By Tony La Russa

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Content Warning: Tony La Russa’s review of Angels in the Outfield may, accurately or inaccurately, contain descriptions of sexual violence

It was a brisk morning. Crimson smatterings of the sunrise to come filtered through the blinds to coat my floor in the hopes for good weather and a better day as the greatest baseball anything of all time. I stood and laughed as two bottles of peppermint schnapps¹ tumbled from the sheets to floor, surely a good sign that I had been engaging in the premier somnambulistic activity—sleep drinking. Let me cut through the flim-flam, It was sure to be a great day.

The foundational element of every man’s success is a healthy breakfast, I maintain this as nothing short of a biblical truth and attest that it is why I made breakfast for the entire cardinals team every day during my time as chancellor of Cardinals Nation, long may it stand in glory².

After completing my fast-breaking perfection I set out to perform my ablutionary preferences. I selected a shower beer³ and headed to my scrubbery. My shower fires streams of water from all angles and an infrared sensor makes certain none of the spray tracks onto whatever beverage I have brought into my chamber—my passion for baseball excellence proving to only be rivaled by my love of good programming and beverage preservation. The waters sprayed upon me from all directions and as the 40 degree fluid I clenched in my right hand touched my lips, I felt there was nothing in this world that could dampen the brightness that had burst forth to greet me on that fine day.

And then I turned on this fucking movie.

Angels in the Outfield is nothing short of the most depraved film I have ever laid my eyes upon. I need to make it clear to you, my beloved readers, that I write this review entirely out of duty to your eyes and even your very souls. It is the most singularly nauseating thing I have viewed since Marcell Ozuna missed a fly ball that should have warranted his execution⁴, and I write this as a warning never to allow yourself to stumble into the maw of this horrific hellscape of cinematographic degeneracy. Prepare yourself, dear friends. This is my experience watching The Angels In The Outfield, the worst baseball movie of all time. 

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I left the shower chamber and dressed myself in my casual wear. The exact uniform of the ’42 birds⁵. It just puts me at ease to wrap myself in that year’s excellence. I fumbled through a pile of blu-rays that my grandson, Dennis La Russa, had left in the theater. The boy—Dennis La Russa I mean—had been obsessed with Italian filmmakers of late and I was excited to see him interested in something a little more grounded, that being the blu ray copy of Angels in the Outfield that I then held in my right hand between two bottles of Rosé. I enjoyed knowing that young Dennis La Russa had made an effort to expand his interests in film to less common parts of the American experience, but I had admittedly grown tired of hearing about Figorinio, Meatballia de Napels, Noodles de Fettucini Medici, Pier Paolo Pasolini, or whatever other Italian director my grandson, Dennis La Russa, had latched onto as he spoke of them ad nauseum, and I slid in the disk to share what joys my young grandson had alighted upon.

Then I fought the urge to vomit for nearly the entirety of the hour and fifty-seven minute long film from hell. I’m going to ask you, my beautiful reader, what do you imagine when I say baseball movie? Does one see tight shots of the greatest circular object ever derived by man’s collective will fired from the hand of a pitcher whose face is twisting into a display of concentration that only our beautiful game can draw from a man⁶? Do you see the drama of a much-needed home run being achieved at the last minute, fans screaming in jubilation at the runs that seem like nothing short of a miracle? What about the humorous foibles of men engaged in locker room shenanigans that fill our hearts with a mirth and merriment that reveals more about the inner-workings of relationships that look less and less like friendship and more like, may I be so bold as to say, family⁷?

That’s what I fucking see. I see an aids-less Charlie Sheen being a beautiful representative of the game and making me laugh til my dick hurts. Ray Kinsella builds a veritable temple to the sport I so adore and I leave the theater ready to believe in magic again. Hell even that fucking Rob Schneider abomination made me occasionally chuckle! I love this game and when I picture a film dedicated to it, I picture people coming together to beat the odds and become their best selves. I was ready for a movie about the union of our angelic overseers and a sport that may as well be the closest thing to opening America’s chest and looking at its beautiful beating heart. I picture strikeouts. I picture tears. I picture tags at home plate. Hell I even picture bunting⁸. Most of all I picture my childhood. I picture smiles.

What I do not picture is a man shitting on the floor of a palace and forcing an onlooker to fucking eat it.

But it does add up to a film that I would pay to have forcibly removed from my own and presumably my grandson, Dennis La Russa’s, now forever sub-title and smut stained minds. I don’t know where to even begin so I’ll just address the plot and then offer my thoughts on why we should Nuremberg-Trial-2-Electric-Boogaloo the entire cast of this thing.

