#moneyball

[madeline-kahn]

"He hit a home run and didn't even realize it."

Moneyball (2011) dir. Bennett Miller

[callme-holly]

Do you mind doing something where Billy sends you to pick up his daughter bc he had to run and grab something and Alan makes a comment abt you looking like his sugar baby rather than his partner bc of the age gap n billy finds out later?

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐢𝐬 "𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲" 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫ˎˊ˗

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ in which you mention one of the many rumours going around about your relationship, and billy doesn't take too kindly to them. 𝐚/𝐧: y'all dont even know how much im loving these fics rn. tysm for the request!!

⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆

The kitchen is washed in an easy atmosphere, the kind that makes every muscle in your body ease and any ounce of lingering stress thaw away in the presence of warmth. The bulb overhead emits a soft golden glow, the kind that smoothes the edge of the space and makes the shadows seem less daunting, more inviting, familial. 

You’re wrist-deep in warm, soapy water, the scent of lemon disinfectant and the lingering aroma of spaghetti surrounding you as you scrub the remaining evidence of sauce from the dishes. It’s a chore you’ve grown to love, one that feels domestic in all the right ways, and while you’d normally loathe the idea of doing anything of the sort, you find yourself looking forward to the moment where you feel as though you’re part of a real family. 

A small grin tugs at your lips as you hear the floor by the entrance creak, his presence lingering behind you like smoke, warm and addicting. He’s dressed in sweatpants and an old tee, one no doubt from the bottom of his drawer; you’ve tried to encourage him to wear some of his newer ones, but old habits seem to die hard. 

“If you’re going to hover, you might as well grab a towel.” Your voice carries that teasing lilt he’s grown accustomed to hearing around the house, a sound about as seraphic as choir song. 

Billy steps towards you, hand brushing your waist as he drops a kiss to the side of your jaw. “Just making sure you’re being careful.” 

You hum. “Wouldn’t want to break your IKEA plates.” 

He chuckles, a low sound that reverberates through his chest. “They’re classic.” You watch out the corner of your eye as he leans back against the worn oak counter, his gaze fixed on your figure. “Real timeless.” 

“You got them on sale.” You set the last plate aside, draining the sink and reaching for the towel. He gets there first, snatching it up and wiping the few suds still clinging to a glass. 

For a few seconds, silence fills the space between you. It’s not an awkward sort, not the type that needs to be broken with endless, pointless chatter or an inept cough. It’s comfortable, easy, and content in a way that brings a smile to your lips without anyone cracking a joke. 

Purely for something to do, you drift towards the table, picking up the little stack of papers Casey dropped the second the got home from school, flicking through them idly. She’d asked for your help with homework, something you’d been more than happy to accept doing, and the sudden reminder stirs another memory from the school pickup. 

“You know,” you start, not lifting your gaze as you speak. “I think your analytics department is concerned about your taste in women. I was talking to your numbers guy when I went to get Casey…” 

Billy looks up, and you feel his eyes on the back of your head as he dries. “Yeah?” His tone is wary already, and you hesitate before nodding, finally facing him with the ghost of a smile, if only to keep tension from seeping into the moment. 

“Mhm. He thinks I’m your sugar baby.” 

He pauses his movements, eyes darkening a fraction, jaw tightening. “He said that?” 

You fix him with a knowing look, one that speaks volumes against his growing frustration. You know things like that get to him when people acknowledge the age gap and voice their opinions where they aren’t needed. It bothers him, and despite him not saying it out loud, you can tell in the way he dries the next plate a little too harshly. 

“Hey, hey, easy…” You chide, drifting across the space to take the dishtowel from him. He sets the plate aside, hands finding your hips, pulling you close. 

“He really said that?” 

You can’t stop the smile that creeps onto your face, reaching up with your free hand to brush his hair away. “Pretty sure he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth.” 

“Good—” 

“Relax, I laughed. Thought it was funny.” 

