Eephus and the Long Arc Towards Devotion
“What do you need a school for? I mean… to learn, I guess.”
Carson Lund’s Eephus is a movie with a very small goal, but it accomplishes that intent with such passionate particularity that it rings as an achievement on par with films that claim a much larger budget and broader scope. It’s an act of—and about—devotion.
We’re here to witness the dying of an era. A weary baseball field in a small Massachusetts town is about to be demolished to make space for a new school. Demolition begins tomorrow. It is a death that will go quietly into the night, unnoticed by nearly everyone, even the people whose houses butt up against the field. But for the twenty-odd men who gather on this field, there are few events as momentous. For it is not yet tomorrow and Soldiers Field still breathes, which means it is still the time and place for baseball.
If you’re looking for more plot, I don’t have much to give you: the men form teams and play one last game of baseball. There are conflicts, but no overemphasized arc of rising or falling tension other than the awareness of encroaching time and of dusk. There are clear characterizations among the haphazard players, men ranging in age, personality, and physical acumen, but we’re not here to dive into backstories or have epiphanies. We’re here to play ball… We’re also here to knock back a few beers. And do a little grumbling.
This is a film which forces one to ponder—Is baseball the slow cinema of sports? (My wife answered this question with a resounding Yes.) Lund is aware of the connection and has no hesitation about it. For anyone who enjoys baseball and can get on the wavelength of slow cinema, Eephus veers toward beauty and, yes, even transcendence. This isn’t to say Eephus is an ordeal, though—it’s a brief film with plenty of comedy and dialogue to keep things moving. It’s also consistently hilarious in ways that will slip lines into your subconscious for years to come. As with slow cinema, and as with baseball, this is all about the details: the inexplicable (but always necessary) stance of a pitcher before his windup; the erring sign from the third base coach; the guy keeping score, archiving, turning a vapor of an afternoon into history.
Even more than the action of a play, Lund’s film is attentive to the postures and the gestures of the sport. These are the personal liturgies of the game. Why do these men repeat these gestures, even rely on them? The question is pointless. They need them, much as they need this game. Much as they need this field. Sure, there’s a field in the neighboring town, but that’s thirty minutes away—this might as well be the end of baseball. What matters is that it matters. It’s not that they care about any individual play (though they do), but that they care about the opportunity to meet and re-embody this sense of devotion. In fact, they care so much they keep playing long after the light fades, long after it makes any sense.
But why? If we really push into these questions, we end up at the turtle of: Why do any of us care about anything at all? The act of care (which is itself a posture and a gesture toward the world) is a beautiful thing. And, look—there are plenty of acrid aspects of sports culture, with its in-group suspicion, excusing any injustice against an other, celebrating schadenfreude simply because someone lives a couple hours away. I often feel troubled by the allegiance demanded by sports teams. There’s an inarguable wonder, though, to be observed from a certain angle. Underneath the vulgar bluster, Eephus is at its core, a sweet film. That sweetness even extends to the umpires, one of whom tells the other: “I know your body better than your wife does.”
Eephus is steeped in admiration for both baseball and cinema. If you, too, feel devoted in any sense to either of those, then seek this out.
