T.O. and A-Rod plus more tales of heckling and hate

                    

	A literary landmark of a magnitude unseen in almost 400 years. AP
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NOTE: The following was scrawled with The New York Times Sunday Review of Books in mind, but I decided to spare myself the editor's stony silence and openly court yours instead:

Not since Two Spanish Picaresque Novels (224 pages, Penguin Classics; Reprint edition, 1969) landed on my desk, jarring me (momentarily) awake in Comparative Lit class at Bard College, have I tried to grapple with such a significant pair of literary landmarks.

Just as Francisco de Quevedo's The Swindler (1626) and the anonymously authored Lazarillo De Tormes (1554) helped goose the development of the modern novel out of the moist embrace of rhymed poetry, so will Terrell Owens' Little T Learns to Share (22 pages, BenBella Books, 2006) and Alex Rodriguez's Out of the Ballpark (32 pages, HarperCollins, 2007) spawn a bold new field of literary invention.

These two recent offerings are bracing examples of adult celebrities rendering their respective publicized psychodramas as entertainment for unwashed urchins. Mr. Owens, the notoriously troubled wide receiver who has left a swath of wreckage and dissension in NFL clubhouses on a scale that rivals Allie Sherman's march on Atlanta, admits that he wrote his book "to convey to children that it's never too late to learn how to get it right -- whatever 'it' is, I'm still learning." In that respect, Little T Leanrs to Share is the sequel to The Swindler.

This earnestly-presented tale of a little boy refusing to share his new football with friends for fear of getting it dirty will invite hearty horselaughs in parent and child alike. Children are selfish, yes. But fastidious? Pigs more commonly pilot lunar missions. Unless Mr. Owens -- or his ghostwriter Courtney Parker -- was attempting to create a character in the mold of Neil Simon's Felix Unger, then one must assume that a swindle (and I'm not just referring to the volume's $14.95 price tag) is indeed afoot.

The terse, peppy doggerel (Pretty soon he realized he wasnt having any fun. He really couldn't play without the help of anyone) may very well inspire grade-school grammar teachers to put guns iin their mouths, especially the following passage: "I don't think so, Sam -- I'm sorry, Tim -- I'mma have to turn y'all down." One wonders, why there is no "I'm gonna git you, sucka" -- but let us not quibble over a masterwork. More troublesome is the reality disconnect underscored by the crying Little T's concern about losing his friends over his refusal to share. Where, one wonders, is the more appropos expression of remorse, such as "Tuna would still be coaching the Cowboys today if only I had shut up and tried to play." Yet, the lacerating mix of earnestness and high comedy is served piping hot with real brio, a worthy descendent of Moliere's finest satire.

As for Mr. Rodriguez, his tale of struggling to deliver under the crushing pressures of a youth league championship game is the very grit and gristle of Poe. One envisions the author, empty bottles of absinthe scattered about his squalid apartment, eyes wild spirals, hands feverishly clawing his cauliflowered ears at the sound of the heart beating under the floorboards while the wind moans in the eaves and the raven in the corner cackles with scorn. Symbols of torment can be found everywhere: young Alex's best friend is JD (Derek Jeter in reverse) and his brother is Joe. Tory might have been too obvious, but one nevertheless begins to scan the crowd scenes for a scowling, grumbling fat man named George in a navy blue turtleneck.

It's all a little too real for comfort -- and it might have been even more real had young Alex simply disappeared the day of the big game. As it is, Out of the Ballpark is still the stuff of rancid nightmares as less confident tots will surely lie awake wondering, "If the supremely gifted A-Rod can get up at 5 a.m. to practice and still choke under pressure -- never mind that bogus Hollywood ending -- what hope have I?"

The story is steeped in a sense of weltschmerz so overarching that younger readers, at least those who don't revel in schadenfreude, might be better off waiting for Thomas Harris to produce Young Hannibal Learns to Cook or the illustrated children's editions of the works of Bret Easton Ellis. In the meantime, parents of impatient offspring can keep them pacified by handing them a copy of Stephen King's Misery.

It goes without saying that these new landmark works of reality fiction will open the gates of the literary nuthatch to other athletes who wish to share their misfortunes and undoing with the class. My 11-year old son has already announced his anticipation of Mike Tyson's first contribution to the genre.