If you want an antidote to John Henry's Red Sox sabermetrics, you need to see Clint Eastwood blow them away.
Well, not exactly. That would have been the best ending to the recent Eastwood movie, having Clint come into the computer center of MLB with his Magnum and taking out the memory banks and restoring mindless amnesia to baseball.
Hollywood doesn't work that way. The filmgoers who see this movie are like the people who go to ball games. They like the green grass and sunshine. They like the cheap seats and the hot dogs.
In no serious way can this movie follow in the footsteps of Moneyball. There is no money in baseball here. It is the story, like Field of Dreams, of making nothing in terms of profit and risking the farm to satisfy an innocent obsession.
Clint has become old. If he were still filled with fire, he would have unleashed firepower twenty minutes into Trouble with the Curve and turned it into Trouble with Dirty Harry, a Hitchcock mystery combined with the dirty antics of a certain SF detective.
We would have liked to see half a dozen culprits rounded up and exposed as techno-nerds about to destroy the national pastime. Clint would have made short work of these types, but that's another movie.
Unfairly or not, the movie cites the Red Sox in one scene as being culpable for everything that is wrong with baseball: sabermetrics. The statistical change to the game is like taking Latin out of the Mass for Roman Catholics.
Boston's cathedral may be leading the sabermetric charge, but empty seats are harder to find at Fenway Park than patrons to this bad movie.