Here’s a piece of art by Matthew Cordell from our upcoming picture book, Mighty Casey (March, Feiwel & Friends). It’s a rhyming story inspired by Ernest Thayer’s “Casey At the Bat,” borrowing the classic poem’s rhythm and cadence, but relocated to a pee-wee Little League team that can’t do anything right. Matthew’s comic illustrations make it all work. In my opinion, he’s a huge talent — with a great sensibility — just beginning to tap into his potential. If he were available on the New York Stock Exchange, I’d be all in. Ah, to be young and so full of promise.

I wanted to share this piece because I identify with the somewhat bedraggled Coach Lapinski. I’ve spent much of the past three weeks coaching thirteen boys on an eight-year-old All-Star team. We played nine games in two tournaments; over a stretch of twenty-four days, we practiced or played games on eighteen days. During the open days, it rained . . . or I tried to cut my lawn . . . or tried to reacquaint myself with my enduring wife, Lisa. But still: A great time was had by all. And yes, I’m glad it’s over.

Back to Matthew: He’s got a cool blog — such a friendly tone to it, with openness, wit, and charm. Actually, come to think of it, I’m afraid I have a Man Crush on the guy!

Oh, yeah: I love the sound effects that Matthew drew into the illustration. Tock! Fop! Ting! It reminds me of a childhod favorite from Mad Magazine, the singular Don Martin. His illustrations always had the greatest sounds. Frak! Boimp!

Why doesn’t this information surprise you?

Here’s one such clip featuring New York Mets, past and present, as recreated by the one, the only, “Batting Stance Guy.” I’d bet a LOT of boys did this in their youth — I sure did — standing there with a whiffle ball bat in hand, pretending to be Carl Yastrzemski. I also love the friendship that’s evidenced in this video, the two guys off camera who are filming their hilarious buddy, giggling softly at the friend who always finds a way to make them laugh. Good times, good times.

You can check out Tony’s blog right here.

In other news, my local paper, The Times-Union, did a Sunday feature piece on me after eighteen years under the Cone of Silence. Here’s the link which, fortunately, does not include photographs. I always find this sort of publicity to be embarrassing and awkward — a necessary evil — but I admit that the writer, Mike Lisi, did a nice job and somehow kept me from coming off as a complete idiot. No small thing, that.

Dear Mr. Preller,

I just finished reading Six Innings and wanted to compliment you on a fine book. I am a retired elementary school teacher and children’s librarian, and I try to keep up with the latest juvenile books even though I don’t have much kid-contact any more. Six Innings is a wonderful read for adults, too, with lots of great nostalgia, but what I particularly admired about the book was the restraint shown in presenting the characters. We know a lot about each one through subtle hints and bits of dialogue. You didn’t beat us over the head telling us how each one feels–you just show us through their actions and thoughts. The old writing dictum “Show, don’t tell” was well-used here. I really cared about the characters. I am not a huge baseball fan–(other than following the Rockies to the World Series last year–I live in Colorado.)—but the suspense you brought to the little league game was great. Thanks for a good read.

* * * * *

Sometimes people will ask me if I like being an author. If it’s a “fun job.” I don’t know about that, exactly. Fun? Hmmm. But when I think of (rare) letters like the above, or complimentary notes I’ve received from parents, or simply a comment from a child telling me I wrote The Best Book in the World! — when I think of the rewards, of how much this job gives back — then it’s easy to say, “Yeah, I do like it. I really do.”

Then I remembered something: “A Day in the Life” is the subtitle to my book, Six Innings, and yes, that was a conscious act of appreciation. I’ve often thrown Beatles references in my books: characters who live on Penny Lane or Abbey Road, or the old lady down the block named Mrs. Eleanor Rigby. I once even started a Jigsaw Jones book (#5, The Case of the Stolen Baseball Cards), with these borrowed lines:

I got up. I got out of bed. I dragged a comb across my head.

(Gee, I hope I don’t get sued for that!) I doubt that many readers ever get the references, but I figure there’s some parents out there having a quiet chuckle, like when we watch Bugs Bunny do a Groucho Marx impression.

Anyway, enjoy the video!

And nothing happens for a few weeks, while you cling to your sole copy of the book, holding it out to friends for a brief sniff and greedily pulling it back, like Gollum and his precious ring.

On the cyberfront, Spider has gotten a couple of reviews from blogs. So far, so good. I think the reviewers are right in that it’s a simply-written story about complex feelings. I guess it’s noteworthy in the sense that these kinds of stories — basically: friendship under duress — are more commonly written about girls, as if boys suffered none of these emotional/ethical conflicts, as if, in fact, boys had no interior lives at all. (We just like trucks, right? And noises that go BOOM.)

They are also correct in that I didn’t do anything flashy with the writing. It’s funny, I feel like my entire post-college writing career has been a long process of learning how to get out of the way. Or, that is, un-learning much what they taught me in college! I’ve come to increasingly admire restraint, simplicity and austerity, sentences like, oh, “A minute later he was snoring” (Steig, Doctor De Soto). Unadorned, absent of any look-at-how-clever-I-am writing. I suppose I’m sensitive to this aspect of writing because, as a particular brand of male ego, I’m so vulnerable to it. When I’m at my worst, I gild the lily. So I’ve come to perceive that trait as the Enemy Within, the danger I need to purge against: overwriting, AKA, showing off. That’s where revision comes in, pulling the purple prose off the bone, like picking cotton candy off the cardboard cylinder.

Anyway, here’s some links and money quotes from the reviews:

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From Ignacio Guerra at Alan Online:

James Preller delves into the hostile and confusing world of adolescence and illuminates how yearning for acceptance and popularity can sometimes strain a friendship. This exposé on the complicated social dynamics of school is a fascinating joy to read with excellent readability and flow!

