Canter Bridge

The late David Halberstam’s insightful baseball writing has been a boon for fans with long memories. There are more of them attached to this odd American sport than any other. A penchant for statistics and scars that never heal are practically the calling card of those of us who are drawn, inexorably, to the diamond with every new Spring.

This 2003 tribute to four skinny kids on the 1946 Boston Red Sox is not so much about the game as about the uncommon friendship that linked four of its iconic players. Halberstam has helped us to understand the grace that made Bobby Doer a lifetime interpreter of the gifted, irascible, and troubled Ted Williams; about the fealty to the sports unwritten rules that moved Johnny Pesky to accept the blame for a ball he never held (at least according to Halberstam’s reconstruction) until ten years after the true culprit had gone to his grave; and about the tragedy of a season that came so close to glory but ended up heralding a generation (these are short in baseball time) of mediocrity in the precursor of what we have come to know as Red Sox Nation.

Halberstam tells the story with an instinct for the game’s heroic rhythms, most of which pass unnoticed by all but the most committed observers. He skirts the edge of hagiography by taking Doerr’s, Dimaggio’s, and Pesky’s ‘lite’ version of the book’s dying, central figure as accurate description. This is what friends do for friends. Halberstam almost does it too, but pulls out before falling prey to the understandable urge to see whether a porcelain saint might just be constructed from Williams’ legacy.

Alas, it cannot.

That friends, sometimes, stick together in the way these four teammates did—and do, those who survive—is a larger story than baseball. Yet in the telling of it, Halberstam has illuminated the game as well.

We are the better for it on both counts.