Friends keep asking me if Moneyball is good, but I have no idea. How can you evaluate the quality of your own home movies?
The first man to break my heart was a burly meathead with bad facial hair and an occasional drug habit. His name was Jeremy Giambi, and he was the designated hitter for the Oakland Athletics.
It was 2001, I was 17 years old, and the A’s were on the verge of sweeping the Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. But with the A’s clinging to a 1-0 lead in the 7th inning of Game 3, Giambi inexplicably decided not to slide into home plate and was tagged out. My beloved team went on to lose the game and the series, and I learned what betrayal felt like.