The first time we ever read a book that had the word fuck in it was in John Feinstein's Season On The Brink. Bobby Knight liked to say that word a lot. It was also the first time we had seen the c-word. We were 14 years old.
Feinstein just keeps pumping out the books; he seems to have written three this year. (Seriously.) Some are classics; some seem like easy bestseller churn. This productivity led to a famous devastation of his "Last Dance" in The New York Times, which contained this brutal line: Feinstein is not just a woeful writer; he's a woeful writer who repeats himself. ... Is it too much to hope that "Last Dance" might be not just Feinstein's last "Last" book but his last book?
OK, now that's just kind of mean.
So: Do you like the John Feinstein? Do you not like the John Feinstein? Onward!