Bull Durham
(1988)
Can I just tell you how much I've been needing baseball this spring? Maybe it's to do with the but-if-it-had-to-perish-twice winter we're still trying to get out from under (forgot to check today, and I'm not going out there now just for this, but as of yesterday there was still a little pile of January snow next door), but I think it's something even more elemental than that. Expectations for my beloved team are the lowest they've been in years, so it's certainly not because I assume triumph that will salve the disappointment that my beloved basketball team has left me and my beloved football (you know: with the feet) team now seems destined to leave me. And it's certainly not that I expect to lose less money this year on resale of my unused tickets than I did last year. Maybe it's that my team is in its 50th season and I'm in the late innings of my own game. Anyway, I've been savoring the prospect of my annual screening of this, holding off until the end of the season's first weekend--on the day that my team's winning pitcher is someone who, like Crash Davis, has been observed reading a book without pictures.This film is not perfect, but rare is the poem longer than a sonnet that's perfect, and this film is a poem.
2 comments:
I haven't watched this in a long while. Maybe it's time to see it again. My real life baseball life has not been going well lately, maybe this would help.
Rose goes in the front, big guy.
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