The main trouble is that its hero, Frank Bascombe, works from home. True, he writes magazine profiles of big-name American football stars, but (oh my God) did I mention this? He works from home.True, he also embodies a recognisable anomie, and has a few childlike traits that make him unpopular with more emotionally mature people, but, look, for goodness’ sake, he works from home, so how the hell does that count as sports writing? Sorry to be so literal-minded where a Great American Novel is involved, but, good grief, it isn’t clear even whether Frank Bascombe owns a laptop (unlikely, since the book was published in 1986), let alone has acquired a cumbersome 20-piece set of telephone connectors for essential dial-up use in all the more bizarrely socketed countries of western Europe. Has he ever delivered 900 words ten minutes before the whistle in a stadium packed with jubilant Italians all using up the available Vodafone signal? Has he ever tried to park near Stamford Bridge after 10 a.m.
