Field of Goddamn Dreams

I sat down today for some quality time with Mrs. Sony and started looking for a movie to watch. There's always something good on cable on a Saturday afternoon, or something better at least than going outside. And what do I find on HBO HD but my old nemesis: the 1989 Kevin Costner vehicle "Field Of Dreams". It called to me like a siren..."It's only a few minutes in. You haven't missed much." Or perhaps more like a wrathful pimp: "You best put down that remote and reco'nize, bitch."

It is enemy to me, anathema, because it holds a particular distinction: it's the only film I've ever been known to cry during. I don't mean get a little misty - I mean full-on, lose-my-shit, cry big, blubbery, unmanly tears over.

It's the same part everytime, right before the camera pans up and you see the line of cars heading for the Kinsella farm and the credits roll, when The Amphibious Postman calls out for his ghost dad as he's walking back to the corn and says "Hey Dad, how about a catch?" That's when the waterworks begin in earnest, although I usually start to tear up earlier when Burt Lancaster steps off the field to save Ray's daughter or when Darth Vader gives that speech about baseball.

But that scene gets me every. Damn. Time. I don't know why. The movie doesn't really strike any huge personal chords for me otherwise; I like baseball well enough but a lot less than everyone in that movie. I don't have any daddy issues of note. I never really turned anyone down for a game of catch. I hate cornfields.

So what the hell is it? Why is this movie my kryptonite? Why am I doomed to only break my steely emotional facade in the face of syrupy late 80's cinema?

And WHY GOD WHY does it have to be Costner?