I become embarrassed when I think back to my attempts at emotion as a young writer—don't get me wrong, an unusual number of my attempts were actually good and they worked (I'm professionally paid to write stuff that makes people cry, you know.) But you do certain things in your youth, like temper the police killing of a well-respected non-gang member with scenes of children literally chasing a rainbow down Chicago streets, things you wouldn't do when you're older and you perhaps realize that one can easily smother their own emotional seedlings simply by working the soil a little too hard. A review said this was the better of his two books on Chicago inner city life, but I disagree. In fact, I think Hoop Dreams, the movie which covers similar territory, is better than this book, a book that's fascinating though naggingly facile (as opposed to engagingly real.) You know, like a middling This American Life story. I'd go read "An American Summer." Three stars.