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I think I read all of Tabby's books in the 90's, but it was before GR and I don't remember much about most, so recently ordered copies of all of them. I want to protest the fact that some of her books are out of print and were not that easy to find. This and two others were only available as "retired" library books. This is a travesty. I am actually angry on her behalf.

I want to point out, first of all, that this book was littered with typos. This is not the writer's fault. Dutton published the book and it was their job to get it copy edited. What the hell? They didn't care enough to hire someone to do a good job? I can overlook one or two. It happens. But I stopped counting at 23. TWENTY THREE typos in a professionally published book. Back to the fact that this book is out of print. This book is phenomenal. The reviews here on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ support this. Clearly Dutton didn't publicize it enough. Let's forgive them that ridiculous mistake. I know that YA was not really a thing in 1993, but it damn well is now. They are missing a golden opportunity to reprint this book in an affordable Mass Media Paperback and market it as YA. They could even make use of the idea that the book was written 30 years ago and is as relevant today as it was when published. They missed a very profitable boat!

Now the story. I played a little basketball in middle and high school. Tabby knows the sport. Inside and out. Front ways and back ways. The descriptions of practices and games are breathtaking. They are realistic and accurate, do not talk down to the uninitiated and are thrilling despite being long and mostly play by plays. She infuses emotion and mood into the descriptions and I think even those who know nothing about the sport will be swept away.

The relationship between Sam and Deanie, the main characters, is beautifully built. They are one of those mismatched pairs that work not despite their differences, but because of them. There is very little sweetness and light in their story, but what is there is told in such a way that the impact is far greater than it would be if King had written a traditional romance. Knowing some of what I know about her, she is no shrinking violet herself, knows what she needs and wants, and is willing to go about the hard work of getting it. Her characters do the same. Because she is writing what she knows it comes across as very believable and genuine. Truth oozes from the pages. Even, if not especially, the ugly truth.

The book opens on a night of revelry and we are given a glimpse of Sam being reckless, a bit irresponsible and celebratory in a way that is very out of character for him. It may seem odd to introduce a character like this, but it's actually genius because King then uses the rest of the book to show us the real Sam. I love Sam. How could you not?

Deanie, AKA "The Mutant" is introduced and described throughout with very little insight. We are seldom told how she is feeling, or what she thinks, and yet King shows us in undeniable ways. Showing instead of telling is one of King's strengths. Deanie's life is hard and hurtful and instead of writing a pity party, King decides instead to tell it like it is, show us Sam's reactions and allow the chips to fall where they may. As readers we become more deeply invested because we are forced to really think about what Deanie means by her words and actions. Just like real people, Deanie and Sam seldom say what they mean, do what they really want or wax poetic about love. People rarely do and King knows this.

The one flaw, and the beauty of the rest of the book more than makes up for it, is the epilogue. I could have done without it. I am not a reader that requires a neat, tidy ending. I am happy left to ponder what I think happens after the last page. The epilogue here attempts to make straight and even edges of Sam and Deanie's lives. Almost as if King was told to add it. I didn't need it. This is a very small mistake in what is otherwise an ocean of all that is good about brilliant writing. I can skip the epilogue when I reread, and I WILL be rereading.