SCOTT LUDWIG: Judging a book

Shortly after retiring, I was running with a friend who wanted to know what I was doing with all of my free time. She knew that I had been accumulating books — my “retirement library” I called it — for the 20-plus years we had known each other.

Since I didn’t mention reading any books, she sarcastically asked, “So what about reading all those books you’ve been collecting?”

That’s all it took to fire me up and ignite my OCD. This March will be four years since I retired, and by then I will have read more than 300 books — or one book about every five days (thank you, OCD).

All of them weren’t out of my retirement library, however. That library consisted of books by four authors: Stephen King (43 books), John Sanford (21), John Feinstein (19) and Joseph Wambaugh (5) — a total of 88 books. To date, I have read only nine of them. The other library consists of 290-plus books I’ve stumbled across since the day I retired. (Now you know how I spend some of my free time: acquiring books.)

I set a personal goal (as OCD people tend to do) of reading 50 books every year, and thus far I’ve stuck to the plan: 49 books in 2018 (I retired in March); 58 in 2019; 66 in 2020, and 110 in 2021. It’s worth mentioning that the latter two years were in the midst of a pandemic, so instead of doing the normal things one does — venturing outside the house and socializing with people, for example — I had a lot more time to myself for reading.

Therefore, I wanted to share my reviews of several of the more memorable or noteworthy of those 300 books: the good, the bad — and the worst.

THE GOOD

♦ “My Losing Season,” a memoir by Pat Conroy — The best sports book I’ve read in my entire life. Conroy chronicles an unforgettable season of playing basketball at the Citadel on a team destined to fail. It runs laps around Joe Namath’s “I Can’t Wait Until Tomorrow … ‘Cause I Get Better Looking Every Day” that, more than 50 years ago, was my gold standard in sports autobiographies (my bar was set very low back then).

♦ “Beach Music,” a novel by Pat Conroy. LOVED IT! I’ll be honest: I read 12 books by and about Pat Conroy in a period of six months when the pandemic first broke out. I fell in love with what Conroy had to say, and what others had to say about him as well.

♦ “Zero Fail,” a history of the Secret Service by Carol Leonnig. If you thought the men and women dressed in black protecting Washington’s VIP’s were all Stepford-like Clark Kent clones, think again.

♦ A plethora of books about the administration of the 45th POTUS, including “Nightmare Scenario,” “True Crimes and Misdemeanors,” “Fear, Rage, Siege, Hoax, A Warning,” “Authoritarian Nightmare,” “Unhinged,” “Peril,” “Unbelievable,” and “Unthinkable.” History books that future generations will have a hard time believing, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction; the titles alone provide everything they’ll need to know.

♦ A slew of books by Dave Barry. I don’t know if I’m more impressed by his wit or his creativity. His humor is consistently way outside of the box. Start with this one: “Boogers are My Beat.” You’re on your own after that but trust me, you won’t be disappointed.

♦ Every single book authored by Rick Bragg. I read them all, and they’re all wonderful. The man is a true Southern treasure, right up there alongside Pat Conroy and Lewis Grizzard. Bragg’s writing style is so smooth that the best way to describe it is that it’s like reading molasses. Read any one of his books and you’ll understand.

THE BAD

Almost every rock-and-roll autobiography I read, most notably Steven Tyler’s (Aerosmith). If you didn’t know, Tyler wrote “Dream On,” one of the group’s biggest hits — a fact he mentions so many times that you’ll never want to hear the song again (prime example: me). The best rock-and-roll autobiography I read was Robby Krieger’s (lead guitarist for The Doors) “Set the Night on Fire.” The rest of them — Eric Clapton, Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, Keith Richards, Jimi Hendrix, Elton John, Ozzy Osbourne … even Led Zeppelin, the Best Band Ever — meh. If you think a life of rock-and-roll is full of sex, drugs, and music — well, you’d be right, but it’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds when you read about it.

The only book written by Stephen King I’ve read in retirement thus far is “Nightmares and Dreamscapes.” It’s hard to put into words (plural) how I felt about it, but I can do it with one: garbage. And wouldn’t you know, it was the longest of the 300 books I’ve read, weighing in around four bazillion pages.

THE WORST

“What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” a memoir by Haruki Murakami. After reading Murakami’s book, I am certain of one thing: If he ever runs with me, I don’t want him to talk.

AND A LITTLE BIT OF EVERYTHING

One last thing: I read several books authored by Bill Bryson. They range from heartwarming, clever, and poignant (“The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid”) to absolutely mind-numbing — and I don’t mean that in a good way (“The Body: A Guide for Occupants”). Proceed at your own risk.