This is the story of the English-born Buddhist monk who nearly ruined the game of baseball. Sidd (two d's for Siddhartha) Finch developed his unthinkable pitching skills by throwing rocks at snow leopards stalking the yak pens of his Himalayan monastery. Not a usual training for a New York Mets rookie - but one that results in unerring accuracy. ...
This is the story of the English-born Buddhist monk who nearly ruined the game of baseball. Sidd (two d's for Siddhartha) Finch developed his unthinkable pitching skills by throwing rocks at snow leopards stalking the yak pens of his Himalayan monastery. Not a usual training for a New York Mets rookie - but one that results in unerring accuracy. Sidd's pitch - so fast that it can barely be seen (much less hit) at 168 miles an hour - is in danger of upsetting the inherent structures of the game - not to mention the emotional balance of other team managers. This is the first novel by George Plimpton, editor of the "Paris Review".
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For lovers of Plimpton's "biographical" works, here is a chance to see him have a go at writing straight-out fiction. The result is a hilarious tale that is an entertaining read even for the non-baseball fan.
Publishers Weekly, 1987-05-15 The ubiquitous Plimpton strikes again, with a first novel; and it's tempting, and not really unfair, to say that he's almost as much out of his depth in full-length fiction as in those memorable moments in the ring or on the football field. He goes back to a jokey Sports Illustrated article he once did about the world's fastest pitcher, an English-born Buddhist monk called Sidd Finch, who learned his speed and accuracy hurling rocks at marauding snow leopards in the Himalayas. Plimpton fits him out with an eccentric British past, a gorgeous but kookie Southern girl friend and a tentative contract with the Mets. But despite a relaxedsometimes much too relaxednarrative style, and a lot of pleasant rambling about horn-playing, wrist musculature and the future of baseball, the book just doesn't go anywhere. It's as if Plimpton threw in everything he could think of to pad it out to novel length, and some of the paddingincluding a totally inept episode about a Mafia gamblershould have been cut early on. Baseball fans will enjoy parts of this, but even they will feel cheated that there's no real climax. The book, like Finch, just ambles off the field. Literary Guild Alternate. (June 15) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
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