It’s hard to captivate a reader for 702 pages.  Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and now, apparently, Simmons.  In The Book of Basketball, Bill spends 702 pages expounding two insights that will alter profoundly perception of the sport.  Teamwork is the secret to winning.  Michael Jordan is the greatest player of all time.  Thanks, professor (I kid).
Bill Simmons has an obsessive mind.  He’s not a man to list his top ten basketball players of all time.  He’s a man to outline his ideal construction for the Hall of Fame, rank and profile the 96 players he believes should fill it and then write thousands of words in a column about how he changed his mind.
It’s this obsession that makes Simmons detail-attentive, analytical and creative.  He examines every angle – some you would think of, some you would never think of and some you wish he never thought of.
Not everyone would hound the NBA for footage of Walt Bellamy or Dolph Schayes to better understand basketball.  Not everyone hits #1 on the New York Times Bestseller list.
The Book of Basketball has flaws.  Freed from censors, Simmons struggles initially to balance himself.  He references porn a little too frequently in the first few hundred pages, descending from ribald into creepy.
Simmons trusts the objective weight of his own logic too much in my opinion.  He focuses on his grand theorizing and, perhaps subconsciously, masks where his writing is strongest, the memoir.  Bill with his immaculately stached father is far more compelling than who Bill thinks should have won the NBA MVP in 1964.
A more diligent technician could cut 200 pages from this book, but it wouldn’t be a Bill Simmons book.  The tangents are an essential part of the package.
The Book of Basketball will not convert anyone to Bill Simmons, but he’s past the point where he needs to proselytize.  This book taught me a ton about basketball.  I was for the most part amused.  If you enjoy Simmons’ columns and his rapport with Jack O and House, as I do, you will enjoy this book.  Having said that, read it in chunks.

It’s hard to captivate a reader for 702 pages.  Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and now, apparently, Simmons.  In The Book of Basketball, Bill spends 702 pages expounding two insights that will alter profoundly perception of the sport.  Teamwork is the secret to winning.  Michael Jordan is the greatest player of all time.  Thanks, professor (kidding).

Bill Simmons has an obsessive mind.  He’s not a man to list his top ten basketball players of all time.  He’s a man to outline his ideal construction for the Hall of Fame, rank and profile the 96 players he believes should fill it and then write thousands of words in a column about how he changed his mind.

It’s this obsession that makes Simmons detail-attentive, analytical and creative.  He examines every angle – some you would think of, some you would never think of and some you wish he never thought of.

Not everyone would hound the NBA for footage of Walt Bellamy or Dolph Schayes to better understand basketball.  Not everyone hits #1 on the New York Times Bestseller list.

The Book of Basketball has flaws.  Freed from censors, Simmons struggles initially to balance himself.  He references porn a little too frequently in the first few hundred pages, descending from ribald into creepy.

Simmons trusts the objective weight of his own logic too much in my opinion.  He focuses on his grand theorizing and, perhaps subconsciously, masks where his writing is strongest, the memoir.  Bill with his immaculately stached father is far more compelling than who Bill thinks should have won the NBA MVP in 1964.

A more diligent technician could cut 200 pages from this book, but it wouldn’t be a Bill Simmons book.  The tangents are crucial.

The Book of Basketball will not convert anyone to Bill Simmons, but he’s past the point where he needs to proselytize.  This book taught me a ton about basketball.  I was for the most part amused.  If you enjoy Simmons’ columns and his rapport with Jack O and House, as I do, you will enjoy this book.  Having said that, read it in chunks.