Moneyball

Meg encouraged me to steal away tonight to see Moneyball, which was playing at the Moreland. She knew I wanted to watch it, and she had no interest, so it was a good win for both of us (she finished making the older boys' Harry Potter-inspired costumes for Halloween). Even though I had to leave during the middle of the USC-Stanford foootball game, I swapped my pajamas for a pair of shorts and walked over to the theater (I don't get out much on Saturday's so why bother changing my clothes?).

Before I left my parents' house a century ago, baseball was my world. Getting cable as a kid was great because I was guaranteed a game a day (even if it was the Atlanta Braves)--and I would watch every one, even those that went 23 innings or whatever. I watched one game this year--and just this week: game 7 of the World Series, and it wasn't even the whole game. I played throughout my youth, but I haven't stepped onto the field since I was a senior in high school, and I don't really like the game much anymore. I certainly don't follow it, and the few players I know are the old ones (i.e., those my age).

So I wonder why I was tearing up watching some of the more dramatic scenes. I didn't witness any of the events (meaning I didn't watch them unfold on TV, like watching Kirk Gibson in Game 1 of the '88 series), they weren't about players or teams I care about, yet still the emotions swelled up inside like I was a kid again. I think nostalgia grasps me harder than most, and I do nothing to escape her clutches. It's a good movie--funny, interesting, clever--even if you don't have any emotional ties to baseball.

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