If I had pride in such matters, there are a few authors I’d be embarrassed to admit that I’ve read. Ayn Rand, for example, is one I’ve read that is so bad that it’s impossible to say which she debases more — philosophy or literature – but more than that, being among her readers just gives me the creeps. I imagine it’s like hanging out at a child porn swap meet, which if you understand James Joyce’s definition of porn, you understand that Rand’s work is exactly that — child porn.
Bill Simmons is the Ayn Rand of sports book authors with one difference: Rand is hilarious in spite of not trying, and Simmons isn’t funny though he tries very hard to be.
Chapter one begins, “I learned the secret of basketball while lounging at a topless pool in Las Vegas.” This sets the tone for the book and lets me know immediately that it wasn’t written for adults. But would I let my thirteen-year-old son read it? I’m afraid not, but my kid is probably too mature (and sensitive) to want to read Simmons.
For example, in what Simmons describes as an anology in support of his claim that the 1997 MVP should have gone to Jordon, not Karl Malone, he writes, “For my buddy House’s bachelor party in 2008, a group of us trekked to Vegas for four days and landed at the world-renowned Olympic Garden one night. Normally in strip joints, I suggest we find a corner and surround ourselves with those big comfy chairs— I call it the ‘Chair Armada’— so we aren’t continually approached by below-average strippers trying to pull the ‘maybe if I plop right down on his lap, he’ll feel bad for me and buy a lap dance’ routine.”
Simmons then goes on to describe a “mediocre Asian with fake cans” who circled them for some time and ultimately landed with one of his “buddies” who settled for her out of desperation.
The strip club scene occurs on page 258. It was the last page I read and if I have to tell you why you might as well stop reading now.
Lest you think I’m a prude, I will tell you that I’ve read and appreciated Masoch, Nabokov, William Burroughs and many others who wrote about sex and depravity. I’ve written about it myself. But, the fact is, Simmons’ sexual references aren’t depraved, or even interesting. They are just undignified. A normal response to women who work strip clubs would be sadness, pity, even anger. (I will also add that, like Simmons, I was born in 1969, so I don’t think I’m experiencing any generational divide.)
All of this aside, The Book of Basketball doesn’t bring anything to the table that any junior high school kid who has memorized a bunch of records and stats and watched a lot of ESPN might regurgitate. Simmons prattles on endlessly about the history of the NBA MVP award, as if it determined anything more legitimate than a Grammy, or an Academy Award.
The book uses the footnote as a kind of lower level of hell. They are constant and generally used as a more intense mode of self-indulgence where Bill exposes his artisanal quality observations.
Referring to Jason Kidd in one particularly baffling footnote, Simmons writes, “Anytime ‘he smacked his wife. Let’s get him the hell out of here’ is the only reason for dealing one of the best-top-ten point guards ever, I’m sorry, that’s a shitty reason. By the way, this footnote was written by Ike Turner.”
No Bill, it was written by an asshole.
On the same page as the Ike Turner footnote, Bill writes, “I hated English majors in college and I hate movies that are vehemently defended by English majors now.” Who hates English majors other than hack-wanna-be-writers?
In addition to the footnote diversions, Simmons regals us with extended (b)analogies such as the injustice done to Shawshank Redemption at the 1994 Academy Awards when it lost to Forest Gump. He is right, Shawshank Redemption was better than Forest Gump, but this is like saying Bill Simmons is a better writer than Glenn Beck — they were both bad and anyone willing to make a distinction has too much time on their hands (yeah, I know — the mirror. I’m looking.) Anyway, Ed Gonzalez writing in Slant described Shawshank as film for sensitive heterosexual men (a buddy flick) filled with a series of Halmark moments that make a cartoon of prison life. That about sums it up and Simmons is exactly that audience. (For my own amusement I made a quick list of films I saw in 1994 that were more enjoyable and better art than either of these films: Quiz Show, Caro diario, Clerks, and Hoop Dreams. And yes, Bill, I was an English major in college.)
I’ll spare you the fascinating “what if” game Bill plays with “Boogie Nights”.
So with all of this garbage in print, how do we account for Simmons’ popularity? Is it his Joe Sixpack approach, his comforting pop culture references, his heteronormative cock associations scattered at regular intervals with strip club fantasy? I really don’t know, but I do know that Simmons lends support to all of those who think of sports fans as little more than emotionally stunted couch potatoes.
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