The film opens on some young men and women in the Italian countryside, which was weird enough because I didn’t think they ever managed to learn the rules of our national pastime. We follow these folks as they are arrested by armed soldiers¹¹ and taken away to a palace in some fucking part of Italy¹² where a band of fruit-cake aristocrats gives them some speech about torturing and fucking them¹³, and let me tell you not a line of these weirdly dressed whackos was exaggerated. This is the opening to— in case you have forgotten— “Angels In the Outfield.” Twenty minutes in and we got no pitching, no bats, no angels— promise you that— just some weird palace bound sex cult and, folks I gotta warn you, It only gets worse from here.

The film is now divided into three sections, called “circles” for some fucking reason, divided by cue cards that reveal which of the fun little segments we are in—let me remind you this whole movie required fucking subtitles. The “Circles” are as follows: The Circle of Mania, The Circle of Shit—for real—and The Circle of Blood. Read that again and tell me where the fuck lead actor Danny Glover¹⁴ is supposed to make a compelling movie about our national pastime or even a movie that involves a goddamn outfield¹⁵! Spoilers, NO OUTFIELD! No infield either. No bats. No Balls. No Strikes. Oh but don’t worry fathers and mothers of America, this G-Rated “family-film” has plenty for you to enjoy with your young ones. Be riveted as you watch Italian prostitutes tell stories to sexually tantalize aristocratic men as they argue over which of their sex slaves has the nicest ass, clap your hands as a woman on a leash is fed a muffin full of nails, behold the wonder of a forced marriage that ends in a gangrape of the husband and wife, and so much more¹⁶. I watched a grown man forcibly marry an adolescent and throw a wedding reception in which the entirety of the attendants proceeded to be served their own feces. Tongues were cut off. Eyes were gouged out. There was never even a dug-out. Sincerely, fuck this movie.

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Look, I’m not going to give this film an in-depth review; it does not deserve it and neither do I. I’m going to get to the point, all I’ve ever heard about this film is that it was a nostalgic piece of 90’s era magic that was little more than enjoyable fluff about a game I love and the importance of family, and that is a fucking lie. It is truly vile and I can’t believe they got people like Christopher Lloyd to contribute to this monstrosity¹⁷. Shit eating, murder, rape, I don’t remember any cannibalism but I assume that’s in the director’s cut.

My point is that I have stumbled upon an inarguably legitimate conspiracy. The description of this film on IMDB matches absolutely nothing that the DVD my grandson, Dennis La Russa, made available to myself via his possession of this atrocious conservatory of camera-preserved sin. How can it be that the entire world is hypnotized by this mass adoption of this completely inaccurate expectation of this 90’s hit. I thought Epstein was a big deal but there is no way he did as much damage from his weird Israeli flag looking lair as a movie that is this fucked up and still managed to gross 50.2 million dollars did to an entire generation. Who could have pulled this off beside someone at the very top¹⁸? Someone had to get this film approved for a budget of twenty four million dollars, someone had to get this display of horror past Standards, and someone had to sell a copy to my very own fucking grandson, Dennis La Russa. It had international reception and if you ask anyone about it they will just tell you some bizarre story of an angel helping someone make a catch; I can’t comprehend it. My only logic is that the film is instilling everyone’s brain with such a degree of revulsion that our collective consciousnesses are creating a mass delusion to replace the terror they experienced as the victims of this oh-so-cruel rug-pull of a movie.

I don’t wanna go straight off the ledge here but we have to find who is responsible for this¹⁹. Organize the people; organize the victims. Get me enough alcohol to ruin every part of my brain upon which this movie has been imprinted. I don’t care. The fact that the F.B.I. has not already conducted mass arrests and comically over the top executions speaks volumes as to how far the reach of this sinister cabal extends. What else can they control if they have caused our culture to accept this nonsensical description of a film that is marketed off of not only our national past-time but the dreams of our goddamn children! Is any piece of American media safe? As I sit here I can barely contain myself, and I just finished off another fifth of titos; I should be nothing short of blissful, but Instead I am taking inventory of every classic film that I can manage to recollect through the horror and intoxication and praying to god that they aren’t actually some pervert’s ultra realistic expression of his imagination’s darkest depths.

I mean jumper-cables-on-balls style, no-regard-for-the-Geneva-Convention investigations are well past warranted. Drag every person who dared publish a review of this monstrosity into Guantanamo Bay and just start hitting them. Don’t even ask them questions; there is no way that they don’t possess a depth of guilt in their shriveled souls that vexes their consciousness nightly. They know what they did. Just hurt them until they confess. I will say again, they know what they did. Put out cigarettes on them. Flick their penises. Put salt in their anus. I do not care²². Justice must be delivered, and it should be delivered in a way that makes the Spanish inquisition look like a census survey—broadcast the mass-microwaving of these degenerates. Tony is ready for blood baby!

