Box Socials

Elizabeth St. Jacques is a writer and poet living in Sault Ste. Marie,
Ontario.

Taking place in rural Alberta during the 1940s, this hilarious novel
concerns Truckbox Al McClintock (“squat and bulldog-looking like his
mother, and covered in grease and motor oil like his father”), who
becomes a local baseball hero after hitting five home runs in a
row—four of the balls landing in and one landing clear on the other
side of the Pembina River. This extraordinary feat almost earns Truckbox
a tryout with the St. Louis Cardinals; instead, he ends up in
Edmonton’s Renfrew Park, batting against the legendary pitcher Bob
Feller, who won 266 games during his career with the Cleveland Indians.

The narrator of this crackerjack tale is the now-grown Jamie O’Day,
who, at the time of these events, was “young and pretty small, not
much taller than [his] dog, Benito Mussolini.” From Jamie comes all
the oldest, latest, and hottest gossip in the area, much of it seen or
heard at the various (sometimes spontaneous) weddings and box socials.

Somewhere out there, Stephen Leacock and Mark Twain must be nudging
each other in the ribs over Kinsella’s places and characters. Picture,
if you will, the rowdy town of Fark, the self-appointed baseball coach
Bear Lundquist, and this Yaremko son: “a large-bodied Yaremko with
legs like tree stumps and knuckles that grazed the ground when he
walked.”

Tucked into all this hillbilly hilarity, however, are moments that stop
you in your tracks, for now and then genuine love and compassion,
suffering and pain emerge. But before you have time to think, Kinsella
tosses you back into the arena of foolish frivolity until Truckbox is
finally up to bat against Bob Feller of the Cleveland Indians.

Some readers may feel that the author is mocking certain nationalities,
but this Polish-French-Canadian was too busy laughing to be offended.
Surely most readers will enjoy this for the caper that it is.

Was there any doubt that Kinsella could produce another novel equal to
his highly successful Shoeless Joe? If Box Social doesn’t earn its own
set of flashing lights, I’ll eat my own box lunch and my baseball cap.