The joy of guilty pleasures: why I've played the same broken game for nine years

Whenever I have a cold, I like to watch The Sandlot. The 1993 comedy about the baseball-bonded boys of San Fernando is not the greatest movie. The plot is episodic, chasing new conflicts from scene to scene, and the film’s period, the summer of 1962, is more naively constructed than Main Street in Disneyland. You won’t find it on many top 100 lists. But whenever I’m prone on the couch and would rather not think or be challenged or even keep my eyes open, The Sandlot is my first