulitis, the game continued, with the host recuperating on the sidelines. Men, writes Eisenstock, "can achieve closeness without intimacy, while women can achieve intimacy without closeness." His breezy memoir effectively captures that closeness. Benjamin Segedin
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
