He is at an age where a person – to use the fine American real estate agent’s euphemism – shows signs of “deferred maintenance”. These linked novellas show that being Frank, in whatever sense, is no pushover. Now here he is again at 68: retired but not retiring. Then came The Lay of the Land in 2006, the novel that purported to say goodbye to Bascombe. The Sportswriter was followed, in 1995, by the Pulitzer-winning Independence Day, the best book about suburban real estate ever written – for, in middle age, this is what Frank was flogging. Before this, Ford had written a couple of novels that earned polite reviews but created no stir. Frank Bascombe, back in 1986, was a failed novelist turned sportswriter, Ford was a redundant sports journalist turned novelist and The Sportswriter was recognised as the work of a huge American literary talent. T he only false note in this pitch-perfect book is its title: Frank Bascombe would not, in the old days, have stooped to the pun but it is possible it is a mutinous signal from Ford as he finds himself (reluctantly, if recent interviews are to be believed) still shacked up with the character who made his name more than three decades ago.
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