Remember what made "Field of Dreams" so successful? I do. It was that fat nerd in a suit droning on and on about baseball statistical analysis while a man in a stained Puma track jacket who looked suspiciously like Brad Pitt ate a Twinkie. Oh wait a minute - that's not "Field of Dreams." That's "Moneyball." And it sucked.
I do know one thing. If I was an obese baseball geek who had finally lured Brad Pitt into my dungeon in the basement of the Oakland Athletics baseball stadium, I wouldn't be talking to him about ERAs and late-inning doubles. No, I'd be greasing up my chunky body and making him spell my name backwards while I beat him across the chest with a Slim Jim. But honestly, no one asked me how the plot of "Moneyball" could have been improved by tweaking the relationship between main character Billy Beane and his whale-like assistant manager sidekick, which is maybe why the film failed to connect with me in any way I could describe without using hot dog mustard like it was finger paint.
Let's be honest. No one wants to see movies about math. Especially jocks. All of the baseball fans who were duped into buying a ticket for "Moneyball" and who expected to be treated to something with the class and cultural delicacy of "Mr. Baseball" instead ended up riding Mr. Beane's Algebra Express all the way to Dullsville. It's not a good sign when the movie's main character DOESN'T EVEN WATCH THE BALL GAMES. Yes, that's right - this is a baseball movie without the baseball, sort of like "Dances with Wolves" without the wolves, or "Red October" without the submarine (or Connery's beard). It's just two guys sitting in an office for the better part of two hours, talking about stats and at-bats and making you regret ever signing up for that fantasy baseball league at your office that you never win yet consistently pay $50 to enter.
Guess what? The Oakland A's never won anything, either. Does that make me feel better, knowing that there are professional losers out there who are paid millions to achieve what I have already accomplished before I eat breakfast in the morning? No, of course not. Nothing makes me feel better other than a combination of Oxycontin and cobra venom, a habit I picked up during my brief career as a professional cricketer. What's cricket, you ask? Go ask your parents.
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