This is supposed to be a film about fathers and son, and the connective generational tissue that is baseball. As such, it can't even get Shoeless Joe Jackson hitting from the correct side of the plate? Nobody thought to check? And, even if you buy the conversion of the novel's J.D. Salinger character into the reclusive black-activist played by James Earl Jones, having done so, do you think that character wouldn't have noticed that there didn't seem to be any room for Josh Gibson, or Cool Papa Bell, or Buck Leonard out there beyond the cornfield? Heaven, apparently, is as segregated as the 1939 St. Louis Browns. Do you further think that a guy who seems at one point to be halfway between James Baldwin and LeRoi Jones would deliver that ghastly paean to the days of segregated baseball to an all-white audience? This movie is as false as blue money to its most fundamental premise. And it's a weepy fake, besides. Anyone who promises to turn the place back into good, productive farmland again gets my vote.