"A humble premise, but a fruitful one, thanks to a cast of characters that includes an obdurate coach, shady refs, sinister moneymen, and the ebullient players. McGinniss has never been a subtle writer: Here his esteem for the ragged team can border on oh-gentle-savage paternalism, and a twist at the ending feels mildly exploitive. Still, he has enthusiasm enough to absorb even the sports-averse, who may finally understand the zeal of the soccer fanatic." - Jan Oldervoll (Entertainment Weekly, 6/25/99)
"'In Italy, no higher compliment can be paid to an event or live performance of any kind than to say it was like a movie,' [McGuinniss] writes, and his story plays like a Roberto Benigni tragic farce." - (New Yorker, 7/12/99)
"McGinniss will no doubt cherish his taste of George Plimpton-style participation, and there is never a question about his suffering along with the team during every match. He involves himself in every minute of every Castel di Sangro game with a kind of fervid intensity he insists no American sports fan could ever understand, and who wants to argue? But mostly what stays with the reader is McGinniss' eye, and all the alert, engaged watching he does. He watches as the seasons change outside the window of his small, bone-cold apartment next door to the coach of the team. He watches as more and - Edward Crankshaw (San Francisco Chronicle, 8/22/99)
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