Shadow Box

I’ll admit, I approached *Shadow Box* skeptical that a writer’s boxing stunt could sustain 13 hours. But Plimpton—ever the master of turning personal folly into compelling narrative—hooks you from the first jab. The book’s genius lies in its honesty: Plimpton isn’t here to prove he’s tough (he’s not) or to glorify boxing (he doesn’t). Instead, he dissects the sport with the curiosity of an anthropologist and the vulnerability of a man who’s about to get his bell rung. The sparring sessions with Archie Moore are electric, but the real drama unfolds in Plimpton’s internal monologue—his terror, his bluster, his moments of unexpected grace under pressure. Jeff Bottoms’ performance is a standout. He nails Plimpton’s patrician wit without overdoing the Ivy League affect, and his pacing mirrors the book’s rhythm: leisurely and observational in the buildup, then sharp and urgent during the fights. My only critique? The archival additions, while fascinating, sometimes disrupt the flow. A few segments feel like bonus tracks rather than seamless extensions of the story. And at times, Plimpton’s digressions into boxing history (while insightful) test the patience of listeners craving more ring action. But these are minor quibbles. By the final round, you’ll be as invested in Plimpton’s survival as he is—laughing at his missteps, wincing at his bruises, and marveling at how a man with a glass jaw could write something this durable.