"There are people who would perhaps call me a dilettante, because it
looks as though I’m having too much fun. I have never been convinced there’s
anything inherently wrong in having fun." — George
Plimpton
The fun stopped on September 26, 2003 when Plimpton died at the age of 76. "I
saw him the other day. He was full of energy," said his longtime friend,
restaurateur Elaine Kaufman.
Known as a central figure in American letters, Plimpton gained prominence by using his Paris Review as a springboard to establish friendships with such writers as Hemingway, Faulkner, Roth, Kerouac, to name just a few. Beyond the literary circles, Plimpton gained widespread fame by documenting in Paper Lion his attempt to play quarterback for the Detroit Lions, his boxing match against Archie Moore, pitching against Willie Mays, performing on a trapeze for a circus.
It’s probably safe to say that he broke the record for getting to know famous athletes, actors, musicians, statesmen. He often went sailing with John Kennedy, played tennis against George Bush the Elder, traveled on Air Force One with President Clinton. He knew President-to-be Bush and met with him right after Election Day 2000, with the results still in doubt. "He wanted to talk about Sidd Finch," Plimpton recalled. "I thought that was rather odd."
My review of the Sidd Finch book (published in The South Bend Tribune, August 2, 1987) may help readers to understand President Bush’s fascination with a fictional character. Or better yet, read the book.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF SIDD FINCH, by George Plimpton (Macmillan,, 275 pp. $l4.95)
My review begins--In April l985, Sports Illustrated magazine introduced sports fans to the fastest, most accurate pitcher in the history of baseball. Shy, reclusive Sidd Finch had mastered his phenomenal skill during his training as a Buddhist monk in the Far East. Although the ball traveled a l86 mph and always hit the trembling catcher’s mitt, Sidd (short for Siddhartha) had problems as a potential major leaguer: He could neither hit nor field, and he didn’t know the rules. In addition, his religion caused him to vacillate abut joining the New York Mets pitching staff.
April fool! Sidd existed only in the imagination of George Plimpton, the writer who likes to disguise himself as an athlete and sneak into professional games. What started as an April fool’s spoof in Sports Illustrated has been developed into a novel: The Curious Case of Sidd Finch.
Robert Temple, the narrator of the novel, suffers from a massive writer’s block brought on by frightening experiences in Vietnam. After world travel fails to unblock the paralyzing depression, Temple settles down in a bungalow in the beach area of St. Petersburg, devises a master plan of idleness, and undergoes treatment from a psychotherapist who requires his patients to collect trivia. Unable even to write out a grocery list, Temple has to memorize trivia, one of which pleases the therapist:
"Near Louisville, Ky, a rabbit reached out of a hunter’s game bag, pulled the trigger of the gun, and shot the hunter in the foot."
A more potent therapy than trivia is achieved when Sidd Finch enters Robert Temple’s life. Sidd is secretly trying out with the New York Mets during spring training and is sent to room with Robert in his bungalow. Sidd brings with him a French horn (which he plays beautifully by ear), a knapsack and a prayer rug. Oh yes, he has a girl in tow, too.
While surfing, Debbie Sue had noticed
Sidd on shore. Like Aphrodite, Debbie Sue rides into Sidd’s life, out
of the sea foam, borne to land not on a sea-shell but on a sail board. A free
spirit, she is a recent dropout from Duke, where she was a promising member
of the golf team.
Both Sidd and Robert are fascinated by the girl from the sea. A love trinity
is formed, reminiscent of the one in Sophie’s Choice without the paranoiac
violence. Treating Robert as her best friend, she becomes Sidd’s lover.
Her first love had been a choir boy. As she says: "He would catch me staring at him. My God, he must have felt those waves of feeling I had for him. Poor Jack Foote. He went off to the Culver Military Academy eventually. I used to dream of him in his black jack boots and how I would rush out onto the parade ground and tackle him in the ranks on some wintry day...." This unusual approach to love would certainly have drawn fire from the military supervising the parade, mounted or dismounted.
The exploration of this troika relationships, with lengthy side trips to find a speed-ball Polish pitcher, to converse with Japan’s home run hitter, to test living in a Buddhist monastery located outside of Boulder, Colo., consumes 200 pages of the novel. What keeps the reader going is waiting for the time when Sidd will at last mow down the opposition of the Mets.
Sidd’s belated appearance
in a National League game gives the novel a lift, but a disappointing one. I
seldom suggest in reviews the material the author might have selected, but after
having to wait so long I’ve earned the right to suggest how the excitement
could have been intensified.
Since Sidd doesn’t have to warm up his arm before pitching, he could make
his presence felt in the packed stadium during the playing of the National Anthem.
The glorious sound of a French horn would rise above the piped-in music. Transfixed
by Sidd’s playing, the vociferous fans are stunned into silence by a version
of the Star-Spangled banner that lifts the heart and brings tears of patriotic
joy.
Instead of staying at a distance after Sidd’s no-hitter, the Mets could have welcomed their new sensational pitcher in a pulsating circle of hugs. Think of all those colorful characters trying to find out how someone had learned how to throw a blazing baseball with absolute accuracy. How would Keith Hernanez respond to a mind-stretching riddle like "How do you get the goose out of the bottle without hurting it or breaking the bottle?" Would Dwight have snorted derisively and gone back to the dugout to snort something else? How does Mookie Wilson respond to the information that Sidd practiced his pitch by hitting marauding snow leopards to keep them away from yaks?
After this quibbling, am I in all seriousness recommending a modern fairy tale to grown up readers?
Aw, what the heck, it’s a long hot-dog summer, the brains deserve to idle, so find yourself a hammock and surrender. If caught in the act, you can always say you’re checking to see if it’s appropriate fare for your teenage son.
End of review. Has the review given you any clues to explain why Bush Jr. found the book such a fascinating read? Before you accuse me of belittling our leader’s intelligence, just remember the author, George Plimpton (may his restless soul find peace), was equally puzzled by Bush’s devotion to Sidd Finch.
