Josh Wilker. Cardboard Gods: An American Tale. Chapel Hill NC: Algonquin books, 2010. Print.

About halfway through Cardboard Gods, I wondered about the subtitle, An American Tale. Josh Wilker’s memoir did not on the surface seem terribly American. For years of his childhood, his family consisted of his older brother Ian, his father, his mother, and his mother’s boyfriend. Eventually, his father moved out. It sounded more like A Swedish Tale. We are told that in Sweden only a small percentage of parents bother to get married, even if they are living together.

There is an ache through the story. At times it is maudlin or bathetic. Josh Wilker is looking for something to soothe “that ache in my chest.” (240) He idolizes his older brother, and he continues to do so even when it is clear his brother is making some really bad decisions. He follows in the footsteps of his mother and her friends by trying various chemical stimulations and trying, always without success, to learn from nature.

The single concrete continuity in his life is provided by his baseball cards which he collected from 1975 through 1980. He is fascinated by the players—all of them, from hall of famers to some who only played a handful of games in the major leagues. Yes, that is distinctly American. It is ultimately an American tale, during a time that America was developing an ache in its collective heart. As the author shares the baseball-life stories printed on the back of the cards, he interweaves a memoir.

The memoir would have been pathetic, possibly even repulsive, like one of the author’s “night horrors,” had it not been for the baseball cards. He describes the cards by picking out one or two significant details, and then tries to measure the lives of the players by them. At the same time, he is struggling to add some measure or meaning to his own life.

Many of the cards in Cardboard Gods depict men who would only be recognized by card collectors. Was there really a baseball player with the name Carmen Fanzone? Isn’t that the name of a sports web site now? But even those players take on significance.

He calls the cards and the players on them his cardboard gods, not because he idolizes them (although he does come close to idolizing Carl Yastrzemski). No, the cards bring him closer to his older brother, and they provide some kind of focus and source of knowledge in his unfocused, experimental childhood.

Some of his descriptions are beautiful. He finds meaning in some of the most obscure players. And he is a gem with the good ones. His description of pitcher Dock Ellis’s no-hitter—probably the ugliest no-hitter ever pitched—is delightful. (Eight walks, one hit batsman, but no hits). This is really a collection of essays that piece together the author’s life. It is an original approach to say the least.

He identifies with Kent Tekulve—the heroic relief pitcher loner of the champion Pirates’ “We are Family.” He cannot forgive Bill Buckner, and, like this reviewer has great respect for Dwight Evans and Jim Rice as ballplayers and men of character. His description of the 1976 Johnny Bench card makes us see that at rare times the picture on the baseball card is a work of art. As an aid, and perhaps a nostalgic treat for some, each essay is introduced by a picture of the card that the author is meditating on.

The memoir can be annoying or painful at times. As teens say today, there is TMI—too much information. Portnoy’s Complaint is notorious and descriptive, but it not one of Philip Roth’s best works. However, the meditations on the continuity of baseball and life provide substance to the memoirs.

True, ballplayers, like all mortals, are merely cardboard. “We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are heard no more.” Our life is transient. We contribute annual statistics for a few years and then pass on. Cardboard Gods is a reminder of what both Augustine and Pascal observed—that ache in the heart is an emptiness that everyone experiences. King Solomon noted that God has put eternity in the hearts of men. (Ecclesiastes 3:11) And only the Eternal One can fill that space.

• N.B.: If books were rated like films, this would be at least an R for strong language, adult situations, and drug use. It seems too bad, especially the language. Now, I am no prude. I was a sailor. I have worked with people coming off the streets. However, in most cases even realistic writing uses strong language for a purpose. For example, the great novel To Kill a Mockingbird uses some offensive language. But most of that language is spoken by offensive people. I wonder if Wilker had toned down his own language a little more in the memoir, that the reader might have found him more sympathetic.