His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to draw a wince from you, a subtle reminder to watch his temper. He mumbles an apology, holding you against his chest, thumb rubbing absent circles into the waistbandof your joggers, a pair you stole from his wardrobe. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that crap. It’s not fair on you.” 

Despite yourself, your expression softens at the earnestness behind the words and the truly sorrowful look behind his eyes. You cup his cheek, brows raised just slightly. “I handled it.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He gives a small shrug, hands wandering to your lower back, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt and resting warm against your skin. “Still…” 

You smile once more at the apologetic look behind those eyes, like a kicked puppy. “You gonna fire him over it?” 

Billy offers you a half-smile at that, a twitch of the lips you might miss had you not spent hours upon hours studying every aspect of his features, how they change. “Tempting. But he’s too useful to let go.” 

You trace the soft line of his jaw, over the faint stubble and beneath his bottom lip, your eyes impossibly tender. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Just… awkward.” 

“Yeah, he’s awkward all right.” He lets out a low chuckle, just to fill the space, before his face melts into something far more earnest. “You know I don’t care about what anyone thinks.” It’s an unspoken question, a reassurance meant not only for you but for him also. 

You nod once. “I know.” 

“Good.” He leans in, closing the distance between you both, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss. 

And despite the things people say and the rumours that swirl about you both, you find that it’s moments like these that make up for all the useless talk. Moments when it’s just the two of you and the truth that lies between you. 

⋆.˚ taglist || @jamesdeanbby ⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞_𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

[atsecretgardensinmymind]

fuck man how can you not be romantic about baseball

[downfalldestiny]

Underrated 🖤 !.

[movies-tv-more]

Movie Releases for May 12, 2026

[i-watched-that]

Moneyball (2011) 4/5 ⭐️

[acu2naa]

sabermetrics

billy beane (moneyball) x playeranalyst! reader

summary: oakland is a place of on base percentage, and most of the league wants to kill the front office for its ideology. so imagine billy's shock when he meets someone who doesn't just wish to discuss team chemistry, or shame the numbers, but introduce intriguing formulas and statistics that go past most counting numbers. a/n: hi! i've never written a fanfic before aside the few trashy dramione pieces when i was in fourth grade, so this might be a little...interesting. also brad is so dilf in this movie and no one talks about it lol. warnings: implied age gap, tiny bit of pervy-ness, micro-flirting through stats (niche but yes)

the air in the front office of the oakland athletics was stifling, all stale breath and cheap coffee. now a week removed from your hiring, you were still surprised you had even gotten a job. some yale graduate had taken pity on you. maybe he only hired you to shut your mouth; you were a rambling mess during the whole interview. barreled this, lineouts in certain weather that. 

you sat down at your desk that still doesn’t feel much like your own. there was a monkey mug full of pens, a ball you had signed by dwight gooden back in the early 90s when you were maybe three years old, and a huge computer that hummed whenever you opened more than twelve tabs, which was a rather difficult task when you happened to be a scatterbrained idiot half the time and a scatterbrained prodigy the other fraction.

you were working on a list of breakout candidates, complete with on base percentage (everyone’s new favorite number), and your own notes, scrawled in blue pen. remarks on unluckiness, competitive at-bats resulting in sharp cracks that somehow found gloves, the desirable things of a player that no one seemed to care about. 

you went to put the packet on your boss’ desk.

he was almost never in. in the past week, you’d probably seen him a grand total of three times, none of which made an impression. tall-ish, blond-ish, angry or stomping about most of the time.

logically, an empty office was surely expected.

and yet, there he sat, glasses perched on his nose in a way you were sure was performative, nose in a binder, armed with a highlighter, dry erase marker clenched between his teeth.

billy beane.

"the breakout candidates brand said you wanted, sir," you said politely, holding out the file of spreadsheets.

he barely looked up. "do i know you?"

you rolled your eyes.

"saw that."

you wished there was a way to reverse an eyeroll in a way that was not moving said eyes counterclockwise.

and so you said a quick, curt introductory rite, placing the file on his desk before spinning on your heel to leave.

