With the PGA season all but over and waiting for the World Series to wind up and end major league baseball before winter, I had a lot of extra time to catch up on my reading. Not only Jack Reacher novels but the long-awaited book by long-time Kaua'i golf professional and former Boston Red Sox pitcher Frank Sullivan.

For years, Sully would share with me some memories of his life, especially his nine years with the Red Sox because he knew I had been a Fenway fan. He started writing what he remembered and the more he wrote, the more he remembered. He hoped all he wrote would be published someday, and he got his wish last month. It was worth the wait.

Sullivan hit a home run with his book, "Life Is More Than 9 Innings."

Not bad for a guy with a lifetime batting average of .144. Remember, he played when real baseball was played in the American League, when there were no designated hitters subbing for timid pitchers at the plate. At the time, pitchers like Early Wynn, Bob Lemon, Bob Feller and Jim Bunning threw angry fastballs and wouldn't hesitate to knock you down if you crowded the plate. No wonder when Sullivan once asked teammates Vic Wertz, Frank Malzone and Pete Runnels if he could pose with them in a photo, they said they wouldn't mind as long as he didn't have a bat in his hands.

It didn't help, too, that for eight years Sullivan was a teammate of Ted Williams, whom he called the best hitter in all of baseball. In turn, Williams called him, "Bush," most likely because what Sully did with the bat, not on the mound.

Sullivan pitched 252 games for the Red Sox from 1953 to '60, winning 13 or more games in five straight seasons. He posted a career-high 18 victories and a 2.91 ERA in 1955, making the All-Star Game in Milwaukee that year. He lost, giving up a walk-off home run to Stan Musial in the 12th inning.

Moments before the St. Louis Cardinals great connected, Sullivan heard his catcher, New York Yankees' Yogi Berra, yelling to Musial, "For crying out loud, Stan, do something. This game has gone on far too long." This was a time before baseball commissioners would settle for a tie.

Sullivan was selected to the All-Star Game the following year in Washington, D.C. "I was a lot better," he wrote. "I didn't have to pitch." His book is filled with such self-deprecating humor.

Baseball, like fine wine, should be savored, not gulped. And he helps us along by writing one-page stories, an intentional pitch, according to Sullivan, finally an author at age 78. That way, he says, it prevents him from rambling on and boring his readers to death.

I had to call Sullivan and congratulate him on his book. He wasn't on his beloved Kaua'i. He was touring Massachusetts with wife Marilyn, whom he married after moving to the Garden Island in 1964.

They're back in New England, compliments of the Red Sox. Sullivan will be one of six players in the Class of 2008 to be inducted into the Boston Red Sox Hall of Fame next Friday, joining pitchers Wes Ferrell and Bill Lee, outfielder Mike Greenwell, first baseman Mo Vaughn and shortstop Everett Scott, who played in three World Series during the early years of the franchise.

"It's quite an honor to be with Babe Ruth and Ted Williams," Sullivan said. "I'm going to be one of 50 in a franchise that has been around for 150 years. My book, this award. It's been quite a year for me."

It has been quite a life, more than nine innings, for Sullivan, who was born in Burbank, Calif., threw hand grenades higher in the air than any of his Army buddies in combat in the Korean War because he was 6 feet 7, and made his first major league start in 1954 against the dreaded Yankees in the Big Apple. He won.

But probably the most memorable moment for Sullivan was his first appearance in the big leagues at the end of the 1953 season after being called up from the Albany Senators of the Eastern League. After getting the signal to warm up, the rookie Sullivan was so nervous, his first pitch in the bullpen sailed over the catcher's head, slammed into a concrete wall and ricocheted up into the stands. When he finally took the mound, the home plate umpire told him, "Don't worry, kid. Just get the ball close and I'll call them out."

Relieved, Sullivan threw a fastball down the middle of the plate. He did it just like the umpire told him. "Ball one," the ump said. "The men in blue are another story," Sullivan said.

Not surprisingly, many of Sullivan's stories involved his catcher and drinking buddy, Sammy White. If life is more than nine innings, it was a lifetime with White, who also moved to Kaua'i at the same time. In an unbelievable harmonic convergence, the Red Sox battery mates made a transcendental leap from Fenway Park to edenic Kaua'i. And both eventually wound up as golf pros — Sullivan at Kaua'i Surf and White at Princeville. Talk about a stretch.

White died in 1991 at the age of 63, but he'll always be in Sullivan's thoughts. And those reminiscences will always evoke a smile from Sully. None better than the time when White came to the pitcher's mound in a game at Comiskey Park when the Chicago White Sox had the bases loaded and Minnie Minoso at bat. Sullivan was waiting for some words of advice from his catcher. White looked at every base, then at home plate and then finally said, "Jesus Christ! You're in a lot of trouble!"

One of Sullivan's proudest memories, although it didn't start out that way, involved the cover of his book. During an off day in 1956, Sullivan, White and Jackie Jensen were told by the Red Sox management to drive 140 miles to Stockton, Mass., to pose for some photos. The guy didn't seem like he knew what he was doing, Sullivan recalled. They all griped on the drive back, saying what a waste of their drinking time it was, especially when they found out that Williams didn't want to go but agreed to have his face painted in the end product, which was entitled "The Rookie."

The following spring it turned out to be the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. And, oh, the artist's name? Norman Rockwell.

Sullivan received permission to use the Rockwell portrait for his own book. He even flew back to Boston several years ago when the Museum of Fine Arts was honoring Rockwell, featuring "The Rookie" in an exhibit of his works.

Now, I'm trying to persuade Sullivan to write another collection of one-page stories — in golf. I don't know what he can use for a cover. But I suggested the title — "Golf Is More Than 18 Holes."