There’s Always This Year: On Basketball and Ascension

Picked this up after the National Book Critics Circle announcement and wow, Abdurraqib is operating on another level entirely. He uses the framework of a basketball game to explore the heavy weight of expectations and the concept of home in Ohio. The prose is thick and lyrical, demanding that you slow down and really inhabit every single syllable. Truth be told, it feels more like an extended poem than a standard memoir, which might frustrate some readers looking for a straight timeline. But for me, the way he connects LeBron’s career to the lived realities of Black life and the cycle of the prison system was breathtaking. It’s a book about miracles and how we define them. Truly stunning work that lingers long after you close the cover.

This book is a masterclass in how to weave personal history with cultural observation. I’ve always admired Hanif's ability to find the profound in the mundane, but here he elevates basketball to something spiritual. It’s rhythmic, it’s messy, and it’s deeply vulnerable. He doesn’t just talk about sports; he talks about the ghosts of the people we used to be and the cities that keep us grounded. Frankly, the discursive style might be a bit much if you aren't in the mood for deep thinking, but the payoff is immense. It felt like a beautiful game where the score doesn't matter as much as the effort. I’m in awe of his brain and how he sees the world.

As a basketball fan from the Midwest, seeing LeBron James used as a lens for examining ambition and displacement hit home in a way I can't quite describe. Abdurraqib captures that specific feeling of "there’s always this year," that eternal hope that keeps us coming back to the court and to our hometowns. The structure is brilliant, mimicking a game with four quarters and timeouts that allow the reader to catch their breath. It’s dense and demands your full attention, covering everything from the invisibility of certain communities to the costs of becoming a legend. I found myself highlighting entire pages just for the sheer beauty of the phrasing. This is easily one of the best things I’ve read in years.

Look, Hanif Abdurraqib writes sentences that you want to live inside of for a while. This isn't just a book about basketball; it’s a book about how we survive the places we are from. He treats LeBron James not just as an athlete, but as a symbol of possibility and a mirror for the community’s own dreams. The way he explores the concept of "witnessing" is nothing short of profound. I was moved to tears by the sections on his family and the quiet moments of grace found in the struggle. It’s a complex, multi-layered text that rewards multiple readings. If you’re looking for a simple sports bio, look elsewhere, but if you want art, this is it.

Finally got around to finishing this today, and I think it’s a stunning meditation on the concept of grace. Abdurraqib has this way of making you care about things you never thought you’d be interested in through sheer poetic force. The book explores the intersections of class, race, and athleticism with such a sharp, intellectual edge. I loved the rhythmic quality of the writing; it felt like listening to a great jazz record where the improvisations are the best part. It’s about the people who stay and the people who leave, and the stories we tell ourselves to keep going. A total triumph of cultural criticism that feels both timely and timeless.

Ever wonder if a sports book could actually be a prayer? This feels like one. Hanif Abdurraqib is an alchemist of language, turning stories of Ohio neighborhoods and hoops into something sacred and shimmering. It’s a challenging read because it refuses to be linear, jumping through time and space like a fast break. I did find the pacing a bit sluggish in the middle sections where the poetic digressions went on for a bit too long. However, the emotional hits are so heavy that they more than make up for the occasional confusion. It’s a meditation on grace and what it means to belong to a place that doesn't always love you back.

The countdown structure of the chapters creates this incredible sense of urgency that mimics the final minutes of a tight game. I loved how the author blended his own memories of growing up in Columbus with the larger-than-life mythos of LeBron James. It’s a very internal book, focused on the author’s perspective and his specific, soulful way of looking at the world. Gotta say, it’s not a light read by any means. You have to be prepared for some heavy topics like the carceral state and the fragility of Black life. While I loved the sentiment, I do think the lack of a clear narrative might lose some people who prefer traditional biographies. Still, the prose is absolutely top-tier.

To be fair, I went into this expecting a standard biography of LeBron James and found something much more experimental instead. It took me a second to adjust to the "prose poetry" style, but once I did, I was hooked. The author’s voice is so earnest and heartfelt that you can’t help but be swept up in his observations about Ohio and the nature of fame. It’s a slower-paced book than I’m used to, and it leaves a lot of questions unanswered, which was a bit frustrating at times. But the beauty of the language and the depth of the insight into human ambition are undeniable. It’s a book that asks for your patience and pays it back in full.

Not what I expected at all, and I'm still trying to process the experience of reading it. While I recognize the brilliance in the writing, I found it incredibly difficult to follow the thread of the narrative. It’s very much "prose poetry," and there were times when I just wanted him to get to the point rather than drifting into another tangential thought. I came for basketball history and stayed for… well, I’m not entirely sure what I stayed for. There are important discussions about racism and classism buried in here, but the stream-of-consciousness style made it a bit of a slog for me personally. If you like experimental non-fiction, you’ll love it, but it just wasn't my cup of tea.

The truth is, I struggled with the nonlinear flow of the narrative for the first fifty pages. I’m a huge fan of Hanif’s previous work, but this one felt a bit more self-indulgent in its stylistic choices. It reads more like a collection of loosely connected thoughts than a cohesive book about basketball or identity. I appreciated the sections on family and the weight of legacy, but I often felt like I was drowning in the "lyrical" descriptions. It’s undeniably well-written, but the lack of a grounding narrative made it hard for me to stay engaged. I wanted to love it more than I actually did, even though I respect what he was trying to achieve with the format.