You Just Can’t Curl Up With a Good Computer

For Christmas each year, a friend of mine and I exchange books. Neither of us is a Nintendo, laser disc, CD-ROM, screen-saver, Mortal Kombat kind of guy. We read. We read books. Remember books? They’re those thick things, with the printing on them.

I am not an ideal book reviewer, I must admit. I bought “The Firm” because I thought it was a Kathy Smith fitness manual, “The Celestine Prophecy” because I thought it was Monica Seles’ teen-age diary and “The Bridges of Madison County” because I thought it was about Mr. and Mrs. Bridge.

I really should do more research. I bought “The Lost World” because I thought it would be the story of the Clippers, “The Horse Whisperer” because I thought it was about a trainer from Santa Anita, “David Brinkley: A Memoir” because I got him confused with the swimsuit model and “Misery” because I thought there might be more than one Clipper book.

This has happened to me all my life. I remember reading “Little Women” because I thought it would be about gymnastics, “David Copperfield” because I thought it would be about a magician and “Catch-22” because I thought it would be about 100 ground balls hit to Jose Offerman.

Books mean so much to me, though. They get me through dark and stormy nights. I would rather read “Devil in a Blue Dress,” “The Hot Zone” or “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” than watch any network television program. Were there a book channel on TV, I would watch it.

I don’t listen to books in my car, any more than I would read a CD. Listening to books in your car could be dangerous. Certain passages from Rush Limbaugh make your car swerve to the right. Certain passages from Howard Stern can cause your air bag to pop open. At least with Martha Stewart, you never run out of gas.

This Christmas, I searched the shelves high and wide for a gift for my friend. I had plenty to choose from, including many selections from Garfield the cat and the late Lewis Grizzard in the “Alleged Humor” section, Demi Moore’s coffee-table book with revised endings to all the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the surprising “Ann Landers Guide to Polish Humor” and 97 new books on Mickey Mantle.

Which to choose, which to choose. At first, I considered purchasing Andy Rooney’s “My War,” but I was afraid it might be the Crimean. There was an autobiography by Charlton Heston, but he once wrote a nasty letter about a tennis story I wrote, so I wouldn’t buy anything of his if it included an 11th commandment.

I did buy biographies by Faye Dunaway and Mary Tyler Moore, because they are my two favorite actresses, as well as biographies by Colin Powell and Charles Kuralt, because they are the only two men in America for whom I would vote for President.

I bought “Sleepers” because it is going to be Barry Levinson’s next movie, starring Brad Pitt, Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman, and I enjoyed everything except the blurb that calls the book a true story, because if this thing is a true story, then I’m the queen of France.

There were excellent new selections among the new sports books, I must say. I don’t normally buy any sports books, because most of them come free to my office and most of them come in very handy if you have a table with one leg shorter than the other three.

The number of sports biographies I have found compelling could be counted on one hand. I liked Jim Brown’s, because it was blunt, and Bill Russell’s, because it was insightful, and Wilt Chamberlain’s, because it was, uh, sort of a how-to book. These were unlike the typical sports bio, which usually goes something like: “We were down by two points with two minutes to go, when I said: ‘Let’s go, let’s play like there’s no tomorrow!’ ”

This season, some fine jockographies exist. “Long Time Coming,” by former basketball great Chet Walker, co-written with Chris Messenger, is a superb sociological study of race relations in American sport. “A Good Walk Spoiled,” the John Feinstein best-seller, is the best golf book money can buy, with the possible exception of that little stupid one by Leslie Nielsen.

Reggie Miller’s “I Love Being the Enemy,” as told to Gene Wojciechowski, is a chronology of one season in the life of America’s best basketball shooter and most famous active Reggie. “Embracing the Legend,” a look back by Coach Jim Harrick and two co-authors at UCLA’s championship season, takes you through the tournament and it’s a real barn-burner.

So, for anyone with shopping left to do, go buy a book. As for me, I am leafing through my brand new dictionary, because as someone very wise once said (I believe it was Hawkeye Pierce): “It’s the best book in the world. All the other books are in it.”

Merry Christmas, and thanks for reading.