Living in America means that you have some opinion about baseball. Love or hate the sport, it’s long been considered the nation’s pastime and has carried significant history in the larger culture. It makes sense, then, that cinema would mine the subject for a variety of reasons whether it be capturing the rise of Jackie Robinson or connecting generations who grew up at ballparks. For those who know the benches well, it’s hard to not have some affection for at least one of these titles, though, if I’m being totally honest, they don’t always capture the sensation of being at a game without romanticizing something else, even creating shorthand so that the narrative can flow better.
Among the accomplishments you can lob at Eephus (2025), the major one is that it seductively plays with pacing in ways that remind me of an actual game. I am someone who has regularly visited local ballparks the past few years and enjoys being there. I even went to a game for Long Beach’s new minor league team (Go Coast!) and had a great time. Even with that enthusiasm as I deconstruct what makes the downtime suspenseful, I’m here to say that it’s a relatively dull sport if you’re not being social. Bring a group, talk shop, and eat those hot dogs. Listen to the organist as you miss a play due to a right field distraction. For me, it’s nearly impossible to watch baseball without incorporating some community element, where the atmosphere is just as important because, for those few hours, you are joined together in a common cause.
Much like the central motif of the eephus pitch, the average game manages to feel fast and slow at the same time. You finish the national anthem full of anticipation, eager to come out swinging so that you can build a safe barrier. The excitement usually lasts until the third or fourth for me when, provided there’s not active tension, you’re left realizing there’s five innings left. Suddenly time feels endless, and it’s easy for the next half hour to hour to feel insufferably long. However, by the eighth inning at the latest, your awareness of time returns and suddenly you become attached to the close-out, the need for everything to fall into place. It becomes bittersweet and suddenly the past few hours, even the ones that felt insignificant at the time, come to hold nostalgia that you don’t want to let go of. For every high and low, the griping and setbacks, you realize that baseball is special. It’s not the mad dash of basketball or volleyball. It’s indefinite but also, confoundingly, confined.
This isn’t to say that Eephus is ever as dull as the average fifth inning, but director Carson Lund does this amazing magic trick of making the story ebb and flow like a real game. Even with the comic premise of the last game being never-ending, there is something to watching the exciting beginning and timeless middle all play out while players in the dugout wax philosophic and the scorekeeper looks on. Quite cleverly, Lund also makes this the game of an aging rivalry, reaching their physical limits and having one last outing. In that respect, it makes sense why some people don’t want the game to end. Most diehard fans will have played since childhood, so it’s in their DNA. Even so, this is a comedy of errors, where egos clash, and outsiders look on, baffled at the possibility of this game being the least bit significant.
Credit to the screenwriters for never overstepping their chance of grandstanding the virtues of baseball. Some simply wear the passion more clearly while the interstitial title cards provide quotes from the legends while moving the story forward. Eephus understands its place in the sport’s history. It’s not trying to create an underdog story. The winner, objectively, doesn’t matter. Nothing is won. It’s all for love of the game. It’s what gives the story more heart, especially as motivations wane as time catches up and, quite succinctly, the story must choose between the love of friends and the duties of family. When a game is never-ending, difficult decisions are made. This is the last game. It would be pathetic to end in forfeit.
The subtextual elements elevate the otherwise inspired comedy that feels reminiscent of the best Richard Linklater day-in-the-life dramas. Lund not only knows how to make a good slapstick gag, but his introductions are top-notch. Early on, a character is seen running to the dugout after running late. He’s not even fully in uniform. With some in-camera tricks, Lund shows him managing to stumble to the plate with the vaguest composure before cracking the bat and, upon running to first, face plants. The immediate deflation of confidence works as a punctuation mark for the story, especially as everyone else is there giving 110%, trying to push past their aching bodies to play the most important game of their lives.
This is also a story that doesn’t take place at any fancy venue. It’s at a no-name park where spectators are a mix of passerbys and friends trying to provide the least amount of enthusiasm for the players. It’s a very small turnout, but one that brings their own colorful mix of subplots. While the players embody the heart of the game, there are ideological debates of growing old and watching games, where you dedicate your life to counting every run. It’s a question regarding what will happen next. The scorekeeper could move onto another team, but as anyone invested in sports knows, you tend to bond with groups of people the longer you’re paying attention. The longer you see their victories and failures, the more everything matters. When you’re older and watching your hobbies fade, how do you keep the passion alive to follow someone who means nothing, when it returns to just being another game?
The ballpark is unspectacular. Even if it can reasonably host games, it’s showing signs of having seen better days. Every creak that once seemed unpleasant now carries a sound that everybody would long to recapture. Much like a real game, Eephus develops a sense of melancholy within the humor as they realize that the problems were part of the attraction. For every setback, there were laughs and moments where everything came together. The memories, for now, have a physical embodiment. However, shortly after the credits roll, it will be demolished to build a new school. The following generation will build their formative years on this land. It’s hard to accept once everything fades into photographs, but again Lund’s poetic exploration of the mundanity makes the never-ending gimmick flow all the better.
Given my appreciation for baseball, it’s hard to say if this will appeal to those more critical of the activity. Most films on the subject are triumphant, filled to the brim with a towering score that turns the underdog into a hero for the ages. There are narrative tropes that make those more marketable. Meanwhile, Eephus never steers too far into those archetypes, instead allowing the goofiness of growing old and forming more complicated relationships with your friends to take center stage. There’s constant awareness of how unflattering the setting is, where people are baffled by the greater depth and not every player enters with the same level of enthusiasm. Even so, it encapsulates the feeling of a game as well as the passage of time. Lund cares more about the essence than any symbolism. It’s about the people who make showing up mean something. Thankfully, he makes it hard to say goodbye even if the finale comes at a ridiculously odd hour.
When all the rituals are over, and the young bucks take over, what will there be for the old class? They will have to choose to age gracefully, to mentor and hope they can understand the sport like they did. Even so, they won’t have those physical landmarks. Like every sport, there’s something essential to being there to have it resonate. The game may be the inconsequential middle of the season, but you can talk to people in the crowd and have that exchange last forever. Eephus asks how you can make the intangible aspects of baseball something that will last forever. These may not be the most athletic actors, but it’s never played for predictable failure. They may fall or huff while running for a ball, but Lund loves these characters, which helps to translate to the audience.
Not everyone will get to play in the major leagues. Most who pick up a bat are likely to have more fleeting accomplishments. Even so, the dream of being part of something greater keeps you going, believing that dedicating your life to the sport will connect you to people who will mean the world. They will bring their own stories and make the bad days easier to deal with. From the outside, it may seem silly to see someone age out of relevance, but Lund cares about mortality and legacy. This isn’t about anything more than the game. That, in a nutshell, is why this is a brilliant love letter to flipping on a cap and getting caught up in the next game. You may not have the most competitive experience, but if you do it right, you’ll leave with at least some good memories.
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