"no, stay. what'd you write here in this chicken scratch of yours?"

now he was looking up. and it was incredibly satisfying to watch his reaction. a quick glance up from whatever he was reading that held for at least a second longer than was commonly acceptable in a workplace.

"just that lopez has been hitting the ball sharply."

"and what's that supposed to mean?"

"that his obp which you are so apt to value doesn't accurately portray his talents."

billy snorted. "i like guys who can get on base, sweetheart. there's only three of them. they tend to fill up. and when they do, a run must come home."

you didn't like the way he was speaking to you, not one bit. like you were a clueless sorority girl who got to this office because you smiled pretty.

you smiled pretty.

"if you go on and watch the film," you batted your eyelashes, "you notice patterns. you can hear the crack of the bat. you can see the fielder fumble with it because of how hard it was hit. it was just in the exact wrong place."

"it's a game of inches and a game of luck. hard hit balls don't put runs on the board." he didn't even have the decency to try and look look minorly intrigued.

you ignored him. "and if you watch the fielder's positioning before the play, you can see he was playing up the middle, which is rather atypical, especially when knowing how much lopez likes to pull when he's batting from the left side." you paused. "so is this play bad luck or a slight on lopez?"

billy paid you a half smile and adjusted his glasses.

"explain the rest of these notes to me."

you sat down. the next half hour passed something like this:

...

"i made this formula to make an actually accurate obp."

"which means?"

"sharp lineouts to the gold glove shortstop playing miraculously right where the ball was hit are the same as walks and hits."

"that's mildly ridiculous."

...

"did you know that if kessler didn't play 81 games a year at yankees stadium he would've only been slugging around .375?"

"but he wears pinstripes."

"hopefully this means you'll never deign to put him in the green and gold."

...

"why did brand even hire you?"

"why are you still listening to me? it can't simply be because i'm pretty."

he snorted and violently spat out chewing tobacco into a paper cup.

...

"you talk like you've never watched a game of baseball in your life."

"i don't. i do sit ups in the workout room while they play."

"why?"

"i'm bad luck."

...

you spent the rest of that eventful day locked in the film room with a composition notebook, meticulously studying one of the a's most promising prospects. the only flaw to him was that the second he hopped the triple-a foul line, his fastball started getting rocked. his low curveball, his putaway pitch, started getting taken.

billy passed by. you weren't sure if you were on first name terms, still stuck on "sir", or nowhere.

"beane!" you called out.

he came back with a stack of paper in his arms.

"i don't watch games, kid."

you rolled your eyes. "clearly. and this is an at bat. there's a minimum of twenty-seven in a game. i'm pretty sure you're safe."

and so he sat down next you.

"this rhodes?" he asked.

you nodded.

"i want to trade him while he still got some kind of market value."

you shrugged. "sure, but i'm pretty sure the issue's fixable. all his stuff's still there."

"then maybe the stuff looked better in double a than triple."

"or maybe the hitters know what's coming."

you pressed play on the vhs and the tape rolled. the pitch was a low curve, his signature. the rest of the sequence was as follows: fastball fouled off, high fastball taken, a changeup just on the inside corner for a strike, and another low curve.

"the hitter doesn't know what's coming. he just has a good eye."

you shook your head. "no, watch," the tape played again. you zoomed in on his glove hand. "he shook the glove twice and held it lower. if i saw that as a hitter, i would be sitting on a curve." another few seconds passed. "and the change, he shifts his feet in more of a sixty-degree angle."

"and for the fastball, he's still," billy completed. "he's tipping pitches."

a pause.

"i get the feeling you don't have many hobbies."

"oh," you said, "i have plenty. this one is my job."

he screwed up his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. "and that you're overcomplicating this. even when he's just showing them the curve, even inside or closer to the zone, they're taking all the way. i don't know if the stuff is good enough for triple a yet, much less the bigs."

"you're wrong."

"oh yeah?" he was smirking now, a full-fledged expression that made him...never mind.

you pulled out another tape of rhodes. made him watch it. the same pattern was there.

