He is a retired baseball player. Oh, you knew that?

I didn’t know that before this book came out in 1999. Ask me to name as many baseball players as I can, and I promise, I don’t even need two hands.

That is in no way King’s fault, but this short novel will read a lot better to fans of the sport, and even to those who have only a passing knowledge of it. Still, most folk across the pond will be fine with the references, and the psychology of it is still intact, despite the (admittedly, only infrequent) lengthy baseball paragraphs.

Some of King’s greatest pieces – The Mist, The Langoliers, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, and The Body – have been novellas, so I had high hopes and expectations for this one. Unfortunately, it doesn’t reach that lofty standard and ultimately – even as brief as it is – this feels a little stretched.

I think, if this was trimmed by a third, it would be a damn fine piece. As it stands it feels like King is really on autopilot for a lot of the time. Then again, that still means it’s better than a lot of stuff out there…