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Like all men who weren't good enough, I envy that look. He tosses the ball back, but for him, it's not the same. ." The Chicago "Black" Sox left-fielder was forever suspended from major league baseball for his part in a scheme to fix the 1919 World Series. Kinsella’s book "Shoeless Joe," is about a lot more than baseball. The look of the ex-ballplayer is there in the set of his shoulders, and the way he squints confidently into the sun.
(American, 1989, 107 minutes, color, 16 mm) Directed by Phil Alden Robinson Cast: Kevin Costner . "I’ve deferred life for my career," says the unmarried director. After studying political science at Union College in Schenectady, Robinson worked briefly as a journalist and then for many years produced, wrote and directed industrial and educational films.
This is not just idol philosophizing: Robinson himself is ready to look inward, to focus on friends and family. "Read my lips," he says, "no more movies." By doing so, Robinson will be walking away from Hollywood—if only temporarily—at a time when his career is taking off.
Finally, you speak of what might have happened, as you leave the park sunburned and sticky, bloated with too many Cokes and hot dogs, and serenely happy.
You speak of what just happened -- a triple off the wall in left center, a force play at second, a called strike right down the pipe.
Lock-outs, teams holding up cities for new stadiums, Croesus-like owners pleading poverty, the home town slugger skipping to a new team every time the crocuses bloom; increasingly, we know that baseball isn't a metaphor for life, but simply life itself, complete with cleats and a jockstrap.
Baseball has always, even in the golden years that are the subject of, been a business, often a notably cruel one.
And you, the kid in the seats along the first-base line with your father, are not a mere spectator in this human comedy.
There they stand, muscles moving subtly under their numbered jerseys, talking easily with one another, jogging up the steps of the dugout, loosely swinging a cluster of bats in the sunshine, casually jerking batting practice home runs into the distant bleachers.
I toss the ball to my friend Eric, and he catches it, big-knuckled and loose-limbed.
To paraphrase Raymond Carver, what we talk about when we talk about baseball is nothing less than a conversation, by turns loving and competitive, about manhood itself.