"you want to try and tell me i'm thinking too hard again?" you said sarcastically once the twentieth changeup of this conversation was thrown.

"fine," he said and opened his arms wide like he was receiving an exorcism. "save the team, kid."

...

it was a late night now, maybe a week and a half later. you were shoveling your nine o'clock dinner (a cup o noodles) down your throat while scrolling through a spreadsheet of potential shortstops-- the position had been a bit of a revolving door.

then, you found him. a young second baseman, dfa'd by the white sox just two days ago. didn't have much shine as a prospect but had one irreplaceable quality: clutch hitting.

you didn't put much thought to batting average, but when the splits were as exaggerated as this, someone needed to know.

you typed up a report, sent it to the printer, and slurped down the rest of the noodles.

billy came up behind you.

"what're you making of the current market?" he asked.

"that if hatteberg can play first, winslow can definitely handle short."

"so you're saying?"

i smiled and handed him the report. "that we have a dirt-cheap second baseman who can hit when runners are on."

he shook his head. "look at the obp. the average. everything. it's not exactly...attractive."

"next page, beane."

he flipped the sheet. "oh."

"yeah. oh."

then suddenly, "have you eaten?"

"no, but i'd take a vodka plain."

...

"this isn't a celebration," he assured you as you glided down the street in his pickup truck. "this is drinks."

"to drown our sorrows," you concurred mournfully.

"to drown our sorrows," he repeated. "are you even of legal drinking age?"

you snorted. "are you kidding? i'm an employed college graduate."

"just making conversation."

"sure, sure."

it was quiet then, quiet until he parked on the street next to some dive bar.

"i'm only here for the peanuts and vodka," you told him as you walked in.

"you're a vodka girl?"

"i'm esther greenwood." he looked confused. "it's a reference to the bell jar."

"huh," billy said noncommittally.

you rolled your eyes.

...

"so. where'd you go to college?"

i snorted and took another sip of my drink. "good icebreaker, beane."

"i went to mount carmel high school, if you were wondering."

"erik chavez went there."

he stared at you like you had a third eye.

"cool. so where'd you go?"

"ucla. investment banking."

he whistled. "impressive."

"not really. i liked the campus. and the parties."

"so you were a party girl."

"just a bit."

"they serve vodka at those?"

...

neither of you were much game for laughing, for conceding points. so you didn't. you cracked dumb jokes and kept rambling on the second you uttered them; he caught them and referenced the same topic in a sentence five minutes later. you asked dumb questions; he gave dumb answers.

then there were runs that went something like:

"i feel like there should be a way to represent talent or athleticism in statistics. everything we have is based on numbers we can count and divide easily. i don't think that's always accurate necessarily."

"that's fair but unrealistic, kid. most front offices are more concerned with the look of a player than the numbers of him. you would've hated being around when brand wasn't here yet."

a long drink of whiskey for him, a long drink of vodka for you.

"it's 2002. i mean, we're in the twenty-first century. i honestly think the way we build teams is mildly ridiculous."

"it feels less ridiculous when they prove it works. i mean, the yankees spend a hundred fifty million dollars a year and have plenty of rings to show for it. their team is built off stars and money."

"yes, but we have talent in the farm system. players under contract that will age up to be leaders if we keep them around. i'd say maybe two or three years and there's a team that wins over a hundred games right there on the field."

his eyes were suddenly heavy and warm on you. tender. observant. the corner of his mouth lifted. his irises somehow softer than usually.

"why're you looking at me like that?" you said with a laugh.

"no reason."

"i think i might walk home."

he opened his mouth to protest.

you spoke quickly so he couldn't say anything. "so i'll see you tomorrow, beane."

he shook his head. his eyes were still looking at you the same. "see you tomorrow, kid."

the second she left, the bartender was there. "you want another? she's a pretty one."

billy choked on his whiskey. "i'm fine," he said between coughs. "i've got work tomorrow."

[rehabmoharam]

Moneyball