Bad News Bears Page #2

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Does your mama change

your underwear too, you little girl?

I'm out there with the kids for nothing.

And I'm getting very tired

of having to justify myself

to parents who drop the kid off at 4:00,

call me at midnight wondering

why he's so pissed off.

- Ray, you got a minute...?

- I want to say to them, "I'm not

your babysitter. I'm your coach."

Oh, yeah.

Mr. Bill Deaver.

Hey, just checking in.

Just checking in. Listen, Ray,

I wanted to see

if maybe Jake could get a little

more playing time this season.

He's been working hard.

It would really mean a lot to him.

Yeah, sure.

- Why not?

- Really? Well, great.

Thanks a lot, Ray.

Guys.

You know, I spoke to your boy.

You know what he said to me?

- What?

- He said all that matters to him

is that we win.

Even if it means giving up

a little game time.

- Really?

- Yeah.

I was really touched by this.

He's a hell of a team player.

Thanks, Ray. I appreciate it.

That's the kind of

horseshit I'm talking about.

- Exactly.

- Unbelievable.

Hey, Buttermaker, you made it.

And you brought...

Oh, this is my friend Paradise.

Hi, nice to meet you.

Hey, Buttermaker, you gotta get

your uniform orders in.

- Uniforms?

- Yeah.

All the good colors are taken:

Black and white, red and white,

blue and white, white and blue,

white and black,

white and red. They're all gone.

What uniforms?

"Mchte ich nicht" sweet and sour,

okay? No sweet and sour.

Just Cointreau, Patr?n,

lime juice and superfine salt.

- Yes, ma'am.

- Listen, Whitewood, what's the deal

- with the uniforms?

- What about them?

I didn't... What's-her-name said

that I gotta have uniforms.

Hey, buddy, give me a beer

and a C&C.

Buttermaker, you don't actually buy

them. You just need a sponsor.

You're the coach, it's your job.

Okay, so not only do I have to

coach the bronze medalists

for the Special Olympics, but I gotta be

an Amway salesman too, is that it?

Buttermaker, don't turn this

into high drama.

Do what other coaches do:

Restaurants, sporting goods stores,

you know.

You know, I got a job.

I got houses to spray.

It's ant season, you know?

What is it about being a man

that makes everything so hard?

I own my own law firm.

I'm a single mother, and I still

have time for extension courses,

Pilates, the flower-seed business,

pottery...

You know what, I'm busy too, okay?

I got important sh*t to do.

I got sh*t stacked up

all over the place.

Important man sh*t, okay?

Come on, Buttermaker, let's go.

Mr. Buttermaker?

- Yeah.

- Where are we going?

I already told you,

to the batting cages.

You guys swing like Helen Keller

at a piata party.

I'm gonna do something about it.

- Tell us about the majors, coach.

- You were in the majors?

Yeah, for a little while.

Hey, Lupus, don't lean against

that door, bud, all right?

Yes, I was recently perusing

baseballstats. org

and it said Mr. Buttermaker played

pitcher for the Seattle Mariners

for two-thirds of an inning in 1984.

Two-thirds, that's it?

Well, it was the end of the season,

you know, September call-ups.

Yes, his lifetime ERA was 36.

That's lame.

Yeah, well I closed

the inning out, okay.

There's only a few thousand guys ever

set foot on a major-league mound,

and I'm one of them. What have

you done with your life, smart-ass?

Why didn't you stay?

Well, I was gonna come back,

but I had a little incident.

I punched an ump.

Really just a b*tch-slap.

How the hell was I supposed to know

he was a bleeder?

Fourteen stitches.

Like that means something.

They used to stitch everything up,

goddamn it. It was like the Dark Ages.

I got stitches on my foot.

Oh, yeah?

Well, I'm in a damn wheelchair.

Anyway, after that,

I blew off a few offers,

you know, Japan, sh*t like that.

You know what I mean?

Sh*t.

What the hell?

Is he okay?

Lupus.

Lupus?

Lupus?

Lupus.

What the hell are you grinning at?

You scared the hell out of me.

Don't be leaning on the door.

How many are in there?

The infestatiors quite advanced.

All right, pull the pin. Throw it.

There you go. Good job, buddy.

Good job, man. You're a natural.

A natural at that sh*t.

Thanks.

Die! Die! How do you like that, huh?

Hey, you sprayed my foot,

dumb-ass.

Oh, yeah?

Stop it!

That sh*t's expensive, all right?

Hey, coach,

what's "carcinogen" mean?

Liberal propaganda.

Don't worry about it. It's just bullshit.

Buttermaker, I got these

behind the garage.

Throw them in the garbage,

in the house.

Hey, save the traps, will you?

Thanks for holding

the fort down, buddy.

I got something for you.

You're gonna dig this.

Hey, guys, come here a minute.

I got something for you.

Now you can quit your bitching

about the whole uniform thing.

Here you go.

- Harper. Heads up, buddy.

- Awesome!

Hooper.

Cannonball!

Jesus Christ.

Hey, Engelberg, if you do that again,

you'll learn how to surf.

Mr. Buttermaker,

we have a game tomorrow.

Shouldn't we be practicing?

Lupus, alcohol.

Excellent. God bless you.

- You got a future, Lupus.

- You ever play with anyone famous?

Hell, yeah, I played with people

who are famous.

What do you think? I mean,

I was in the game, you know.

Oh, I know one.

One time I struck out Mike Schmidt

in an exhibition game.

Struck his ass right out. Yeah, I did.

It was 1980.

It was two outs,

bottom of the seventh inning.

It was the bottom of the seventh...

Top of the seventh.

It was top of the seventh.

And when I put my foot on that rubber,

I was zoned in, man.

It was just one

of those times when...

You just know you got

your sh*t working, you know?

All right, tubby, I'm gonna throw you

something called a screwball.

It's an old-school thing. Now, it's gonna

look like it's coming right at you,

but it's gonna drop right off the table.

So you don't bail out,

you gotta stick in there.

You see what I'm saying?

Son of a b*tch!

Shake it off.

Next.

- Damn it!

- I know it stings a little bit,

but it's won'th it.

Okay, here it comes.

It's all right, kid. You had a helmet on.

Imagine if you didn't.

You know what I'm saying?

What are you doing, Buttermaker?

Okay, coming at you.

Mr. Buttermaker?

- Is he dead?

- Hell, no. He's drunk.

The season starts tomorrow.

We don't got our positions,

batting order, nothing.

- What are we going to do?

- We ain't ready to play.

We got nothing but a boozer

for a coach.

We can wait till he sobers up.

- Yeah, right.

- Nothing else we can do.

Screw this, I'm taking his wallet.

- Give me! Give me...

- Hey, watch it!

- Leave me alone!

- Give me that!

Right this way. Good.

Because in this time of terror,

there is one thing we all need:

the grace of our Lord,

our heroes overseas,

and baseball.

"Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer.

The outlook wasn't brilliant

for the Mudville nine that day.

- The score stood 4 to 2...

- What a fag.

Buttermaker, where have you been?

You missed the team photo.

I was just getting Gatorade

for the guys, you know.

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