Although we rarely see one another in person these days, it’s fair to say my buddy Don and I enjoy a mutually rewarding relationship. I think I know him pretty well, and a recent episode confirms that he reads me like, well, a book.

Don and I attended the same large state university together a few short decades ago. Kismet arranged for us to work together on the same residence hall staff one year, and during that time we found we shared a number of interests. That we received our respective bachelor’s degrees on the very same day bears testimony to his intelligence and work ethic, since he had begun his college career a full year after I did.

After earning our respective diplomas, we went our separate ways. One of us quickly moved into a lucrative, rewarding career, while the other began a two-decades-long period of trying to decide what he wanted to do next.

But even while I was living the high life, working in minor league baseball and busing to glamorous spots like Hagerstown, Kenai, Dunedin and Wytheville, my old pal was never too far from my mind. I always made it a point to send him some sort of greeting and/or trinket from wherever I happened to be staying, though I tried not to be too ostentatious about it. I didn’t want him thinking I was rubbing his nose in the fact I was regularly shacking up at five-star, cinder-block hotels while his small-time employers were sending him to backwaters like Honolulu, Aspen, London and Paris.

As the years have gone by, it’s become apparent one of the many things we have in common is a desire to help America’s economy, and to that effect we’ve put our money where our respective mouths are by periodically sending one another small packages via the United States Postal Service.

There is no set pattern regarding how often Don will send me a box or envelope with some delightful treasure inside it. Some years I receive two or three of them; others go by with nary a one, but since we’re both living exceptionally busy lives, that’s perfectly understandable.

A couple of weeks ago, a yellow envelope with Don’s return address on it showed up in my mailbox. Had I been having a bad day, that package’s arrival would have utterly transformed my attitude, but since I was already feeling fine it merely heightened my pre-existing good mood tenfold.

What the parcel contained was a copy of “Over Time,” a memoir written by Frank Deford, who these days is probably best known for his thoughtful and articulate weekly commentaries on National Public Radio. However, he initially made his reputation as a writer for Sports Illustrated magazine, which was less than a decade old when he joined its staff as a baseball researcher in 1962. Many knowledgeable people ”“ well, at least Don and I ”“ feel Deford is the finest active American sports writer today.

Here’s where it’s helpful to have a friend who really knows you. Don realizes that, left to my own devices, I’d be too stingy to buy a hardcover I’d enjoy until it became available for $4.99 at the Barnes and Noble bargain section in a couple of years, assuming Barnes and Noble is still extant by the time that happens. He knows I won’t spend $25 on a book.

But that’s what a good friend is; he’ll spend $25 on you when you yourself are too cheap to do so.

Since this is nominally a column and not a book review, disclosing specific contents of “Over Time” would probably constitute some sort of breach of journalistic ethics. However, I’ll risk divulging that a couple of the memoir’s anecdotes will forever change the way readers think of Jimmy the Greek and Rodney Dangerfield (assuming they think of them at all), and that another one will confirm what they probably already suspected about professional wrestling impresario Vince McMahon.

Deford’s cogent reminiscences teem with provocative insights, but more importantly he reveals himself to be, similar to the rest of us, both ordinary and extraordinary. He’s both aware of and comfortable with his strengths and his shortcomings. There’s no false modesty in Deford; he acknowledges he’s earned some honors for his work over the years, but simultaneously makes it clear he knows sports writing, even when done well, isn’t exactly the same as curing cancer. All in all, the man who wrote “Over Time” comes across as a bright fellow who’d be cool to live next door to.

Here’s a two-word review of “Over Time”: Read it.

Absorbing Deford’s eloquent prose is one of life’s true pleasures. In fact, it’s nearly as rewarding as having a friend like Don, even if he no longer resides a short walk away.

— Andy Young, who teaches high school English in York County, is comfortable with his strengths and weaknesses, too, even though he’s never won any awards for them.