Articles liés à Wait Till Next Year

Wait Till Next Year - Couverture souple

Kearns Goodwin, Doris

 
9781781312599: Wait Till Next Year

Synopsis

When historian Goodwin was six years old, her father taught her how to keep score for ‘ their’ team, the Brooklyn Dodgers, which forged a lifelong bond between father and daughter. Set in the suburbs of New York in the 1950s, Wait Till Next Year is a coming-of-age memoir in the era of Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider, when baseball truly was a national pastime that brought whole communities together.

With her radio by her side and scorecard to hand, she recreates the postwar era, when the corner store was a place to share stories and neighborhoods were equally divided between Dodger, Giant, and Yankee fans. Weaved between the games and the seasons, Goodwin tells the story of a changing America – from the lunacy of the Cold War alarm drills to McCarthy and the Rosenburg trials – as well as her own loss of innocence encapsulated by her mother’ s death, her father’ s lapse into despair and the Dodger’ s departure from Brooklyn in 1957 following the destruction of the iconic Ebbets Field stadium.

Poignant, unsentimental and deeply eloquent, Wait Till Next Year is a profound memoir about childhood and loss, baseball, and the power of sport to bind families and heal loss and reveal as metaphor the evolving heart of a nation.

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À propos de l'auteur

Doris Kearns Goodwin is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American biographer, historian, and political commentator. She is the author of biographies of several U.S. Presidents, including Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream; The Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys: An American Saga; No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II (which won the Pulitzer Prize for History in 1995); and her most recent book, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

When I was six, my father gave me a bright-red scoreboard that opened my heart to the game of baseball. After dinner on long summer nights, he would sit beside me in out small enclosed porch to hear my account of that day’s Brooklyn Dodger game. Night after night be taught me the odd collection of symbols, numbers, and letters that enable a baseball lover to record every action of the game. Our score sheet had blank boxes in which we could draw our own slanted lines in the form of a diamond as we followed players around the bases. Wherever the baserunner’s progress stopped, the line stopped. He instructed me to fill in the unused boxes at the end of each inning with an elaborate checkerboard design which made it absolutely clear who had been the last to bat and who would lead off the next innings. By the time I had mastered the art of scorekeeping, a lasting bond had been forged among my father, baseball, and me.

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