Boxing is dead. Long live boxing. Or, actually, long live robots punching each other into scrap metal while Hugh Jackman does his best impression of a man who should be less likable than he is. That’s the premise at the heart of Real Steel, and if it sounds absurd, you’re not wrong. But here’s the twist: Ocean and Jim spend ninety minutes proving that absurdity, when executed with enough chutzpah, heart, and spare robot parts, sometimes works out just fine.

This week, Ocean Murff (forever the Adam to Jim Pullen’s Max, or vice versa—good luck keeping it straight) pick apart Real Steel with the unflinching eye of two guys who know exactly how sports movies manipulate us—and still find themselves getting a little misty when the underdog robot takes one on the chin. Or the servo. Or whatever robots have.

They start, naturally, with UFC nostalgia and the eternal debate: is it still a sport if no one’s bleeding? From there, it’s a hop, skip, and full-body mirroring routine to the movie’s big question: why does a film about robot boxing make you care about broken people? Is it just Jackman’s “Wolverine effect”—no matter how many bad decisions he makes, you still want to root for him? Or is it something more elemental, buried in the scrapheap of every father-son sports movie ever made?

Ocean, who sees a little too much dignity in a dented robot’s gaze, wonders if Real Steel is really the story of Adam, the world’s most underappreciated sparring bot, finally getting his shot at the title. Jim, ever the pragmatist, roots for the kid to sell his dad on the radical notion that he’s worth sticking around for. Somehow, everyone ends up caring about a metal man with no lines and a child who refuses to be left at the gym.

They detour into essential but unanswerable questions: How does Bailey’s gym stay open if no one ever shows up? Why does Aunt Debra, the only functional adult, get painted as a villain? And exactly how illegal is robot-fighting-betting if Anthony Mackie’s character runs the book in broad daylight?

Somehow, none of this derails the central thesis: Real Steel shouldn’t work, and yet it lands—if not a knockout, then at least a split decision that’ll keep you watching until the final bell. You’ll care about the robots. You’ll care about the kid. You’ll even care about Hugh Jackman’s comeback arc, despite every screenwriting trick you can see coming a mile away.

Is this the next great sports movie? Ocean and Jim aren’t here to answer that. But they’ll make you believe that somewhere, in a gym that should be bankrupt, a robot named Adam is still dreaming of a title shot.

Listen. Disagree. Then admit you got a little choked up, too.

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It starts with a thump. Not a punch, not a kick—this thump is hips-on-hips, bodies in motion, skates slicing across hardwood with the confidence of a linebacker and the grace of a ballerina. This is roller derby, baby. And on this episode of The Adrian Moment, Ocean Murff and Jim Pullen don their metaphorical elbow pads and dive helmet-first into Whip It, Drew Barrymore’s underdog sports flick that zips, zags, and jabs its way into the coming-of-age canon.

This is a play-by-play from two guys who know the smell of stadium nachos and the sacred geometry of the underdog arc. Ocean recounts a real-life Rose City Rollers bout—600 strong in a Portland warehouse—and frames the chaos with a journalist’s eye and a fan’s heart. Jim’s got questions. About penalties. About player names. About why Lauren Much didn’t skate that night. And together, they break down not just the sport, but the spirit that keeps it rolling.

Of course, they tackle the film’s plot: Bliss Cavendar, the small-town Texas teen who trades pageants for pads and becomes Babe Ruthless. But they’re really after something deeper—the tension between expectation and ambition, the line between rebellion and identity, and the way a mother’s reluctant blessing can carry more weight than a gold medal.

They question whether the movie’s final bout matters as much as the heartbreak that precedes it. They wonder if roller derby’s fake-outs and body blows are a metaphor, or just a damn good time. And of course, they trade derby names—because how else do you honor a sport where every player is part athlete, part alter ego?

If you’ve ever felt torn between who you’re told to be and who you might become, if you’ve ever yelled “We’re number two!” and meant it with all your heart, this one’s for you. Strap in. This one hits like a Witch Slap and lingers like a bruised memory.

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Baseball is a game of numbers. Nine innings. Twenty-seven outs. Ninety feet between the bases. It is a sport where precision is worshipped, where history is measured in statistics, and where perfection—true perfection—is almost impossible.

But every so often, the improbable happens. A pitcher stands alone on the mound, the weight of history pressing down, and achieves something transcendent: a perfect game.

This week, Ocean Murff and Jim Pullen review For Love of the Game, the 1999 Kevin Costner film that is as much about loss as it is about baseball. It is a film where the act of throwing a baseball is about memory, regret, and the search for meaning in the final moments of a career. It is about what happens when the thing that has defined you for decades is slipping away, and you have to decide—right there, on the mound—what comes next.

What happened to baseball’s grip on the American imagination? In 1999, the sport was still a cultural monolith, capable of stopping a city in its tracks. Today, it struggles to command attention beyond its most loyal devotees. Why? What changed? And does For Love of the Game inadvertently capture the last gasp of baseball’s golden era?

In this episode, Ocean and Jim approach the film’s love story, its poetic treatment of baseball, and its place in the broader shift of America’s relationship with its so-called national pastime. Along the way, they reflect on the myth of the perfect game, the unseen forces shaping modern sports, and whether baseball—like Billy Chapel—has already played its final masterpiece.

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