We gave it an F
Words cannot fully convey how god-awful 7: The Mickey Mantle Novel, Peter Golenbock’s ”inventive memoir,” is. So let’s try some numbers: 29 (naughty words in the first chapter), 24 (offensive jokes throughout), 5:2 (ratio of sexual banter to baseball talk), and 7 (hours of wasted reading). Narrated in heaven by Mantle, with the help of late sportswriter Lenny Schecter, 7 should have died with ReganBooks, but Lyons Press salvaged it. 7 insults anyone who cherishes the Mick’s memory — or God (who asks Mantle to sign four dozen balls). And I haven’t even mentioned the chapter in which Mantle, Schecter, and Toots Shor are transported to Marilyn Monroe’s bedroom in 1953.