Coach- Lessons on the Game of Life Description:

Coach: Lessons on the Game of Life review:
1 stars (Good idea didn't translate into a book) - I like the idea that Michael Lewis wrote this book/article to defend a man whose coaching techniques are clearly out of style in todays world of my child this and my child that. Having said that I did not like this book:



1) the writing was chopping and hard to follow at times. i had to re-read many sentences to understand lewis' point.



2) the story lacked the depth of lewis' other wonderful books - where's the who/why/what that lewis used to moneyball (and others) educational - i wanted the story behind the story.



3) who were all the pictures of? i found them distracting...



i'll continue to read lewis' books bu thope the next one is better
4 stars (Target Audience Young Adults) - I differ with previous reviews lamenting the brevity of the book. Obviously, adults reading the book were thinking in terms of adults. I read the book thinking about my 12-year old grandson and felt it was a perfect book to send him at this stage in his life.



This is exactly the type of book you would want to send your grandchildren or have your own children read.



It sends a powerful message and being written by someone having been coached by this person at the age of 13 makes it even more valid.



It may be short, but that's the beauty of it. It keeps your interest, gets the point across and leaves you wishing for more or better yet, offers the opportunity for discussion with young adults.
5 stars (Will leave you wanting this coach for your children!) - MONEYBALL by Michael Lewis was one of the best baseball

books that I have ever read . . . so when I saw the author

had another book out, COACH, I made it a point to get

and read that one too . . . and I wasn't disappointed, though

it is radically different from his earlier effort.



MONEYBALL dealt with the economics of professional

baseball as it is played today . . . COACH is the story

of the author's coach when he was in high school who now--because

he hasn't changed his approach--isn't completely understood by

his players or their parents . . . in fact, many even want to

see him replaced.



And that's a shame because as Lewis notes, [he was] "a man trying

to give boys a sense that their lives could be something other than

ordinary."



Others have that same opinion, too, including Peyton Manning who

might be the highest-paid player in pro football:



"As far as the respect and admiration I feel for the man, I couldn't put

it into words. Just incredibly strong. For me, personally, he prepared me

for so much of what I faced at the college and pro level. Unlike some

coaches--for whom it's all about winning and losing--Coach Fitz was

trying to make men out of people. I think he prepares you for life. And, if

you want my opinion,  the people who are screwing up high school sports

are the parents. The parents who want their son to be the next Michael

Jordan. Or the parent who beats up the coach, or gets into a fight in the

stands. Here's a coach who is so intense. Yet he's never laid a hand

on anybody."



My only complaint about COACH is that it is quite short--only

91 pages, in fact, in a 5" x 7" format . . . it left me wanting to read

more about Lewis' high school days and how he described

them . . . such as in the following passage:



Graduating from Babe Ruth to the varsity with only the slightest physical

justification ( I now resembled less a scoop of vanilla ice cream than a

rounder Hobbit) meant coping with an out-of-control hormonal arms race.

A few of our players had sprouted sideburns; but the enemy retaliated

by growing terrifying little goatees and showing up at games with wives

and, on one shocking occasion, children. I still had no muscles, and no

facial hair, but I did have my own odor. I smelled, pretty much all the time,

like Ben-Gay. I wore the stuff on my perpetually sore right shoulder and

elbow. I wore it, also, on the bill of my cap, where Fitz had taught me

to put it, to generate the grease for a spitball that might just compensate

for my pathetic fastball. Everywhere I went that year, I emitted a vaguely

medicinal vapor; and it is the smell of Ben-Gay I associate with what

happened next.