I read Charles Pierce’s rant review last week, raised my eyebrows, read a little more of The Book of Basketball [see my review here] and I now have something to say about Pierce’s take on Simmons’ book.

Here is the crux of Pierce’s problem with the 700-page opus:

2.) I Am The Cosmos: Not my line. The late Molly Ivins used it in her epochal takedown of the egregious Camille Paglia. But it applies just as well here. Skip any passage having to do with Bill’s gambling, Bill’s taste in movies, Bill’s friends, and Bill’s ongoing wonderment that there are bars in this great land in which women take off their clothes for money. Also, lose most of the footnotes. You’re not the cosmos, and you’re not David Foster Wallace, either.

In the interest of full disclosure, I occasionally post about Simmons and it’s not always flattering. Is he self-absorbed? Of course, but that’s the way his readers like it. They want to hear the stories about his friends, and their trips to Vegas, or strip clubs, or strip clubs in Vegas. These anecdotes make up a solid 20% of his columns at the Worldwide Leader. If he wrote a book and didn’t talk about “House” or his theory about how an exotic dancer picks her stage name, then he’d piss off his loyal following and his book wouldn’t be a New York Times bestseller. The bottom line is that just because Pierce doesn’t think that Simmons is the cosmos, it doesn’t mean that no one else does.

Pierce continues…

He is an amusing writer who saw the vast potential of the Internet before just about anyone not named Gates or Gore. He has carved out a remarkable career. However, and I know this may break hearts around this place — Good Lord, earlier this week, the former Landlord hereabouts wrote this, apparently while weeping over a portrait of Simmons in a heart-shaped frame — but that’s the sum total of what he’s done. He is not a transformational figure. He did not reinvent sportswriting, or even the way people write about sports, which is not the same thing. He didn’t even really break down the formidable “kicked in the gonads” barrier as far as the language of journalism goes. (Did anyone arguing that point ever actually read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail? Hunter Thompson wrote some pretty wild stuff before he got to ESPN.com.) He didn’t pioneer the use of pop culture reference in sportswriting; Andre Laguerre’s Sports Illustrated did that and, anyway, Simmons’ vaunted pop-cult knowledge is carved out of a very thin loaf of Wonder Bread. He did very little that was new. But he did it on the Internet. He created a gig for himself and sold it well. That should be good enough.

This sounds personal, and it probably is. Jason Whitlock mentioned this tidbit in a recent column criticizing Pierce’s treatment of Tiger Woods.

Two weeks ago on Deadspin, Pierce trashed Bill Simmons and his New York Times-bestselling book. In that hit piece, Pierce failed to mention that he tried to befriend and mentor Simmons at the beginning of the decade and that in 2002 Simmons told Pierce to go (expletive) himself. That little nugget of information would’ve been very enlightening when reading Pierce’s Deadspin take.

Interesting. While everything that Pierce is saying about Simmons may very well be true, he doesn’t seem all that unbiased.

I always thought that Simmons’ writing was reminiscent of the beat writers of the late ’50s (Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, etc.) in that it was stream of consciousness and filled with tangential anecdotes. Throw in a little sports and pop culture knowledge and you have the makings of a good column.

And that’s what Simmons writes — a good column. Many of his readers probably haven’t heard of Kerouac, Burroughs, Andre Laguerre or (gasp!) Hunter S. Thompson. That is the nature of entertainment. It is consumed and then forgotten.

Fifty years from now, when Simmons has long retired, someone will build a big following by taking what he did and spinning it off into some other direction. That’s just how it works.

In the interest of full disclosure, when Bill Simmons’ 700-page The Book of Basketball landed on my front stoop, I decided then and there that I’d read the first few chapters and then post about it. After all, Christmas is coming up and people are probably wondering if this opus is a worthwhile gift for the beloved basketball fan in their life. (It is.)

Anyone familiar with Simmons’ work on ESPN knows that he’s an engaging writer who uses an easy-to-read, conversational style littered with funny pop culture references. His book is no different. As a former collegiate player, I often take exception to his knowledge of the game. I’m not talking about history — if there’s one thing that’s clear about this book, it’s that Simmons understands how the NBA got from Point A to Point Z.

