Unlike Jim Bouton, father of the sports confessional, Barry says ""I'm not going to tell you who ran around or boozed it up"" but he is candid about himself and his career, ""a floating crap game and for a long time I was losing."" Barry backspins from one team to another like that red-white-and-blue ball he handles so well, fastbreaking with the NBA San Francisco Warriors where he led the league in scoring during his second season, then leapfrogging to the rival ABA's Oakland Oaks where the franchise and Barry's knee quickly fell apart (both results of bad moves), then unhappily on to the Washington (D.C.) Caps who abruptly faded into the Virginia Squires, and now (finally?) starring with the New York Nets out of Long Island. Among all these double-dribbling peregrinations Barry discusses his early, life (a hand-over-mouth existence characterized by bad front teeth, social shyness, and a wicked temper), his financial dealings, marriage, why he jumped leagues (""I was very flattered""), his playing style (he's aggressive but not the ""Attila in shorts"" some reporters have made him out to be), etc. After having his say, Barry invites rebuttals from old coaches, players, owners (Pat Boone said ""no comment""), his father, mother, brother, and wife (""He's a lummox. . . a hypochondriac. . . temperamental and babyish. . . . Life with him just seems to lead to tumult""). Like the position he plays, this is more straightforward than most memoirs of its kind -- and much more painfully honest.