I’m sorry to say that I, like apparently everybody else, too rarely go into actual bookstores anymore, primarily because I’m cheap and lazy. The exception is used bookstores, which are a different game in terms of supporting authors and publishing, which, as an aspiring participant, I really ought to do.
It’s only going to get worse now that my girlfriend got me a Kindle Fire for an early Christmas present. I’m not likely to read a lot of books e-style, what between free streams of old Arrested Development episodes and perpetual solitaire, but I’ll read a few, and they’ll inevitably whittle into my already sparse bookstoring.
Anyhow, given all that, I felt a little self-applied glow of unearned righteousness just before Christmas when I did patronize a bookstore, the excellent Shakespeare & Co. here in Missoula, to get a gift for my granny in Texas. She’s become a great reader in her elder years, and also something of an unlikely liberal, and had mentioned an interest in presidential biographies. I bought her H.W. Brand’s Franklin Roosevelt biography Traitor to his Class, which I thought she might like, not least since she grew up poor during the Great Depression and knew Roosevelt from afar as an almost perpetual presidential presence. (She’s loving the book, come to find out — probably the best-received gift I’ve ever gotten her).
Meanwhile, I’m in a great bookstore, filled with Christmas spirit and self-congratulation, and so I can hardly help but buy something for myself, especially since I’ve temporarily convinced myself that I’m god’s gift to local economies and the future of the book, a one-man hospice helper at the bedside of a dying industry, holding hands and cooing encouragement. Hell, I deserve a new book all my own…
I picked Abraham Verghese’s The Tennis Partner, despite having a preference against paperbacks and a hatred of those little P.S. book club addenda that all the bestsellers have these days. Whatever, it was cheapish, I’d heard good things about Verghese, and I had seven hours of flying ahead of me. And I’ve been obsessing over tennis since early summer when I took it up again after a 25-year absence spawned by a semi-distinguished high school career.
Verghese is foremost a physician, and the book is a memoir of his tennis-based friendship with a former low-level touring pro-turned-medical student who also happens to be a recovering addict. The book isn’t about tennis per se, though it does have some insightful writing about the sport as played at the club-enthusiast level. Mostly, though, the tennis is there as the setting that brings the two men together, and as an occasional metaphor for the back and forths of a fledgling friendship and the relapse/recovery cycle of addiction and treatment. To wit: winning a point in tennis is usually a matter of getting the ball back over the net just one more time than your opponent does.
This was good and even instructive reading for me, since I tend to try to hit winners, and I also tend to lose. Then again, I didn’t really take tennis up again to win so much as to get my ass out of a chair for a few hours a week. When I got back from Christmas in Atlanta, which I spent with family, and where I received a new racket and new court shoes as gifts, I made a date to play doubles with a couple of guys I’ve enjoyed getting to know on the court over the past few months. One of them is a lawyer who used to work in El Paso, Texas, where Verghese’s story takes place. I asked if he’d read it.
“Oh yeah,” he said. He’d often played with ol’ Abe, a great guy, doing real well. I’d had a hard time telling from the book how competent a player Verghese was, wondering, of course, if I could take him. My lawyer friend said he was a solid 4.0 player, would fit right into the foursome we had on court.
Yeah, I figured. I could take him.