I’m talking about things like his propensity to gripe about a player’s willingness to shoot three-pointers instead of attacking the rim. While his instincts are right that it’s better to penetrate, if the player in question suddenly starts to pass up every open three and attack the lane, defenders will adjust and play off of him, ultimately taking away (or better defending) his penetration. The player needs the threat of the three to keep defenders honest, even if he only makes 30% of his shots from downtown.

Here’s another example from page 121 of Chapter 3 — entitled “How the Hell Did We Get Here? — Simmons’ thorough history of how the NBA became what it is today. Here he discusses how Julius Erving was a terrible television analyst.

Julius Erving (’97). Hands down, the worst studio analyst of all time. And that’s a strong statement. Only two years before, Joe Montana appeared on NBC’s NFL show and may have been dead for all we knew. I remember waiting for Jonathan SIlverman and ANdrew McCarthy to jump in right before every commercial ad wheel Montana’s corpse out of the TV frame. Still, it wasn’t surprising that Montana stank–we didn’t like him for his personality, just for banging hot blondes and winning Super Bowls. It’s not like our expectations were high. But Doc was one of the few NBA stars to successfully strike that delicate balance between “articulate spokesman and ambassador” and “slick dude who lives for dunking on heads.” It was incomprehensible that Doc would suck on TV. Seeing him stammer awkwardly on the air, say nonsensical things like “Great players make great plays” and perform the deer-in-the-headlights routine was a little disarming. Every time the camera homed in on him, you could actually feel the tension in the studio. It was tangible. Before one Houston-Utah playoff game, Doc made history by predicting, “I think the key for Houston will be when Hakeem gets the ball , how fast he decides to either shoot, dribble or pass.” That’s an actual quote. I remember my old roommate Geoff and I spending the next fifteen minutes trying to determine what other options Hakeem could possibly have had on a basketball court, ultimately deciding on these: (a) turn the ball over, (b) call time out, (c) pass out, (d) shit on himself, or (e) drop dead. It was an unforgettable moment, as evidenced by the fact that I can remember where we were watching the game when it happened. Poor Dr. J. Some people just aren’t meant to be on television.

That excerpt pretty much sums up Simmons’ writing. There’s a reference to another sport (via Joe Montana) followed up by a humorous reference to “Weekend at Bernie’s.” There’s also an anecdotal, first-person account of a funny/strange event (Dr. J’s analysis) coupled with a first-name reference to one of his friends (Geoff).

Only his criticism of Erving’s analysis isn’t valid. Dr. J was talking about how quickly Hakeem decided to make a move; he wasn’t implying that there was more to do on the court than pass, dribble or shoot. As one of the greatest post players of his day, Olajuwon was constantly double-teamed. He had to either (a) make a quick post move and try to score before the other defender arrived, or (b) wait for the double team and pass the ball out, hoping to create an open shot for one of his teammates. Whatever route Hakeem chose would have a huge impact on any game in which he played. I’m not arguing that Erving was a good television analyst. Hell, I don’t even remember him in the studio. But in this case he was making a valid basketball point and 25 years later, Simmons still doesn’t get it.

Qualms aside, The Book of Basketball is an easy read. Simmons begins in the prologue with the story about how he first became a Celtics fan, discusses “The Secret” (unselfish play) in the first chapter, devotes the next chapter to what he describes as the unnecessary explanation of why Bill Russell was better than Wilt Chamberlain, tackles the “How the Hell Did We Get Here?” question in the third, ponders the 33 biggest “What-Ifs” in the fourth and ponders the legitimacy of all the MVP winners in the fifth. The next several chapters are dedicated to his “Hall of Fame Pyramid,” where he ranks the best players of all time. To close the book, he writes a chapter about the 20 best single-season teams in history, and creates an all-time team of 12 players who all know “The Secret” and would complement each other perfectly.

The Book of Basketball is a good buy for fans of his work on ESPN or NBA nuts who want a humorous (but informative) take on the league’s history.