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From Nan Hoekstra at Anokaberry:

Preller tells an everyday story with eloquence and empathetic grace. These ordinary (amazing) kids are growing up — daily making their own way, raised by parents, guided by teachers and events. Often in groups, always alone, trying to figure themselves and others out. No under or overstated angst here, the author just tells us about it, and lets the characters speak . . . Thanks James Preller, for (another) outstanding contribution to literature for precious children.

* * * * *

By the way, I’m amazed by book reviewers. How do they read so much?! You look at Nan’s site, or so many others, and it’s like, “Do they just read all the time? When do they eat?” I am genuinely grateful, and somewhat awed.

My father wasn’t a sports guy; I can’t remember him ever turning on the television to watch a game of any sort. Hey, I can’t remember having catch with him. But I had four olders brothers, and my baseball-loving mom, and a dozen kids on the block for that. Dad was Old School. I think of him as more CEO/CFO in Charge of Household as opposed to today’s helicopter-styled parent, forever hovering, eager to bond and share and become best buddies. That wasn’t my father’s way.

So, basically, I played Little League and my father did other things. And I want to make this clear: It was perfectly okay. But one year, when I was ten years old and playing for the Cardinals — astonishingly vivid memories of those games — somehow my father got roped in as a coach. He didn’t know a blessed thing about baseball. Didn’t care to know. The manager, hard-nosed Larry Bassett, taught my father how to keep the scorebook and I’m fairly certain that was the full extent of his usefulness.

I found it embarrassing. Not horribly so, but it felt odd to see my father on the ballfield, clueless and unathletic. What did the other boys think? It was 1971 and my dad was painfully uncool. I loved baseball deeply, passionately. In that sense, we lived on separate planets. Of course now, years later, I see it from a different perspective. And it boils down to this: He was there. As a parent, isn’t that 98% of the job? Just showing up, day after day. Being there. My father is gone now, died almost two years ago, fell on the front lawn and never got back up. Maybe that makes you (me) appreciate those times, those presences, all the more. For he will never “be there” again.

He never read Six Innings, either. If he did, I would have told my father that I loosely modeled a character after him, Mr. Lionni, Alex’s dad, right down to the thick-framed glasses and questionable attire, the black socks, brown loafers and shorts. There’s a scene when Mr. Lionni takes his baseball-loving son, Alex, for extra batting practice. That scene sprang directly from my childhood; I remember the one and only time my father pitched batting practice to me — awkwardly, poorly, like he was hurling foreign objects. But I was struggling with the bat, the same as Alex in my book, and that man, the father, tried to help the best he could.

In Six Innings, it’s a minor scene (pp. 56-58), just a little backstory about one of the boys on the team. But for me, it resonates across the years, like an echo across a vast canyon. My dad and baseball. Our moments together on the diamond, a burnished memory, glowing like hot coals almost forty years hence. He was there. I didn’t appreciate it then, though I certainly recognized the uniqueness of the event; I was just a boy. But that’s what writing gives us, the opportunity to revisit, revalue, remember in the root meaning of the word — to re-member, to make whole again, to bring those disparate things together. Me and Dad and baseball.

Postscript: Oh, yeah, about the name Lionni. That’s another tribute to a great children’s book author by the name of Leo. Someday I should put together a full roster. I see James Marshall manning the Hot Corner, nimble and loose; Maurice Sendak on the hill, strong-armed and determined; maybe sure-handed Bernard Waber over at second base . . .

You can’t think, “Oh, I don’t have time for silly videos.”

Um, nope. Because when you come to Jamespreller.com, it’s like, oh, how can I explain this? I got it: It’s like suddenly getting a super power, like you’ve been bitten by an atomic spider or something. It comes with great responsibility. So quit  dawdlng and click on Matt Somebody’s amazing, surprisingly uplifting video.

I found myself, for all its goofy charm, getting choked up by it. Moist around the old eyeballs. (Concept: It could be that I’m just a sap.) I guess in today’s world . . . well . . . to see something simple and brilliant like this . . . that gives you the feeling of ONE WORLD . . . however fleeting . . . .

Hey, trust me on this. Click on the video! I’m not kidding!

Postscript: I’m fairly certain that her name is Ann Pleshette Murphy — and it’s all I can do to resist a lame “The Bob Newhart Show” joke.

Zachary from Pennsylvania writes:

Dear James P.,

Hi from PA. My name is Zachary. I am very pleased to be writing this letter to you. My favorite book that you wrote is Jigsaw Jones #20: The Case of the Race Against Time. I see your birthday is in February. My birthday is also in February. You’re 47, right?

Dear Zachary,

Yep, 47. (Big sigh, muffled sobs.)

But while we’re talking about The Race Against Time, I might as well tell you that I dedicated that book to my barber, Nikki, who often cuts my hair at Gregory’s Barbershop in my hometown of Delmar, New York. Growing up, my father used to cut our hair — and he was an insurance salesman, not an artist with the shears. But with seven kids, Dad had to save money somewhere. As it turns out, that “somewhere” was on the top of our heads! Brutal, I’m telling you. Some of the worst haircuts ever! I remember my older brothers absolutely freaking out when my father would pull out his rusty scissors and that old electric clipper. I can still hear that ominous buzzzz. He’d set us in a chair in front of the fish tank and systematically ruin our lives for weeks to come. The shame, the humiliation! Even so, I figure everybody has gotten a truly horrifying haircut somewhere along the line. I thought of those days when writing that book, especially when poor Jigsaw gets his haircut by a new guy named Vladimir. It was a real nightmare.

Thanks for writing!

JP