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Micahel Sokolove presents an unforgettable tale of families grasping for opportunities, of athletes praying for one chance to make it big, of all of us hoping that the will to succeed can triumph over the demons haunting our city streets. The year was 1979 and the fifteen teenagers on the Crenshaw High Cougars were the most talented team in the history of high school baseball. They were pure ballplayers, sluggers and sweet fielders who played with unbridled joy and breathtaking skill. The national press converged on Crenshaw. So many scouts gravitated to their games that they took up most of the seats in the bleachers. Even the Crenshaw ballfield was a sight to behold -- groomed by the players themselves, picked clean of every pebble, it was the finest diamond in all of inner-city Los Angeles. On the outfield fences, the gates to the outside stayed locked against the danger and distraction of the streets. Baseball, for these boys, was hope itself. They had grown up with the notion that it could somehow set things right -- a vague, unexpressed, but persistent hope that even if life was rigged, baseball might be fair. And for a while it seemed they were right. Incredibly, most of of this team -- even several of the boys who sat on the bench -- were drafted into professional baseball. Two of them, Darryl Strawberry and Chris Brown, would reunite as teammates on a National League All-Star roster. But Michael Sokolove's The Ticket Out is more a story of promise denied than of dreams fulfilled. Because in Sokolove's brilliantly reported poignant and powerful tale, the lives of these gifted athletes intersect with the realities of being poor, urban, and black in America. What happened to these young men is a harsh reminder of the ways inspiration turns to frustration when the bats and balls are stowed and the crowd's applause dies down.… (more)
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“All the Boys of Crenshaw had missed out on certain things in their childhoods. Darryl had seen people around him struggle, but he had never seen anyone strive. In many cases, there wasn’t much to strive for, no apparent payoff at the other end.
That is part of the legacy of his youth that Darryl carried into his baseball career: Given a little success, he got comfortable very quickly.
A real superstar is mean in a particular way. He is Michael Jordan or Cal Ripken, greedy for records and history. Armored and self-contained, his inner core is a hard knot of physical talent and fierce will. Nothing penetrates that core, and anybody or anything that gets too close is out of his life.
Darryl had none of that. Not the inner core or the greed, and especially not the armor. Sometimes he was too nice. Always, he was too sensitive.” (p. 143)
“Let it be said, just for a moment, that Darryl delivered. He truly was epic, larger than life and achingly human. So much so that sometimes you wanted to avert your eyes.” (p. 218)
“’Baseball wanted Darryl more than Darryl wanted baseball. That was the problem right there.’” – teammate Marvin McWhorter (p. 240)