If you’re reading this, you already know that Bill Simmons has written a 700-page basketball book. You probably know that, in said book, he proposes a revamped hall of fame for the NBA, with multiple levels, so that it will be clear that guys like Bill Russell and Jerry West mattered more than guys like Earl Monroe and Connie Hawkins. Hell, if you’ve found this little corner of the internet, I’d bet you’ve probably read these two reviews of the book, published today. Pelton is right – this book is amazing argument fodder. You won’t agree with everything Simmons says and, while reading it, you might get the feeling that he’s daring you to go do some research and write him a long e-mail or put together a blog post to counter him. Also, Pierce is right – Simmons goes a bit nuts here with the (lack of) editing. Personally, I’m fine with a mammoth book featuring about four million footnotes and pop culture references, but it will turn a lot of people off. He takes pages to say some things that could be said in paragraphs, and doubtlessly some of his references will either go over your head or bore you. If you’re a busy person and you want to get through the damn thing, this stuff could frustrate you. Incidentally, there’s absolutely no way I’d have finished the book by now, with a 9-5 job and evenings reserved for watching NBA games, if not for getting sick a couple of days after it arrived at my house and been able to spend hours a day reading it.

There’s something real I took from this book, though. In these 700 pages, Simmons reveals himself to be an absolute die-hard. I knew Simmons was a big fan, as he’s devoted an obscene amount of words to the subject, but I always kind of doubted his overall knowledge and dedication to the sport in comparison to some writers who watch 6 straight hours of live basketball every night before they even get to the games they’ve PVR’d. With the way he follows other sports and reality television (and the whole being a parent thing), I had maintained that he just didn’t have enough time to be a truly hardcore NBA guy these days. With this book, though, he holds nothing back. When he took a break from writing his column way back when, he was watching tapes of classic games, reading every relevant basketball book ever written, and obsessing over questions that don’t matter to anyone besides people who really, really fucking care about pro basketball. It’s actually quite inspiring; what Simmons has done here is re-evaluate the entire history of the NBA.

In The Book Of Basketball, Simmons reveals himself to be an NBA lifer. His father bought a single season ticket for the Boston Celtics when Bill wasn’t even 10 years old and the kid ended up witnessing some of the best basketball ever played. Of course, he fell in love with the game. Try not to be jealous when he talks about re-watching classic Celtics games and getting to see himself in the stands. Pierce mentions in his mostly negative review that the bits about Bill and his father and their relationship with the sport is “touching” and, well, yeah. I got goosebumps reading the prologue because his story is essentially mine. I wasn’t lucky enough to see Larry Bird play in person, but, as a basketball fan, I’ve been spoiled rotten. In the summer of 1995, my family moved to Toronto from somewhere very, very far away from the NBA and upgraded our South East Melbourne Magic season tickets to season tickets for an expansion NBA (!) franchise with a dinosaur on its uniform. We kept those seats for a few years, where I was lucky enough to see Alvin Robertson score the team’s first points on a three from the wing, the mind-boggling defeat of the 72-10 Bulls (see!), and the professional debuts of Damon Stoudamire, Marcus Camby, Tracy McGrady, and Vince Carter. Seven pages into the book, Simmons talks about how he was allowed to stand at the edge of the court and toss air balls back to his Celtic heroes, and, in a footnote, he bemoans the fact that this can’t happen in today’s NBA. Well, in Toronto, in 1995, it still could happen. At the enormous SkyDome, my parents and I would show up to games an hour before tip and I would not be found anywhere near my seat until the player introductions. Sometimes, I would get to catch a ball and pass it back to a player, which always made me feel like I had grown three feet taller and dunked on Dikembe Mutombo’s head. Every time, I was allowed to stand by the players’ entrance and fist-bump them as they came out. I considered Marcus Camby a friend of mine because he made a point of saying “what’s up?” to me every time he jogged onto the court for warm-ups. When we went to a Damon Stoudamire autograph signing, the ROY recognized me. I had piles of VHS tapes of NBA games that I recorded, so that if I wasn’t playing basketball I could at least be watching it. I shouldn’t even have to mention SLAM or NBA Live. All these years later, the obsession is still there. The love for the game is still there. Hence, the existence of this site. Anyway, it’s there for the most famous sportswriter on the planet too. It would be impossible to write this book without it.

I’m trying to tell you that if you love basketball you have to read this book. You might well agree with less than half of what he says, but, as Kelly Dwyer so goddamn motherfucking perfectly states here, that is not even close to the point. There are valid criticisms of this book and plenty of opportunities to quibble with its contents, but if you’re a basketball junkie, it’s crazy to hate it. Bill Simmons cares about the game, to a degree that the average person cannot even understand, and I’m guessing that you do too. Read this book because, like any passionately written words about basketball should, these words will reinforce your commitment to the game. Read it because the Sports Guy, at 40 years old, is still a lot like this kid, having fun with completely immersing himself in the game of basketball.

Me, 9 years old, doing pushups with the Raptor. This was in early Raptors programs.