I can’t imagine the trauma this recent development has caused my precious grandson, Dennis La Russa. The other day he was sent home from school²³ after he was caught bumping lines and draining bottles in the women’s room with his guidance counselor²⁴. His mother, Winifred La Russa, insisted that her son was out of control and had the gall to blame my influence on the boy as possessing the position of primary influence on the rot in the spirit of my grandson, Dennis La Russa. I happened to be on my sixth bottle of absinthe at the time these accusations were leveled—my point is that I was in a particularly amenable humor and managed to contain my rage—so I considered her words as potentially valid, but after seeing the materials my beautiful grandson, Dennis La Russa, has found himself exposed to I reject these accusations wholeheartedly. I see no way in which this depravity on behalf of my grandson, Dennis La Russa, wasn’t in some way inspired by this disgusting, egregious, and ultimately degenerate film. My grandson, Dennis La Russa, and his mother, Winifred La Russa, are undeniably victims of this cruel deception. Saint Thomas once proposed that the real sin committed by Adam and Eve was not the eating of the apple but rather that they turned away from each other once they recognized that they were naked. The true sin of Angels in the Outfield is not that it will ruin your family-movie night but that it will make you draw away from your fellow man and division will only become more extreme in this already so-lonely world. The strife that has befallen my family must be prevented before it finds its way to harming others. Perhaps even you.

I beg you, my faithful reader and fellow subject of Cardinals Nation, do not watch this movie. It’s terrible, truly fucking terrible. Join me in hunting down the creators and deceivers that unleashed this upon an undeserving mankind. 

Don’t do it for me.

Do it for the future.

Do it for decency.

Do it for my grandson²⁵.

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Editor’s Note: It has come to our attention that long-time columnist Tony La Russa’s review of Angels in the Outfield is incorrect, in fact Tony mixed up the movie Salo or 120 Days of Sodom when reviewing Angels in the Outfield. We are just as perplexed as you are, considering Tony La Russa made a cameo appearance in Angels in the Outfield. Mr. La Russa has gone on record with us saying that that was clearly not him, but one of his robots. Despite the evidence presented, Mr. La Russa stands by his review of Angels in the Outfield.

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¹My chosen beverage for cold weather. That or a good stout.

²Note also the robot I use to manage that other team was designed with no sense of taste. Te-fucking-he.

³Alpine Beer Co. Nelson IPA.

⁴Feed him to Scary Fred Bird.

⁵Cleats and all, baby.

⁶No offense to my Thai dominatrix Xị̂ h̄mū khrậng h̄ıỵ̀. The emotions you draw out of me are best described as erotic fear rather than focus, wonderful though it may be, my dear.

⁷And nothing is more powerful than family. Not even the mighty king of the sea the Marlin or the Death Star or nukes or, like hurricanes (speaking of I just started in on my fourth one so I’m really ready to voice my opinion on this fucking movie) or, or, I don’t know big storms or something.

⁸A fucking disgraceful and dastardly tactic. Eat shit Juan Pierre.

⁹On wood that is very, I don’t know, splintery.

¹⁰Sorry this is kind of an awkward tone shift, but I actually picked up a sponsor for this article—I know bad timing but I signed the contract before I viewed this filth. So let me tell ya folks, when you need a blender to mix up a delicious personalized concoction or to sodomize a man who made a movie that made me cry you need you need the Vitamix E310. With its laser-cut, stainless-steel hammermill, and cutting blades measuring 3-in diameter can be sure your Vitamix E310 will offer you the best of blended ingredients, whether it’s your morning smoothie or your seventh margarita. So please, choose quality, choose vitamix.

¹¹Armed with guns and not just meatballs mind you.

¹²Sorry if I’m coming off overly Nationalistic here but I am pissed off and I love Hurricanes.

¹³Actually fuck that previous footnote. I am pissed off. I’m gonna change my last name to “La FredBird” I am so ashamed of my heritage.

¹⁴By the way I have no idea who the fuck he was supposed to be in this movie. I can only assume the studio had him in the greatest and most effective form of white face ever utilized since that movie with the two bimbos and Terry Crews.

¹⁵NO FUCKING OUTFIELD!

¹⁶I genuinely want to be neuralized by the men in black.

¹⁷Though I will reiterate that I have no fucking idea who he played.

¹⁸Dare I even say Hal um, ummm, hmmm, Schplinebrenner.

¹⁹And do something from the latter half of this fucking movie to them.

²⁰With no trial.

²¹And remember who you’re talking to here. I have a place in Panama.

²²I’m so drunk and angry right now.

²³He’s so talented they have him on a learn-while-high program, or that’s what my grandson, Dennis La Russa, says anyway.

²⁴She has some rocking tits.

²⁵Dennis La Russa.