In this alternately hilarious and insightful account, named a Best Book of 1998 by Publishers Weekly , >b>Sports Illustrated writer Steve Rushin uses the lens of sports to come to a deeper understanding of America. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Steve Rushin decided to revisit the twin pursuits of his youth: epic car trips and an unhealthy obsession with sports. So he jumped into his fully alarmed Japanese S.U.V. and drove to American sports shrines for a year, everywhere from Larry Bird's boyhood home in French Lick, Indiana, to the cornfield just outside of Dyersville, Iowa, where Field of Dreams was filmed. Now in paperback, Road Swing is the story of his journey. "There are places that many sports fans have heard about. But to visit them with Rushin riding shotgun, pointing out the odd detail with a nudge of the elbow, is a real delight." -- USA Today "A home run." -- Maxim "Insightful and hilarious...postcard perfect." -- The San Diego Union-Tribune "A riotous read...Sports fans should be grateful for a guy like Steve Rushin--not only does he make a hell of a tour guide, but he also does all the driving." -- Esquire "Both hilarious and resonant, a road trip memorable as much for its unlikely detours and pit stops as for what it reveals about America's obsession with sports." -- rnately hilarious and insightful account, named a Best Book of 1998 by Publishers Weekly , >b>Sports Illustrated writer Steve Rushin uses the lens of sports to come to a deeper understanding of America. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Steve Rushin decided to revisit the twin pursuits of his youth: epic car trips and an unhealthy obsession with sports. So he jumped into his fully alarmed Japanese S.U.V. and drove to American sports shrines for a year, everywhere from Larry Bird's boyhood home in French Lick, Indiana, to the cornfield just outside of Dyersville, Iowa, where Field of Dreams was filmed. Now in paperback, Road Swing is the story of his journey. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Steve Rushin decided to revisit the twin pursuits of his youth: epic car trips and an unhealthy obsession with sports. So he jumped in his fully alarmed Japanese SUV and drove to great American sports shrines for a year -- everywhere from Larry Bird's boyhood home in French Lick, Indiana, to the cornfield just outside of Dyersville, Iowa, where Field of Dreams was filmed. Road Swing is the story of that pilgrimage, and of the bowlers, basketballers, Little Leaguers, linebackers, pool players, and all the rest that he met along the way. As Senior Writer for Sports Illustrated , Steve Rushin has written dozens of articles, including the centerpiece for the magazine's fortieth anniversary issue. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. "Working press'?'' a Pittsburgh Pirate once said to me with a sneer. ""That's sorta like "jumbo shrimp.''' ""My favorite oxymoron is "guest host,''' I replied chummily. ""You know, like they used to have on The Tonight Show?'' But he didn't know. And he didn't care. In fact, he thought I was calling him a moron, so he calmly alit from his clubhouse stool and chloroformed me with his game socks. But I see his point. My life's work is not work. Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight likes to say of sportswriters: ""Most of us learn to write by the second grade, then move on to bigger things.'' Most of us stop throwing chairs and calling ourselves Bobby by the second grade, too -but I see his point. As a writer on the staff of Sports Illustrated, my day job hasn't changed since I was eight. I was raised in a house with mint-green aluminum siding and spent my days watching ballgames in our wood-paneled den. My father loved wood paneling and even had it installed on the exterior of his station wagon. He'd have preferred mint-green aluminum siding, but it wasn't available on the '74 Ford Country Squire. Pity, because the Country Squire looked like the crate it was shipped in. It was not so much a motor vehicle as an oak coffin with a luggage rack, proof that you really can take it with you. Every summer vacation our family of seven vacuum-packed ourselves into it, then raced across the country as if through one continuous yellow light, pausing only long enough to attend some big-league baseball game-in Houston or Anaheim or Cincinnati-before hauling ass back home. The destination didn't matter. The important thing was that for nine innings once every August, Dad forgot the Kafkaesque problems of his suburban existence. Namely, that his house was rusting. And his car had termites. It all seems so long ago. My brothers and sister grew up and gotjobs. I grew up and became a sportswriter, though it hardly seems like a grown-up pursuit. The naked manager of the California Angels once threw his double-knit uniform pants at me in anger, something that happens all the time to baseball writers, which may explain why we're so comfortable wearing polyester. Whereas a simi