If you could look up “storytelling fundamentals” in the dictionary, there would probably be a picture of Pat Conroy next to it. He’s the epitome of an 80s/90s American bestselling author, in all the best ways, and his nonfiction is just as good as his fiction.

There’s nothing like a good sports memoir, and Conroy puts a twist on the genre by using it to examine the nature of sport itself, from the perspective of a loser with nothing but passion for the game. Through this, he also examines male authority in the form of two monsters: his father, who haunted all his fiction, and his college coach. Yet this is not simply a novel of abuse - both men are made fully human in the phenomenal, haunting epilogue. Ultimately, this memoir turns into an examination of men, in all their hope, their heartbreak, their misery.

As in all narrative nonfiction, there’s a touch of artifice here, most apparent in how every line of dialogue seems to include someone’s last name. For example:

“Hey Conroy, did you catch last night’s game?”

“Yeah, Cauthen, it was better than your mum.”

“Up yours, Conroy.”

But the artifice is acceptable. Conroy’s painting a picture of his golden years, and he seems to know they really weren’t all that golden.