Oh dear - Rated 
Like another reviewer, I often buy The Times for the sole purpose of reading Simon Barnes. I have always defended him sub-consciously whenever he makes his regular appearances in Private Eye's Pseuds Corner. But this book really is laughably self-indulgent.
It's not so much the regular name-dropping of Proust, Joyce etc. regardless of the authors' relevance to the topic in hand, nor the torturous, repetitive, paradoxical paragraphs about "will" and "greatness". What really drove me to despair is the author's apparent belief that his job - the mundane technicalities as well as the pseudo-philosophical babbling about being a "teller of tales" - is as fascinating as the stars he covers.
"Destiny," he declares on page 138, apparently without irony, when he is given a job as a sportswriter on the Surrey Mirror. I finally gave up two pages later when he started plugging his earlier books while regretting, "I have not established myself as a novelist".
A great shame. A collection of his Times' columns would have been altogether more readable.
Original and thought-provoking - Rated 
Since sport relies on opinion and quite a bit of bias in the spectator, I was amazed by how often Simon Barnes' arguments and examples rang true to my (biased !) opinions as well. For example, his defence of Tim Henman and his near-misses at Wimbledon rightly points out that while he may have failed to win the title, to be ranked as high as number five in the world is not a career-failure.
Every page has something of interest, although the punctuation meant quite a few sentences needed re-reading to get the meaning; surprising for such an accomplished journalist.
The quality of the book overall meant that when an argument was made that I disagreed with it rankled more than it should. To say that McEnroe was never the same player after Borg retired in 1981 is hard to believe, if you saw him destroy the opposition at Wimbledon and the US Open in 1984.
Simon also continues the myth that England's third goal in 1966 must have crossed the line, because otherwise Roger Hunt was "perfectly positioned to put in the rebound". Any review of the tape - and we've all seen it many times - would show it certainly wouldn't have been the "tap-in" Simon contends.
As I said earlier though, sport is fuelled by opinions, and much the better it is for it.
The world of sport writing is much the better for both this book and the ongoing work of Simon Barnes.
Homer, Dostoyevksy, Proust, Bob Dylan, and even Morecambe and Wise - all life is here. - Rated 
Sometimes the Amazon star rating simply doesn't do a book justice. For me, The Meaning of Sport is a ***. But it's so much more. And less.
You'll find numerous references to Homer, Dostoyevksy, Proust, James Joyce, Bob Dylan, and even Morecambe and Wise. Often these literary and cultural metaphors, alongside his many allusions to birdlife, work wonderfully. But sometimes, rather than establishing the book's "intellectual" credentials, one suspects the author is imploring "it's ok! I've got a life, I'm not one of those fools who is obsessed by sport and has no other interests!".
It is a deeply introspective book, with much on the nature of being a sportswriter, as opposed to a sportsman. As a "chief" sportswriter Barnes knows how to delight and provoke his audience, so for example, if you're a fan of gymnastics you'll love his eulogies to the sport of flight. Boxing fans however might not much appreciate his "philosophical" objections to the sport he describes as a "death duel", and golfers will have fight past multiple "blazer" and "sports you can smoke while playing" cliches.
Honestly - one minute I loved it - *****, and the next minute I was infuriated by it - *. So I plumped for ***. But I'm very glad I read it.
Great insight, good book. - Rated
I often buy the Times for little more than Barnes's erudite view on the week's sporting triviality,give or take a Martin Samuel rant. Anyone who empathises with this will end up reading a fascinating and illuminating book; that is my ultimate opinion.
Yet Barnes, someone so consumed with greatness and the stories which document the quest for greatness, may himself have fallen short. His views on the learned elite and their refusal to acknowledge the necessity of sport is often contradicted by his self-promotion as the last of the great intellectuals - it makes its reading too much like watching David Brent. People were intrigued by Mourinho's special one premise a few years back when he told Abramovich the only superstar Chelsea needed was him. Now it is little more than pathetic when it is all we hear (as Barnes brilliantly summarised in the Times only this week - end of Dec 2006). Maybe Barnes is the same. Maybe if I were reading him once a day, one chapter at a time like I normally do I wouldn't feel irritated, I wouldn't be deriding a man whose quality is unarguable. Alas, the book's downfall is in its quality. Like John Terry who couldn't miss a game, even when carrying injury, I couldn't put this book down, even when it needed to be.
Barnes has written an awesome book, just not a great one.
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